I live on an island

Eyjafjallajökull, erupting. Image source: Reuters

Many people forget that Ireland is an island. Much to the chagrin of many 20th century nationalists, I think that many people who have never lived in Ireland picture it somewhere in northern Europe, attached to the UK. But there is a big, wide sea between Ireland and the continent, and this becomes very evident when, say, a volcano erupts and sends ash into the atmosphere, grounding all air travel to a halt for days (and maybe weeks) on end. I missed a scheduled trip, and when I was still thinking I could work it out, a friend said "can't you take a train?"

Image source: Lonely Planet

I was supposed to attend a conference in Manchester this past Thursday. I was looking forward to meeting some of the people involved in the loose research network that is linked to the project I'm working on. I dutifully packed the night before (packing, even for a few days, kind of stresses me out), and was up around 6am to get ready for the airport bus, and I looked at my phone, only to see a whack of text messages. This is a very odd thing for six in the morning. The first message to greet me was from Aer Lingus: "Due to the closure of UK airspace as a result of volcanic activity, we have no option but to cancel your flight." By now the whole world knows what is going on with old puffy over in Iceland, but I'll tell ya: this was a very odd message for my dazed and sleepy head to receive at 6am. I thought it was a joke, but then I thought - how did someone hack Aer Lingus's texting system? Too much to process at that early hour. Onto the next message: there were a few from Elisabetta, who was already at the airport en route to Italy: Check your flight before coming to the airport because a volcano exploded somewhere and the majority of the flights are cancelled...like mine." I immediately called Lisa, who was planning to be on the same flight as me, and then thought of Aoife, who I was expecting to run into on the airport bus, because she was off to a theatre conference in Berlin that morning, also on a 9:30am flight. I rebooked for later that day, but it was cancelled. And then all flights were cancelled on Friday. And Saturday. And today. And tomorrow...

In the last few days, Facebook has been plastered with people talking about not being able to go places, and more recently, not being able to come home. Now, if you live in London and are off in Paris for a holiday, you could take a train home instead. Yes, the trains are being booked up by stranded travellers across Europe, but eventually, they will be able to move everyone around. And there are buses, and cars for hire. And frankly, when it comes down to it, if you REALLY had to, you could get all dressed up like the characters in The Road, and walk home! But if I am not on the island of Ireland, I cannot walk home! It's not even possible. And I know that if I am suggesting that one could walk from Paris to London, then I should consider that one could swim from Holyhead to Dublin, but really, we both know that is too far to swim, unless you are Martin Strel. This is why it's a blessing in disguise that I didn't make it to that conference in Manchester - I would still be there, maybe for all of next week, I'm am so over living in a city where I don't know a single person. That was so Autumn 2009.

Anyhoo, I am getting off topic (wait, there was a topic)? What I have realised is that people here fly A LOT. I know at least 10 people whose travel plans have been affected by Eyjafjallajokull. I wondered (aloud on Facebook) if the carbon produced by the Icelandic eruption would outweigh the carbon saved by the cancellation of flights, and two friends sent me this link within minutes. The rise of Ryanair and Easyjet, and the concomitant competition this has created with other regional airlines, like Aer Lingus, has radically altered the way we travel, and we're really not disaster-proof in this area. I wonder how many fewer train trips and ferry crossings occur now, compared to the mid 1990s, when Ryanair really started to take off? It's not just a pain to catch a train instead of a flight (in terms of the time it takes, and the unexpected nature of it), but apparently, it's not even possible: stranded travellers are reporting that they can't get train tickets, because, well, everyone else thought of that as well. But if we all just considered taking the train more often - for its convenience (no full body pat-downs and invasive security scans; you only have to arrive 15 minutes early), and for its relatively small level of emissions, then we wouldn't be so f*cked when mother nature decided we all needed to be just a bit more grounded...

Much to my amazement, both Ryanair and Aer Lingus have announced that they will be refunding or rebooking all tickets without charge. This is shocking, because when other disruptions occur because of mother nature, they are not always so willing to bear the financial burden. Perhaps they realise that their clients might just start thinking about other options...

As for the volcano, it keeps erupting. My friend Angela Rawlings is keeping a blog with frequent updates and interesting tidbits. Check out No Slumber for Volcanologists. And I found this time-lapse video of today's eruptions really beautiful:

Locked doors and other totally irritating things

Dublin is not all romance, let me tell you. There are plenty of irritating things about being here - I've just been holding back. But seeing I am currently experiencing a yoga deficit (I have had less today than I require), and I have realised that my particular brand of politeness that is Canadian is part of the problem, I'll just let it rip. Here are some irritating things I've noticed in Dublin:

1. Doors to public and semi-public buildings are locked, and you have to buzz to get in.

This can make for awkward situations, such as when you decide to 'drop in' to a place that, well, welcomes you on their website to drop in. I went to this institute for work-related purposes a while back, and when I arrived, I had to buzz to be let in. Of course when you buzz, they ask who you are and what you want. My response was something like "My name is Natalie, but you don't know me, and I'm just dropping in to visit your place, with no particular agenda." Talk about feeling like a weirdo. It's as if that kind of free communication is not welcomed, which is odd, considering how well people do talk to each other here at pubs and cafes.

But the incident that prompted this posting happened earlier today, and caused the yoga deficit, which means I haven't breathed yet today, which means I am off-kilter and I might swear soon. In the blog. Anyhow, I had a few things to do this morning so I was rushing around, but I was all packed up for a class that is not too far away. It's farther than I budgeted for, clearly, but not too far. Off I go. I can see the time is going to be tight, so I start running a bit. But I have to keep stopping for traffic (see irritation #2 below). I finally get there, out of breath and flustered (which feels wrong, heading into yoga), but it is two minutes after the hour. Now, if this were in another city without such freaking weirdness about locking every door, I could have calmly slipped in without disturbing the class. In fact, that class probably hadn't started, but I didn't KNOW, because the only way to find out would be to hit the buzzer, and that would definitely disturb the class. The teacher would have to get up and buzz me in, which I know means crossing the entire room, and stepping over people in downward dog. I deliberated for a bit, and decided that I just couldn't do it. See, there's that useless Canadian politeness coming in. I would have been mortified to interrupt the class, because I knew that it was my own fault for being late, so I chose to trade mortification for irritation, grumpiness, and stomping home.

2. Stupid useless walk signs that never say walk even though no cars are crossing in front of you.

It's true! There are walk signs - with little red, yellow and green man options - at most every corner, but they make you wait forever, even when all traffic seems to be going in the same direction as you intend to go. People ignore the red men all the time and just cross, and I try to do the same thing, but I still find myself looking both ways, never sure which way the traffic is actually coming from. I am not sure I will ever get over the instinct to look to my left first. Sometimes, when I am not feeling bold, I decide to wait for the green man to actually appear. It can take a really long time, no matter how many times you hit the "please let me cross" button. It makes you later for yoga.

3. People wearing big bags standing sideways who don't move in the aisle of stores even though they see you coming.

Ok, I grant the fact that this can happen in any city, but it is WAY worse here in Dublin. Stores and sidewalks are really narrow here, and there are lots of people, so one is always doing the two-step to try to get around. But people just don't seem to move! I swear I carry a field of energy around me that tells me someone is coming, so that I can make myself smaller, or hug in closer to the edge. Well, apparently that field does not exist here. People just stand in the middle of an aisle, slowly contemplating their purchases, and making no effort whatsoever to share the space. Do they not see me coming, I wonder? Is there something in the Dublin water that has wiped out peripheral vision? Or is space always at such a premium that if you can grab a little bit of it, you hold onto it for dear life? Of course, I could say 'excuse me,' but the phrase would soon become way too frequent in my vocabulary, and that peculiar brand of Canadian politeness prefers to use body language before verbal language. Oh ya, no one moves over on the sidewalks, either, but I found that at home as well. WTF is wrong with people?

 4. You have to buy the mixer separately from your booze.

Ok, I know this one is on a different topic, but I was sitting here thinking about what else irritates me (aren't I a productive little bunny), and I remembered this one. If you order a whiskey-soda in a bar, you have to pay for the whiskey and then the soda. This is just dumb. And expensive. And the bottle of soda is usually really tiny, which sucks. At least they call hard alcohol "spirits," which sounds uplifting. Oh, and while I am on the subject of soda water, it's frustrating that I can't buy it in cans. I swore off buying plastic-bottled water at home, but I love the bubbly, and I can only find it in plastic.


5. No one drinks ale.

While I'm on the subject of drinking, it's super irritating that no one drinks ale. I mean, we're in Ireland, folks - - what's up with the ubiquity of Carlsberg and Stella Artois, and, egads -- Budweiser -- on tap?! Smithwicks is a damn fine beer, and yes,  you can find it on tap in almost every pub. But hardly anyone drinks it, so it means that I have to drink stale crappy stuff that has been sitting around for a long time. I mean, I love the Guinness, but you can't drink that stuff all the time. Like, for instance, when you're thirsty.

6. The bus drivers don't give change.

I hardly take the bus, but this one is a pain. Now, you need exact change in Toronto as well, but in Toronto, the fare is the same no matter how far you are going. I'm not saying this is superior to charging based on how far you go, but I think if it's a mystery what you are going to have to pay each time you get on the bus, then the driver should provide change. Oh, they give you a little slip that you can redeem at this office on Merrion Square, but who wants to show up and say "Gimme my 10 cents"?! I've decided to walk everywhere, no matter how far. But then there's the little problem of nos. 2 and 3 above.

Ok, I got it out of my system. Oh, I know that I've forgotten many irritations, but I feel much better now, and will get back to work. I have to leave time to do yoga at home this evening, after all...

Of travel and things lost and found (and how to get from Toronto to Dublin in only 53 hours)

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of 'coming home,' because I currently feel that I have two homes. I've never quite felt this way before, and perhaps it is because I am living, eating, and traveling alone so much of the time... In some ways, I've started to build a life here in Dublin, with friends, and a job, and bits and bobs of schedule and ritual. But it feels like an additional life. It is not a parallel one, nor simply a new one, but it feels like a life in addition to the one that I have in Canada. I have a collection of things that constitute a life in two different places, and oddly, these two lives feel almost mutually exclusive.

I've always associated the idea of 'home' (as distinct from 'house') with the people or person who lives there in that home, and when I go away and return, it is with that person, or to that person. Yet I return to no one in the house that is my home in Dublin. Still, the place is starting to collect the attributes of home. Four of my five livingroom plants survived my three-week absence. Or more accurately, they survived the indoor drought, and the coldest weather Ireland has seen in 40 years. It snowed more here than it did in Toronto over Christmas, and that is a real anomaly. One plant -- I suppose the most tropical of the lot, a once bushy and abundant deiffenbachia -- did not survive, and weeped at me as I stepped into my chilly living room:

I watered it well, but after a week it still looked pretty much the same, so I tossed it, and replaced it with a gorgeous flowering plant with blood-red leaves. I think I miss True Blood. Go big or go home: when something of great beauty leaves, try to fill the space with something even more beautiful. It's what the heart wants (and it matches my occasional chair, which sits right below the ledge).

I'm not sure that I am making any sense here, but my senses are all askew anyway, so what the hell...

I had quite the time returning to my new home -- my additional home --  here in Dublin. I left Toronto on Friday night, after having only slept for 4 hours the night before. I made a last minute visit to some friends in Toronto, got back to Oakville late, and then really couldn't get to sleep. Change is very difficult for me, but it's hilarious, really: here I am living change every day, but knowing I had to fly from one place to the next - from one home to another - did my head in, and no number of Kalil Gilbrain poems could lull me to lala land. My Dad and sister and I arrived at the airport fairly early, only to find that the lineup to the security area was pretty short. We hung out for a while in the cafe. Isn't it funny how airports create little cafe and restaurant spaces, like in the real world, when we all know that airports are just mirages where we touch down and depart for other places?

I include these pics as proof that I was already super tired before the whole transatlantic travel began, so that I can gain silent blog-reader sympathy for the ordeal that was to follow.

So... the flight was lovely, but I did feel a pang of jealousy at all those folks angle-parked in their little pods in Business class. I've never seen that kind of seating before -- Jetson-like seats which no doubt recline all of the way, providing the traveler with a restful red-eye experience. My communist side really rears up in these moments, as I ask why these particular people deserve such comfort, while the rest of us head-bob our way across the Atlantic, with pasty mouths and flaking skin. But then I clear my throat, and remind myself of all the jetfuel, and well, something like the situation in Haiti. Comparisons under capitalism are really useless.

We arrive in Heathrow, and I hear something about Dublin over the PA, but can't quite make it out. I go through eighteen levels of security, and then go to check into my BMI flight, only to find out that the Dublin airport is closed. I have to pick up my bags, and then come back to the counter to figure out what to do next. Off through the maze that is Heathrow, I feel thankful that, really, it's not going to be a big deal if I am delayed for a bit. I had the good sense to plan my travel for the weekend, so that I could get myself sorted before Monday. Not that I had anything in particular planned for Monday, but I was feeling the urge to get back to work. Too much free, unstructured time can be a bit difficult.

Retrieving the bags took only, oh, TWO HOURS, but I managed to meet some great folks who were in the same situation. In fact, in some cases, they were in a worse situation. Noel and Padraig, who had met on a plane back from Sydney, for example, had already been traveling for 36 hours. In the baggage room, standing by the belts that kept revolving and promising luggage, we bonded, and decided to face BMI together.

At the counter, we were told that the Dublin airport was closed because of weather conditions, but while they were saying this, Aer Lingus was making its final boarding call for a flight to Dublin. Hmmm, something fishy. As it turns out, the airport was now open, but BMI had no de-icers, so they had canceled all flights. What were we to do? Noel asked about flights to Cork and Shannon, but they were no-goes. I finally suggested Belfast, which I think is closer than either of those places, and, woo-hoo, there were flights available! The friendly staff at BMI booked us on a 6pm flight to Belfast, and off the six of us went to have some lunch, and figure out the best route from Dublin to Belfast. In the airport pub (another mirage...), we ate sandwiches, unwisely drank pints, and decided we'd try the train, but if it was too late, we'd split a cab. Noel was starting to look a little delirious from lack of sleep, and unknowingly, we were getting carried away with our North to South travel plans. Because when we left the pub and went to check in for our flight, we found out that it was canceled as well. Hmmm, back to the BMI counter.

No more flights for Saturday anywhere to the island, and not surprisingly, everything to Dublin for Sunday was full. Note to self: living on an island is trouble. While we were in the pub, dutifully waiting for our Belfast flight, other wayward travelers were arriving at Heathrow only to find that they couldn't get out that day. They filled up the Sunday flights. NOW what do we do? Lots of discussion and text messages. News that a huge storm was expected for Sunday. Shall we take a bus to the train to Wales to the ferry? I decided to cut my losses, and book a Dublin flight for Monday. Back to pick up the luggage that I had recently checked to Belfast. We had to undergo a full body frisk, and as the woman patted me down, I said something like "woo, this is the most fun I've had all day!"| She responded with something about how it would have been better if she were a tall, dark, and handsome guy, and really, I didn't want to break her bubble. How nice of her to have been playful in her response, when airport security folks can be so damn serious!

Steve, Joe, Noel and Padraig near the BMI counter, after finding out our Belfast flight was canceled.

It was easy for me to decide that I would just stay over in London and not pursue the god-awful-sounding ferry option, because my dear friend Sophie lives in London, and would be happy to put me up. No matter that she already had an Australian house guest. I figured we'd make a nice little mini-Commonwealth.

So on this trip, I lost a few days in Dublin, but I gained a few days in London. I lost a lot of sleep, but I gained the experience of meeting these other travelers, and maybe I'll even meet up with some of them back here in the Dub. I lost some money, but I gained a most magical weekend in London. I used to make fun of places that shut down after only a centimetre of snow, but I've backed off. I mean, they just do not have the infrastructure to deal with it. No ploughs. No grit. No shovels! No idea. I read that Dublin is importing a boat-load of salt to replenish its supplies. But, I think that they use this lack of infrastructure to their great advantage. Close all the schools! Shut down work! Relax and just be snowed-in! I've mentioned before in the blog how Dubliners seem to make the act of socialising an unequivocal part of their day, but it goes further: if there is an honest opportunity to turn it down a notch and enjoy family time, then take it! I realise I am conflating Dubliners with Londoners and that I could be lynched for this in certain circles, but ah well, the real comparison point is to North Americans...

When I arrived at Sophie's on Saturday night, I was kind of delirious from being awake, but I think I sat at the table and used language. The next day, we (including the lovely Australian traveler Josh) put on our woolies, and ventured to the market as soon as we got up (that was 1pm for me, holycrap).

Some very hearty vendors were outside, offering all sorts of delights: flatwhite espressos, organic fruits, pies and apples... I got a great espresso, and a delicious cheese toastie:

 

SF took some ghostly Polaroids, and headed home to scan them before the colour faded: he's not only using old cameras - he buys vintage film. Sophie, Josh and I decided to roam around Alexander Park and watch the tobogganers. Walking down the hill, we had to dodge a few. Not very experienced, you see.

The snow-travel was indeed a delight, but the real magic came back at the cosey flat, with blankets piled high, beautiful chili-chocolates passed around from bed to couch to settee, and great books at every turn. I devoured two of SF's novels in the afternoon, with great music playing in the background. We napped, we read, we spent silent time together...

All told, my little unexpected sojourn in London was the best possible thing I could have done to transition back to my additional life in Dublin, and I could never have planned it. It was a little moment out of time, filled only by time...

Liffey Bridges in Images - updated

About a month ago I posted a slideshow of Liffey Bridges, moving eastward from Heuston station. I got about half way to Dublin Bay at that point. Today I decided to talk a walk to the sea in the blustery weather, and capture the other half. So now this slideshow has all the bridges from Heuston Station to the point where I couldn't go any further along the southside quays. Didn't get to see the open sea - have to find a different route next time.

Liffey Bridges in Images

I love bridges, so I've decided to make a slideshow of the Liffey Bridges from Phoenix Park eastward, taken from the south bank of the river. This is just the first installment -- I will add the rest later. They start off quite interestingly, but as you can see, they become architecturally a bit more...er...pedestrian as the set goes on...

See my updated post on this for the full slideshow.

A portrait of the woman who used to live in my flat

I never met her, of course, but I know that she used to live here. When I rented the flat just over a month ago, the letting agent told me that the previous tenant had stayed for two years, because "she liked it so much." In this short statement, I found out that, well, the previous tenant was a woman, and that she, like me, really liked this flat.

I like my home to be very clean. In fact, I am just a bit freakish about cleaning when I first move into a new place. I want to know that I'm starting fresh, and that, as my Aunty Nancy said, when dirt finally does accumulate weeks later, at least I know it is my dirt. So the night before I moved in (which consisted of dragging two suitcases along the cobblestones), I came over armed with microfibre cloths, eco cleaning products, and a bottle of wine. (Side note on the bottle of wine: I am a notorious nester. I hate moving, and find it extremely stressful. I actually was happy to return to my residence room the night after my clean-fest, because the residence room had become familiar, and I really like familiarity in a domicile. So the red wine was meant to drown my sorrows at having to acclimatise, again, to a new space. And I already liked this new space - imagine if I didn't?) Cleaning the space is a kind of ritual - a ritual of making it my own, and putting my little Ecover stamp all over the floors, doors, walls, bathroom grout, baseboards, light fixtures, sinks, door handles (you get the picture).

As I was cleaning (moving furniture around, etc.), I came upon a very small number of items that collectively told me a little bit about the previous tenant. It's time for me to dispose of them, so I arranged them on my counter, and took a pic:

I know these are very few items upon which to paint a portrait of an entire human, but if you consider that the letting agency had professional cleaners in before I took possession of the place, then really, this is a fairly good haul. Let's take a closer look, from left to right:

The first item is a bookmark that contains a poem about beagles, so from this we can assume that the woman who used to live in my flat (WULMF for short) like to read. And she liked dogs -- particularly small ones with good noses. And... unless this was an unwanted present that she failed to regift -- she was okay with something as cheesy as a bookmark with an ode to beagles on it. This tells us something of her personality, but admittedly, not that much. I found the bookmark under the bed, so I guess she liked to read in bed.

WULMF is either a woman of simple tastes, or of small means, when it comes to clothing. But she does buy clothing, so that tells you something. The hanger is from Dunnes, a medium-end department store that has decent stuff, but also some really cheap stuff. Such as the "Le Bain" toilet brush I bought for 5 Euros, which just broke this morning because I was, er, scrubbing the toilet too vigorously (I don't spend my all my time cleaning, despite the apparent focus of this posting. But it's Thanksgiving at home and not here, so what else am I to do with my weekend?) Anyway, this hanger is just representative of the 10 or so identical hangers she left behind in the wardrobe. There were also some metal hangers, and one hanger from Penny's (kind of like Walmart), but the bulk of the hangers were from Dunnes. Dunnes puts the size of the clothing on the hanger itself, and they are all size 12. This means that WULMF is an average sized person. I'm a size 8, which is actually the smallest size they carry at Dunnes, and I am kind of puny. Back in Canada, I think they would call it a 4 or 6. So, WULMF is bigger than me, but not too big for our very modestly sized flat. Oh yes, she also likes girly things, because there was a tag from Dunnes underneath the bed, and it read "Shorty Yellow Polka Dot Dress." The tag didn't make it to the picture -- it was likely recycled with the empty bottle of wine.

Speaking of things that didn't make it to the photo, I also found out that WULMF is straight. Or at the very most, bisexual. OR she just likes to play with condoms. I'll never really know, but the empty, torn condom package that also made its way out from under the bed means that at least one of the previous statements is true.

WULMF fancied herself a gardener, but she was not a very good one. There are about 5 pots filled with earth on the balcony, but nothing survives in any one of them. The earth has been very useful to me, however, for repotting those IKEA plants from several blog-posts ago.

WULMF was not a very thorough person, because as I was cleaning out the (emptied) kitchen cupboards, I found a package of instant noodles (one of those "yummy real Italian side dish in 5 minutes!" thingies) that expired in 2004. Recall that the letting agent said that WULMF was here for two years. This means that the pasta side dish predates her occupation of the flat. She just never looked that far back in the cupboards, which I think means that either a) she is very short, b) she is not very curious, or c) she didn't cook much, because she didn't need the entire cupboard space for food storage.

Back to the photo. The blue thing with an "R" on it is, I think, a perfume bottle. I don't know of any brand of perfume that has this kind of bottle, so I am going to assume that her name starts with R. That, and the fact that the piece of junk mail in the mailbox had her name on it, and indeed her name does start with R. I like this little bottle, and might just keep it on my counter for its decorative properties. WULMF likes pretty things.

WULMF (or should we call her R?) had medium to long hair. She didn't have short hair, because she's straight. Whoops, I mean, she didn't have short hair, because she had this red baubly thing that is only useful if your hair is long enough to pull back in some fashion. I found this hair tie between the couch cushions (or should I say, the vacuum found it, announcing its catch with a deafening squeal of delight). From this fact, we can also surmise that she would recline on the couch, release her hair from the bauble, and watch television. The tv placement corroborates this rather speculative 'fact'. I must add that she was very careful with her hair ties, because if this had been my flat prior to when I moved in (?), there would be at least fifteen hair ties in the couch.

And finally, we come to the last bit of information. On the right of the picture there is a ticket. It's a receipt for the Dublin bus from the airport to another location in the city. There is a fair bit we can learn from this artefact. First, she took at least one trip by plane while living here. On this particular trip, she returned back to Dublin on July 6, 2009. Also, she had at least one friend or acquaintance in Dublin, because instead of coming home to this flat, she went to a different address on the way back from the airport. She's also fairly frugal, because this receipt is for the regular city bus, which costs just over 2 Euros from the airport, when, by comparison, the airport shuttle costs 6 or 7 Euros one way.

WULMF: A short, girly woman of medium build with medium to long hair, who earns a modest income, likes dogs, reading, and watching tv while reclining. Doesn't cook much, once tried her hand at container gardening, travels abroad, but likes to keep costs down. Had sex with a man once.

Nice to meet you, WULMF.