Hi everyone! It’s time for another translation of a post I wrote in July 2017. Expect many more over the coming days and weeks! God knows I have enough time on my hands, cause covid-19 has hit Ireland just as it has hit almost every other country in the world, and we are on our way to a lockdown. I’ve been working from home those past few days, had to celebrate my birthday in isolation – luckily not in total isolation, though, as my flatmate was there as well – had to stand in line just to get into the supermarket, and am going a bit loopy already. Thankfully I’m already a bit of a weirdo to begin with, so I hope my descent into madness won’t be that bad and/or noticeable. That being said, the signs of mental deterioration are definitely starting to show…Right. Let’s get on with the translation, shall we?
My parents came to visit me a few weeks ago. We drove down to Kerry, a county in the far southwestern part of Ireland (and one of the most beautiful ones, in my opinion, however touristy it might be). Now, you have to realise that, almost as soon as you leave Dublin, the Irish roads start to look more and more like this:
Those little countryside roads are narrow, winding and bumpy, and you don’t have a good view on the rest of the traffic. If you happen to meet an oncoming car – yes, these roads are usually not one-way – one of you will have to swerve to the side to let the other pass. If you need to overtake someone, all I can say is: good luck. Obviously, my mother thoroughly enjoyed this whole situation (*note: this is not at all sarcastic, my mum loves a dangerous road, God knows why)and almost immediately started racing like a true local. Meanwhile, my dad and I desperately tried to keep our Irish breakfasts in our stomachs.
Still, driving on a countryside road has its charms. The surrounding landscape is usually fantastically beautiful, to begin with, and it’s a whole different experience than being on a boring motorway. You’ll also never be alone, cause chances are you will meet at least one of these fellow road-users:
The racing local
Are you being overtaken by a rickety car from the 90s, just before turning into a dangerous bend in the road? That must be the racing local, who doesn’t have time for your Sunday driving antics. Come on, doesn’t everyone know those speed signs are more of a guideline than a rule?
The insecure tourist
You can recognise any tourist by their shiny cars, usually sporting a Dublin number plate. They might sometimes swerve to the wrong side of the road, or try to turn around at the worst possible moment. Chances are, you will fall into this category yourself.
The tractor
If you’re really unlucky, you will get stuck behind a tractor (or two, or three). It’s almost impossible to overtake them without having to fear for your life, so you’ll just have to suck it up and follow them at a snail’s pace, until they finally turn into a field or something.
The designated drunk driver
Because cabs are expensive, and buses are unreliable (not to mention stop driving after 3pm), you’ll often come across cars swerving from side to side during the weekends and evenings. Please don’t be afraid. Most of the time it all goes well.
The old man/woman, a.k.a. Sunday driver
Isn’t really sure where they are going. Sometimes falls asleep behind the wheel.
Sheep – or other livestock and animals
No, it’s not a stereotype. Well, it is, but it’s also true. (That’s how stereotypes work, Fem.) Sometimes, sheep just want to go out for a wander along the road, admire the views, and stop for a little picnic. Just deal with it, okay? You might also see some lonely dogs roaming around, cause dogs are so well-trained in Ireland that they take themselves out for a walk.
The (tour) bus
Full of tourists, and/or locals who need to be dropped off at impossible places. Tour buses are the worst – just when you want to drive past, it will stop, and out spill the American boomers in their socks-and-sandals and fanny packs. (Try not to run them over, I know it can be tempting.) I have a lot of respect for the Irish bus drivers – I’ve seen them carry out the most impossible-seeming manoeuvres, most of the time without putting themselves or anyone else in danger.
A lonely wanderer
Might be a hiker, a lost tourist possibly going by the name of Fem, or an Irish local being let out by their dog.
Hitchhikers
Hitchhikers still exist in rural Ireland, although they are a dying breed. If your car is not too full, feel free to give them a lift. They probably just have to go to a neighbouring village and it is a great way to get the know the locals. (Or end up in the local newspapers. But let’s not go there.)
Cyclists
Or, as my friend B. from Belfast likes to call them – “roadbike wankers”.
Thanks everyone for reading, and I hope you are doing well. The next post might be about a trip I took toItaly, three years ago. I went to Venice, amongst other places, which feels very strange right now. I’m not sure if I will put it up just yet, although it might be nice to think back of the cityin better times. See you soon!
Hello, I’m back with another translation for you! We’re still in July 2017, when I wrote my first “Fem’s List” about all the things I miss about my home country. Nothing much has changed since then; whenever I feel homesick, I still mull over everything on this list, although a few other ones have been added over the years. It’s strange to realise how even the littlest experiences, feelings, or thoughts can transport you back home, and how you can miss stuff that you didn’t even think twice about while you were living there.
I’ve been living in Ireland for over a year, and can’t escape it: the dreaded homesickness. The feeling creeps up whenever it wants to, with no rhyme or reason to it, and it’s a right little bitch. Sometimes it only lasts for a minute or so, and other times it might linger for over a week. It usually makes me want to jump on the first plane back home, although at times it also makes me weirdly happy to feel a bit melancholy, and wallow in self-pity a bit (I know, I know, I’m strange). This is a list of all the things I miss about the Netherlands whenever I feel this way (apart from the usual suspects such as my family, friends, and cats, as well as bitterballen and hagelslag).
Lazy Saturdays at my parents’ place
Without a doubt, this is one of the things I miss most. Waking up late, the smell of coffee permeating the air, and seeing a freshly delivered edition of my favourite Dutch Saturday newspaper lying on the table. Drinking my mum’s coffee while reading the newspaper magazine is an experience I cannot recreate in Ireland, however hard I might try. It might just be because my parents aren’t here, but that can’t be the only reason…can it?
Canals and canal houses
Yeah, it’s true: I do miss the typical Amsterdam ‘grachtenpandjes’, or canal houses, from time to time. They’re just so damn pretty! I mean, there’s a few canals in Dublin and you can also find some Dutch-style houses here (they’re called Dutch Billy’s and they’re actually pretty cool), but it’s obviously not the same. At any given moment, my eyes might glaze over and I’m mentally transported to a lovely, narrow, flower-bedecked Amsterdammer street, with cyclists angrily passing you by left and right, and a nice cozy ‘brown cafe’ (or old men’s pub) on the corner. It goes without saying that this is a very nostalgic image, so the street is as clean as can be and there’s not a tourist in sight. Believe it or not, but these kind of daydreams can bring a tear to my eye. When I sat on the plane from Edinburgh back to Dublin, I was struck by an article about Amsterdam in the in-flight magazine. I was very close to putting a balaclava over my head and hijacking the plane, demanding the pilot to turn back and set course for my home town. (These kind of plans never come to fruition because I always lack something crucial, a balaclava in this case.)
Bol.com (an online shop)
I’m not being paid to say this, but I really miss Bol.com (basically the Dutch Amazon). The fact that I can’t have anything off their website delivered to Ireland was a very, very hard pill to swallow. I used to love browsing around on that page and now it’s all to no avail. Oh well, probably best…at least I can’t spend huge amounts of money ‘by accident’ anymore.
The Hema
Let’s keep to the subject of shopping, while we’re at it. All Dutch expats will understand it when I say that I’m overly delighted, almost maniacal, whenever I reach home soil and see a Hema. The Hema is a shop that sells almost anything, from clothes to stationary to food to home decoration, and many other things you never knew you wanted. Their ‘rookworsten’, or smoked sausage (we are a bit German, after all) are the best the Netherlands have to offer. I can’t explain why the Hema has such an effect on me, cause I do realise there’s many shops that sell the same kind of stuff, only…they don’t. This place is different. You have to experience it to understand. It’s a bit like Flying Tiger, in the way that you’re lured in without understanding how it happened, and before you know it you walk out with about a dozen things you don’t actually need. Anyway – I think Dublin could do with a Hema. I mean, they’ve branched out to London, Paris, and Belgium, so why not set up a store here? Make it happen!
Terraces
As soon as the ‘summer’ started in Ireland, I fiercely missed the Dutch – and especially the Amsterdam – terraces. There’s something really nice about sitting in the sun, drinking a ‘biertje’ (‘little beer’) along the canal, and eating – there they are! – a portion of bitterballs; and then, afterwards, when the summer day starts to cool down, tipsily cycling home. Beer gardens don’t really have the same feel to them – even though they can be nice, they tend to be overcrowded and stuffy – but I guess that’s mostly because there’s not a canal in sight. There’s a few places in Dublin where you can sit outside, but since the regulations for terraces are much stricter here, there’s no culture built around it. That’s fine. Ireland has other things to offer, drinking-wise.
Dutch politics
Indeed. I never thought that would happen. I somehow really miss all the bickering and debating going on in Dutch politics – our system is set up in such a way that there’s an abundance of different parties, some bigger, some smaller, some quite ridiculous, some downright terrible, and they all have to figure out a way to work together -, not to mention following the live election results on TV. I haven’t been able to vote since I moved here, because I’m an idiot and forgot to register from abroad, but it was also harder than I thought to keep following everything that’s going on from here. Being removed from Dutch politics a bit made me look at it in a different way – all of a sudden, I find the politicians’ goings-on ‘cute’, and ‘silly’, and even a bit ‘knullig’ (a great Dutch word that means something like ’embarrassing and stupid in an slightly endearing and non-threatening way’. Google Translate tells me the direct translation is ‘fumbling’, but that’s not exactly the same). Obviously, the reason I miss it is because it’s familiar to me. I’m completely lost when it comes to Irish politics; the only thing I know is that there’s huge protests going on surrounding Repeal the 8th, and the country has its first openly gay Taoiseach (prime minister). (*note: I know a bit more about Irish politics now, especially after the last elections a few weeks back, although the take away I got from that is that the biggest two parties are basically the same, and Sinn Fein used to be, or is (the details are a bit murky) the party associated with the IRA. Oh, also, as you might know the 8th Amendment is repealed now, of course, which you will hear a bit more about in a later blog.)
Dutch tv
I don’t have a TV here, but from what I’ve seen the Irish channels are filled with (trashy) English game shows, terribly boring news programmes, American action movies, several homegrown series ranging wildly in quality, and never-ending re-runs of Father Ted. Netflix is saving the day. Whenever I’m home, I’m always glad to see the familiar talk shows, sketch shows, investigative journalism series, or the live ‘cabaret’ (stand up) registrations. (*note: Dutch TV is now rapidly going down the drain as well.) It is interesting, and a bit depressing, how important TV is in regard to your national identity: everyone my age, growing up in the same environment as me, used to watch the same shows in their childhood – later on, you would talk about the recurring programmes that almost everyone would watch. It shapes your worldview a little bit, and it is always a joy re-kindling the memories about one of the wacky children’s shows my parents would let me watch on Sunday mornings so they could lie in bed a little bit longer. It’s just not the same to watch TV over the internet, and it’s also weird that nobody here has a clue what you’re talking about when you mention Purno de Purno (look it up. It might explain why I grew up to be such a nutcase).
Directness (or rudeness, depending on your view)
As I said before, Irish people are nice, but they also tend to be overly polite and very indirect. I do sometimes long for a bit of the Dutch ‘botheid’ (rude directness, bluntness), even though it used to annoy me a lot when I was still living in the Netherlands. It can be tough, but at least you know where you stand. The open nature of the Amsterdammers, the fact that nobody will bat an eye no matter how ridiculous, un-stylish or ‘un-groomed’ you look, is something I really miss as well (*note: I think this is a bit of the nostalgia kicking in and colouring my view, as Amsterdamhasn’t really been like that in a long time. People do tend not to care so much about how they or others look; but there’s not many ‘eccentric’ people to be found anymore). It’s funny, however, that every time I go back home, the Dutchies seem to have gotten ruder again. Maybe I’m starting to get used to politeness…ew, gross.
Theme parks
Alright, alright, you can find a lot of beautiful castles, wild nature and adorable donkeys in Ireland, but it only has one theme park – based around their biggest crisp brand – and surely, that’s not enough to keep you going, even though it does have the biggest wooden coaster in Europe (*note: I visited this place a few years ago and wrote about it in another blog). Please give me the Efteling (a fifty-year-old fairy tale park), Walibi (thrill seeker park full of roller coasters), or otherwise just one of the hundreds of other small theme parks, zoos, safari parks, or themed museums. Yes, I do know that the Netherlands are basically one big fancy-fair and it’s terrible that we need to be kept entertained 24/7, blah blah blah, BUT I WANT THAT ENTERTAINMENT! NO, GO AWAY FIDDLE PLAYER, I WANT A ROLLER COASTER!
Actual, normal bike lanes
Fuck sake, Ireland. When I’m cycling I don’t want to feel like I’m in constant danger because I could be pushed aside by a cab or a bus at any moment.
Dutch ‘wandelpaden’
Literally, ‘strolling lanes’. You could call them hikes if it wasn’t for the fact our country is so damn flat and has no wild nature to speak of. Dutchies, much like Germans, like things to be organised, so the country is teeming with well-signposted paths that basically lead you from cafe to cafe. I love them though, and to be honest, most walks are surprisingly good and you can come across unexpectedly beautiful views. The Netherlands aren’t all that bad! I miss going for those strolls during the weekend, or, as I used to do, on a random week day, when the countryside would be completely empty. Of course, there’s walking paths and hikes to be found in Ireland as well, but they are of a different category altogether, not in the least because the country has much more natural beauty on display.
From the archives, July 9, 2017 (click the date for the original post) – I wrote a lot that month, cause I wantedto keep to my goal of three-posts-a-week, although my zeal diminished quickly. However, this was the start of my new-style blog, where I sometimes talk about everyday life away from the homeland, sometimes give an interesting insight into Irish society (or so I’d like to think) and sometimes bore the reader to death with lists. This post was about my life on an archaeological excavation, and the dangers that come with it.
Archaeology is hard work, and sometimes things go badly. I don’t know any archaeologist whose life was completely injury-free, or who never had to deal with pains in their neck, back, wrists, or knees – physiotherapists all around the world are probably earning half of their living because of our existence. Some people, who shall remain unnamed, are more prone to accidents than others, and can be complete liabilities on site. They might do such things as fall off ladders, step onto shovels and getting a whack in the face, or simply trip and nearly fall into freshly dug pits.
Apart from suffering from back problems, most archaeologists also suffer from the ‘lame joke’-syndrom
Two weeks ago, I woke up feeling like someone had pulled the skin around my chest much tighter, and I was nearly unable to get out of bed. When I finally managed to get up, I proceeded to walk around like a geriatric zombie (do those exist? I’m sure they do, I mean, old people would be bitten by zombies as well, maybe even more so, since they’re very slow to begin with. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any, though, in films I mean*. I might have seen a real-life one; you can never be certain, can you, cause old people look like zombies anyway… But I digress). I screamed after every step, because every step hurt like hell and I’m a classified wimp. After a few days, however, the pain subsided, and I went back to work, thinking: “Now that wasn’t so bad after all!”, ignoring the fact that historically speaking, things are never so easily done with in Fem-land. Long story short, the pain came back last Friday, just when I was kneeling down and bending over to clean a skeleton, and my colleagues were out of earshot. They didn’t realise anything was wrong, because archaeologists spend hours on their hands and knees without moving around much, so it wasn’t weird that I was still in the same position as a few minutes before. I tried to move about a bit and crawled to the edge of the site, crying like a baby zombie (now I did see a baby zombie in a film once, that was very unsettling). The site director ran over to instruct me to sit down on my hunches, feed me ibuprofen, and tell me to go home as soon as I was able to stand up.
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
I didn’t have any clean clothes with me, and walked around in a tracksuit from one of the construction workers, as I had ripped my work trousers earlier that day. Apart from that, I was also covered in mud and sand, smelled terribly, sported the most awful helmet-hair, and held my half-broken bags in my hand because it was too painful to carry them on my back. I walked through Dublin with tears in my eyes from the pain.
I sat myself down on a chair in the bus, and the guy next to me sniffed and moved away from me. When he arrived at his stop, he ran outside as fast as he could (I’ve never seen any Irishman exit the bus so quickly as he did). The rest of the trip, nobody else dared come close to me. I got off, miss-stepped and cried out softly, and a blonde, well-groomed woman ran over to me. “Do you want to talk, miss? Did something happen to you?” I saw she was wearing a Samaritans nametag, and mumbled: “No, no, thanks, I’m fine”, my eyes still red from crying. She put a hand on my shoulder and nodded understandingly.
On my way to the train station, people acted strangely around me: they didn’t dare look me in the eye, or ignored me completely, even though I tried to walk as straight as I could and smile my usual smile when passing by. Suddenly, someone behind me shouted: “Miss! Miss!” A red-headed guy came walking next to me, a fiver in his outstretched hand. “Do you need any money, miss?”
It started to dawn on me, now. The glances. The discomfort of the man on the bus. I shook my head. “No, no…I’m just an archaeologist with a back problem”, I laughed, and added: “I know what it looks like…but I’m okay. I’m on my way home.” The man smiled at me, with doubt lingering in his eyes, and went on his way. Fuck, I thought. As a poor archaeologist with a back problem, I certainly could have used an extra fiver, as well.
After this incident, I decided to put on my yellow hi-vis vest, both to hide and explain my dirtiness. It was interesting to see how everyone treated me completely differently after that – I wasn’t a pariah anymore, people smiled back at me and didn’t cross the street to avoid me. Now, I was someone on her way to work, someone who made money – I was part of society, I was allowed to participate in normal life again. It was a strange realisation. I couldn’t help but think how hard it must be to experience this every day: having angry or scared glances cast at you, people stepping around you and pretending you’re not there, and, if you’re really lucky, the odd person who might give you a fiver once every while. A worse realisation was that I acted like that as well; I also daily pretended not to see one of Dublin’s greatest problems.*
‘My life is not so bad, after all’, I thought, a little selfishly, ‘compared to living on the street, my back pain isn’t something to worry about’. It was just a fleeting thought, for shortly after, my back seized up again when I tried to use the escalator, and I went back to feeling sorry for myself once more.
*(1) This was written before I had seen the masterpiece that is ‘Night of the Living Dead’. *(2) The Irish homelessness/housing crisis has only gotten worse over the last few years; I intend to write about it this year, but it might become a verydepressing post.
Hi everyone, I hope you all had a good Christmas break! I had this great plan to translate and write new posts over the holidays, but my laziness thwarted that idea. Luckily, it’s January now, the month during which everyone tries to be a little better! Here’s a new translation from the archives, originally written on July 8th, 2017 (see the Dutch version here). Yes, that’s almost a year after the last post– life caught up on me and I completely forgot to write all my ‘adventures’ down. By July 2017, however, I had settled down a bit more, found a new place and job, and made some new friends– in short, I was in a good place, and that prompted an outburst of creativity on my blog. I wrote six posts during that month, so hold on tight!(NB: Not all posts are ‘translatable’, I found, so I won’t have to bombard you with nonsense too much.)
It’s a disgrace. I’ve neglected this blog for months and months, as per usual whenever I try to write regularly. Of course, I could come up with all kinds of excuses, such as I didn’t have any inspiration (false – I’ve repeatedly thought ‘This would be a great subject for a blog post!’ over the last few months), I didn’t have time (also false – I had loads of time in January, when I was sat at home without a job, and I’m often doing fuck all during weekends and evenings), or I didn’t feel like it (partially true – but I rarely feel like doing anything, and the only way to remedy that is just to pull myself together and do it anyway), but the simple truth is this: I am a lazy bitch. God, saying that felt really liberating. Hi, I’m Fem (Hi Fem!) and I’m a lazy bitch.
Anyway, I gave myself a kick up the arse, sat down behind my laptop, and set up a schedule. After all, I’m always yapping on about how I love to write, so I feel like I have to put my money where my mouth is. All that endless, useless scribbling in hundreds of notebooks should lead to something productive at some point, right?…I mean, up to now, it only led to my room being filled with clutter, and me not being able to reach my door without stepping onto some of my written-down thoughts carelessly strewn about. Maybe that’s the reason it always takes me ages to get out of bed, not to mention out of the house.
My idea is to write two or three posts a week now – I’ll post on set days, will try to keep it a bit shorter than usual, and will try to break it up into different themes and categories.* How ambitious of me! Every Sunday, I’ll write ‘A Dublin Update’ (Dubdate?), in which I will tell you about my adventures and mishaps in the fair city. Wednesdays are for Lists, cause I love making lists and would like to acquaint you with that particular passion of mine. On Fridays, I will tell you something fun or odd about Ireland. I will try to write ‘ahead’ as much as I can, in case life catches up with me again, or I’m incapacitated because of a hangover or a seized-up upper back (more about the latter in a later post).
First of all, I’d like to tell you what has happened to me over the last 9 months or so.
-After I quit my archaeology job in Mayo, I went back to the cafe, and although I met a great many cool people there, I now know: never again. I won’t be able to get into detail too much, as some of you know where my workplace is located and what it’s called, but I will tell you this: if you think your boss is a psycho, you’ve clearly never met the guy who runs the cafe-that-must-not-be-named. Have you ever been accused of turning off the lights at your workplace for 5 seconds, just so you could quickly wolf down a piece of cake without anyone noticing? Has someone ever held daily meetings with you to discuss what they saw on CCTV? (Probably illegal, by the way.) Has someone ever tried to fire you because they said you deliberately left bags of lettuce everywhere where they weren’t supposed to be? Or because you didn’t dust the antique record player in the window daily, even though that wasn’t your task? Or wait, did someone ever tell you you were scaring the customers away because you broke your leg and it was in a cast, and your ‘hobbling around’ made people uncomfortable? Or accused you of faking a migraine because you didn’t want to work? Well, these are just a few scenarios me and my colleagues had to deal with all the time, and I’m not even telling you the worst bits, as I’m still afraid I will have some gangsters sent after me if I do. Thankfully, my colleagues and I were all of the same mind – i.e. completely fed up with it all -, and we decided to collectively quit, being the nasty women that we are. We celebrated our newfound freedom with a Christmassy cheese-fondue at my place. Every time I’m cycling past that cafe, I feel a strong urge to shout: “So long, suckers, I will never come back!”
-After this dramatic exit, and after I visited the homeland for Christmas, I was unemployed for a month. It was HELL. You know, I’m used to being poor and all – I mean, I was a student not too long ago – but I usually still had that certainty of money coming in every few weeks or every month. Back during uni life, most people around me were just as poor as I was, and if I was completely broke, I would just go to my parents and drain them of their food for a few days. Now, there was none of that. I had to manage my own shit. I’d just spent three weeks abroad, during the most expensive time of the year, and had come back to a dark and dreary Ireland with almost no money in my bank account. January is the worst month of the year at any rate, and it’s just that tiny bit worse when you have to sit it out in Ireland. It’s like you’re leaving near the North Pole: it’s freezing, and the sky never really gets bright. I felt homesick, I was on my own in a huge apartment, and I had no idea what to do with myself. I had to live on 2 euro a day, and didn’t even have money for public transport. I tried to get on welfare, and went to the dole office, where I was surrounded by single mothers, guys in tracksuits, drug addicts and old people (a sad insight into the state Ireland is in right now). One positive point is that I got to know the city much better: to make sure I’d get out of bed at a decent hour every day, I planned little (free) trips for myself, and would take walks around town or hikes in the mountains, or go to museums that didn’t charge an entrance fee. Still, it isn’t a great feeling to wake up every morning saying to yourself: well, what will I do today? How will I fill in the endless hours that lay before me? And this was only a month of unemployment, a month! – I cannot even begin to imagine what it’s like if this is your everyday life.
Poolbeg Lighthouse, which I visited during one of my walks
-Thank fuck, I did find a new job – after a lot of waiting around, that is. I applied for a position as archaeological site assistant in Dublin, on an excavation just around the corner from where I live, but obviously, the procedure ran on Irish time. “The site will have an imminent start”, the big boss told me, “don’t worry. We’ll call you.” Three weeks later I still hadn’t heard anything back, and was so frustrated I googled the exact meaning of the word imminent (possibly the most Irish word ever – it just means ‘in the near future, sometime’, which gives all Irish people the freedom to do whatever the fuck they want). The office did e-mail me, asking if I would be interested in working somewhere in the middle of nowhere. No! I wanted to work in town! Thank God, I got a phone call a little later: it was decided I could work on the city dig anyway, starting the following day at 8 am.* Now, I’ve been working there for almost half a year, and even though I still find it hard sometimes – I feel like I’m a total nitwit, and can get a bit anxious about that – I’m getting used to it more and more, and am even starting to enjoy it. I’m learning a lot, and wish I could tell you all about it, but since this is still an ongoing project, I’m not allowed to part with any information.* The digging itself is nearly finished, however, and we’re just a literal ‘skeleton crew’ now (we’re digging up human remains), which is a lot of fun. I made two new friends, and we’ve become near inseparable (something that happens often when you’re digging around in the mud together for months on end): one is a happy-go-lucky metal-head from Yorkshire, the other a dry-humoured, romantic soul from Kerry (in the far southwest of Ireland). It was really hard to understand both of their accents when I just started working there, which may have delayed (or helped?) properly developing the friendship, but now I’m so used to their way of talking that I’m even starting to take over some of their idiosyncrasies.
Now I’m making money again, I can go on trips, for instance to Edinburgh, April 2017
-I celebrated my first Halloween, New Years Eve and Saint Patrick’s Day in Ireland! As I said in my last post, Halloween is truly my holiday, as I love dressing-up, creepy shit, and hot whiskey (I will tell you more about the latter later on). New Year’s Eve was a bit of a bummer, even though I tried to make ‘oliebollen’ (a Dutch treat, consisting of deep-fried dough with raisins – we do like our stuff deep-fried) – there wasn’t a firework to be seen*, and when we went out to party, it just felt like a random Saturday night. Paddy’s day (please never say ‘Patty’s day’, that’s only for silly Americans) was one big green haze, even though there was no green beer (silly Americans again) and I stood out as a foreigner because I was one of the only ones actually dressed in the national colour. I have no idea what time I got home, I only recall that I woke up at three in the afternoon, in my dumb green clothes still on, and my bed sheets all covered in green face paint.
-I’ve had some more visitors, such as my friend N., my brother and his girlfriend, and my parents – they all got the ‘real’ Irish experience, from listening to live fiddle-dee-dye music to visiting the wild outdoors, and meeting my truly local colleagues in our truly local pub. I think they nearly all said that they wanted to move to Ireland as well, but they have yet to put their words into actions.
A little cottage in Co. Kerry where I stayed with my parents. I think they should move and live here, RIGHT?
-I had to move again! My former apartment was due to be renovated, and I was chucked out. The search for a new room was an interesting experience, to say it mildly: I criss-crossed the entire city, saw both beautiful Georgian houses as well as places where three people were sharing one bedroom (two people in a bed, even, and they told me: “Yeah, it looks bad, but you’ll get used to it!”), and was subject to archaeology-discrimination. Yep, you’ve read that right. I had found a lovely place in Kimmage, was accepted by my future flatmates, and was happy as can be – I even bought some cookies for my colleagues to celebrate, which they accepted with true Irish politeness (“no, thanks, I’m grand…are you sure?…”). Sadly, the landlady wasn’t happy with me, because she realised archaeological jobs are usually project-based and therefore, I didn’t have a full-time contract. She was afraid I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent, and decided I couldn’t live there. Oh my God, do I look like an idiot that doesn’t understand how money works? (Come to think of it, maybe I do.) I was so annoyed that I wrote an angry but entirely reasonable (*ehem*) e-mail to the agency, but as expected, nobody responded to me.
The next course of action was to try and find a barge to live on, as you can take the girl out of Amsterdam, but…etc. My Yorkshire colleague and I went to every dock, left little notes, met the nicest hippies who happily lived their life on a boat, but alas: there was no room for us. Our search for a shared apartment also didn’t work – any time we thought we found something nice, it turned out the owner was weirdly enough not living in Dublin but in London/Edinburgh/Aberystwyth/Land’s End/other random British places, so they sadly couldn’t come over to show us around, but you know, what if we just wired all our money to this account here, and they would make sure their friend would come and give us the key? Sure, sure, sure….
In the end, one of our supervisors heard we were looking for a place, and casually mentioned that he had two rooms to spare. So, long story short, we now live somewhere in the far north of the city, in a green and local neighbourhood full of young kids, red cats, fighting magpies and people stabbing each other over the weekends. I bought myself an orange bike to cycle to work. We cook for each other and eat together like a proper family. The Yorkshire-girl is leaving glitter and unicorns everywhere, I scatter books wherever I go; we watch romantic shows together (Outlander! First Dates!) and go on weekend trips. We’re practically married. Life is good.
Picture of our married couple’s trip to Donegal
-Two weeks ago, I went to a festival called Body & Soul, with the Kerrywoman and a French friend of mine. It was great! For those who don’t know, the festival is organised on castle grounds in the Irish Midlands, and it’s a full-on experience. You can listen to all sorts of music, from electronic to Irish trad, but you can also participate in group meditations, go to a seaweed-spa, have your face painted, watch classic films from your childhood, stroll along art installations in the forest, and, most importantly, eat fancy food. People bring their entire families, organise themselves in beautifully decorated camps, and walk around dressed like living artworks. My favourite items of the weekend were colourful balloons with a little light inside, which somehow showed up all over the festival terrain. It was magical.
The trad stage
Isn’t it weird how much can change within a year?
See you soon!
*This idea has long since been ignored. I still write many long-ass posts, usually once or twice every month instead of every week. The themes and categories are also not as ‘strict’as I thought they’d be. *I’ve later learned that this is a totally normal procedure here when it comes to starting up sites. It usually takes awhile to set up the dig properly, figure out budget and how many people you need, and you usually have to deal with other stakeholders (such as the client and the construction company, who were both especially annoying in this specific scenario). If I’d know that before, I’d probably have been less frustrated. *The site is now finished, the report is written, and I could tell you all about it, but since I’ve bad-mouthed the client and construction company in my note above, maybe I’d better not. You’re welcome to send me a message and I can give you all the info you’d need directly.There’s a cool little booklet about the site that features some of the pictures I took of finds, amongst other things. *Fireworks are an essential part of the Dutch New Year’s Eve celebration (Oud & Nieuw, ‘old and new’). Anyone can use them, and although there’s supposed to be an age limitand police is supposed to confiscate illegal fireworks, it’s entirely normal to see ten-year-olds throwing around heavy explosives like it’s nothing. Big cities turn into colourful war zones, and the night isn’t complete without some people losing an eye or a hand. Many Dutchies, like myself, are now calling for a ban on this barbaric ritual, but I do have to say – you do miss the fireworks when they’re not there. It’s just not the same.And this from someone who once nearly got a lit firework rocket in her face because an idiot decided it would be fun to throw it like a spear.
After that little trip to the present, we’re back in the past again! Not Christmas past, but Halloween past, as this post was originally written on October 28, 2016. You can find the Dutch version here.
“We’ve been waiting for over two months – two months!Oh, it was terrible, absolutely terrible, having to do without the unrivalled wisdom and comical tales of our favourite emigree;life just wasn’t the same. It lost its shine, its splendour – there was nothing that could give us joy – food tasted like ash in our mouths – friends and family were left in the cold, knocking on our doors to no avail. Even our beloved Bitterballs could not cheer us up. There we were, staring at our computer screen, waiting and waiting, hitting refresh – refresh – refresh – till the clock struck one past midnight, two past midnight, three… We could not sleep. We kept reading the sameoldstories over and over, till we knew them by heart. But how is she faring now? we shouted at thescreen, the computer gently buzzing, not responding, innocent. We pulled our hair, wrung our hands, scratched at our faces in pure despair; we fainted repeatedly, fearing we would never live to see another word written by our adventurer. We withered awayuntil we were no more than a shadow of our former selves. Why, why did she abandon us?”
Good news for everyone: I didn’t abandon you!
*deadly swoon*
VISITORS, FISH, & CHIPS
Fair enough, I did abandon you for a little while, but I had a good reason to do so. A lot of people came over to visit me, up until the end of September! Apparently, people are finally starting to miss me (or they just want to see Dublin and are looking for cheap accommodation, it could go either way). I have been busy showing everyone around, roaming beautiful valleys (Glendalough), dangerous cliffs (Howth), former conflict zones (Belfast), mysterious libraries (Trinity College) and going to dazzling heights (the Guinness Factory). Here’s some photographic evidence that I’m not making this up, and really do have friends:
Wicklow Mountains-trip with E., F., and L.
In Ranelagh with E.
In Howth with the parents
It’s funny that hosting friends and family abroad is both exhilarating and exhausting. You feel a bit like a Couch-surfing host: you see new people every week, and you want to show them your favourite spots in town, but you also wanna make sure they won’t miss any of the touristy highlights, and at the same time can’t just put your everyday life aside either. Thankfully, all my visitors were aware of that, and didn’t make a big deal out of it – and it turned out I mostly went for dinner and drinks a lot during my mini-breaks, something that just comes naturally to me anyway. Nothing stressful happened, apart from the fact that I nearly peed my pants on the bus from Glendalough (I had drunk a pint just a few minutes before, sometimes it just goes straight through you) and my grandma was nearly blown off a cliff in Howth, but those are just minor incidents.
Or wait…were those really the only things?
Really…?
THE CAT AND THE KITTEN: A DRAMEDY IN SIX PARTS
Dramitis Personae: Miss Quarter, the Landlady Mr Quarter, her Son Yours Truly, an Anxiety-Ridden Woman The Friend, who Loves Her Breakfast The Stoner Next Door, A Weed-Loving Guy Who Lives in the House On the Corner(So Technically Not Really Next Door But That Just Sounds Better) The Woman who Worked in the Tara Bar in Amsterdam (WTF!), No Further Details Needed The Two Cats, a Mother and her Kitty, The Devil Incarnate
The Two Cats – so very evil
PART ONE. A FINE SUNDAY MORNING (It’s Sunday morning. Yours Truly and The Friend are lying in bed, The Friend is still asleep.)
Yours Truly, mumbling to herself: “Dear God, Miss Quarter took two stray kittens into her house. She doesn’t even know if they belong to anyone. What will we do if any of the neighbours will come over to get them back? Oh, oh! I’m stressed!”
(YT’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from Mr Quarter.) Mr Quarter: “YT, whatever you do, don’t let the cats out of the house. My mum brought them to the vet and he said they have to stay in for two weeks.”
(The phone buzzes again. This time it’s Miss Quarter.) Miss Quarter: “Morning YT, hope you had a good night. I’m away for the day. The cats are in the house now! Please don’t open any doors or windows as the vet said they can’t go outside. See you tonight!”
YT, calm: “Ah, no problem. No stress. I can follow these instructions.” (She stretches and gets up out of bed, looking at her sleeping friend.) “I’ll tell her about this later. She’s always up after me anyway, there’s enough time. I’ll go for a shower first.”
PART 2. A NOT SO FINE SUNDAY MORNING (YT, freshly showered and dressed, walks into the kitchen. To her surprise, her friend is sitting at the dining table.)
TF (cheery): “Hey, YT, you’re awake! Great! Let’s go for breakfast somewhere, I’m starving.”
YT (still not over her shock): “What the hell are you doing downstairs already?!” (She suddenly realises that the garden doors are open, and her eyes widen in horror.) “Wait, did you…Where are the cats?”
TF: “They’re in the garden. They really, really wanted to go outside! Listen, do you know a place where we can get a good Irish breakfast?”
(YT spots the two cats in the garden and runs outside, without thinking.)
THE TWO CATS: “Grrrr, an evil human is running after us and wants to bring us back inside! We won’t allow it! Quick!” (They scuttle away, into the bushes of the neighbouring garden.)
YT: “OH NOOOOOOO!” (She buries her face in her hands.) “I failed! They weren’t to go outside! Now we’ve lost those cats, FOREVER.”
TF (unperturbed): “Relax. They’ll be back in a little while. Let’s just get some food first.”
PART 3. THE SUNDAY MORNING IS GETTING WORSE, BUT AT LEAST THERE’S FOOD NOW (YT is pacing up and down, her hands in her hair. TF started reading a book at the dinner table.)
YT: “What are we to do now? I texted Mr Quarter, and he didn’t sound happy. OH, ANXIETY! How will we get those cats back into the house? We can’t leave, TF, we have to wait till they’re back. No! We have to come up with a plan.”
TF (looking up from her book): “We could just go get some food first. We still have to eat breakfast.”
YT (nearly in tears): “Yes. Yes. That might help…I’ll go and get some, to take my mind off this disaster.”
(She leaves. TF goes back to reading her book. The Mother Cat silently creeps back into the house. YT reappears, carrying bacon, sausages, eggs, and tomatoes.)
TF: “Look, YT, the cat came back!”
MC: “MEW MEW MOTHERFUCKER! I hid my kitten and I won’t tell you where she is, MU HA HA HA HA.”
PART 4. THE SUNDAY IS SLOWLY TURNING INTO THE WORST DAY EVER (YT is pacing around anxiously, her phone in her hands, constantly texting. TF is trying to turn on the stove.)
TF (frustrated): “This stove isn’t working, isn’t it supposed to go on automatically when you do this?” (Pushes and turns button. Nothing happens.) “It’s not working at all!”
YT: “Oh fuck, oh damn. Where’s that kitten? She could be anywhere! Oh, I hope she’s still alive!” (Shudders.) “I have to go outside, TF, I can’t stay here any longer.” (Grabs cat food.) “Wish me luck on my adventure through the wilderness!”
TF (distractedly): “Right, okay, yeah. I’m gonna go on the hunt for matches. This stove just isn’t working.”
(YT disappears into the garden, and comes back somewhat later, completely dishevelled. She’s covered in mud and has leaves in her hair. Meanwhile, TF is running through the kitchen, opening all the cupboards and drawers.)
YT (in a hollow voice): “I’ve come back from my quest into the neighbour’s garden. I’ve inspected every hollow tree, I’ve turned every stone. The things I’ve seen – oh, the things I’ve seen! I’ve come across the unmentionable, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you – but the kitten remains lost. Lost!” (Throws herself onto the kitchen floor.)
TF: “Yeah, the kitten didn’t show up here, either. And I can’t find any matches, but I did find this.” (Holds up Union Jack. The whole country shudders.) “You know what. I’ll just throw everything into the oven, that might work.”
(Later. YT and TF are eating at the dining table. YT still looks like she’s seen a ghost. Her phone buzzes, and she wakes up from her apathetic state.)
Mr Quarter, through text: “I’ve just got an idea. Maybe you can use the MC as bait, to lure the kitten back?”
YT (suddenly lively, almost maniacally): “Great! Fantastic! TF, I know what we’ll do. We’ll put the MC in one of those cat-carrying things, put that yoke in the garden, and voila! The kitten will come back to see her mum. What do you think?”
TF (with a mouth full of food): “Mmm, these sausages are really tasty. What? Oh, yeah, not bad – but how do we get the MC into one of those cat-carrying things?”
PART 5. COULD IT BE ANY WORSE? (YT and TF are sitting on the floor, next to one of those cat-carrying yokes. There’s cat treats on the floor, everywhere, forming a trail into the cat prison. The MC warily walks from treat to treat, but stops at the entrance of the cat-carrying thing.)
MC: “Hmmm… This does not look very comfortable, not in the slightest. It is dark and damp. Oh, it might look like a nice, comfy cardboard box, but I don’t trust it, not at all!” (Slowly sticks out one paw.)
YT and TF: “Yes! Goood kitty, goood kitty, in you go!”
MC: “Hmmm, the humans are way to keen on me going inside that thing. That’s not a good sign.” (Sniffs.) “There’s some delicious treats lying in there… What kind of cat would I be if I’d pass on that opportunity?” (Tries to think logically.) “Well now. Well now. I’ve got it. I could just run inside quickly, snatch up those lovely delicacies, and then get out of there as fast as I can. MU HA HA HA!” (The evil laughter sounds like adorable mewing.) “What a great idea, I’ll carry it out right away.”
(She walks inside quickly, but the humans are too fast for her, and close the prison door behind her.)
MC: “NO! Woe is me! I’ve been betrayed by those big, smelly, idiot, clumsy, ridiculous oafs of human beings! LET ME GO!”
(YT and TF carry the cat-carrying thing into the garden.)
MC (furious): “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! MY DEAR KITTEN, IF YOU HEAR ME, DON’T COME BACK. PLEASE, DON’T COME BACK! IT’S DANGEROUS, AND THE HUMANS ARE TERRIBLE SADISTS – PSYCHOPATHS OF THE HIGHEST ORDER! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”
YT (in tears): “I can’t do this anymore. We have to bring her back inside, poor creature. There must be a better solution.”
PART 6. EVERYTHING GETS SLIGHTLY BETTER – THE SUNDAY IS SAVED (The phone rings. YT picks up.)
Mr Quarter (on the phone): “Hey listen, why don’t you go for a walk in the area and ask the neighbours if they’ve seen anything?”
YT: “That is an amazing idea, and so simple. Why didn’t I think of this before? We’re on it, Mr Quarter! Come on, TF!”
TF (with her mouth full of food): “Wait a sec, just need to finish my chocolate.”
(They walk from house to house, to no avail. Then, they reach the house on the corner. The Stoner answers the door, looking glum.)
YT: “Hey, ummm…sorry we’re disturbing your, ahm, Sunday rest…but, ahm, did you happen to see a lone kitten around here today?”
TS (after a long spell, confusedly): “Sure, yeah…the kitten came back today, yeah.”
YT and TF: “How do you mean, came back?”
TS (even more confused now): “Well, she was in the garden earlier. But now she’s gone again, I think. I haven’t been in the garden for awhile. Bye.” (Closes door.)
YT and TF: “Well, that was…odd.” (They shrug.) “Let’s continue.” (They knock on the next door over.)
(The Woman who Worked in the Tara Bar in Amsterdam opens the door.) “Hey, how are ya?”
YT (still hasn’t mastered the ‘how are you’ greeting): “Hello, ah, yes I’m good thanks, and you? We live just around the corner, and we’re looking for a black kitten… did you see her?”
TWWWITTBIA: “Ohhhh, you’re Dutch!” (Launches into a long monologue about how she lived in Amsterdam and worked in the Irish pub The Tara there, before she finally gets round to answering the question.) “So you’re the owners of the missing cats, then? Did you put up that sign?”
YT and TF: “What sign?!”
TWWWITTBIA: “Wait a sec – I took a photo of it.” (Shows picture of a poster with two cats on it – undoubtedly the MC and her kitten – and the text ‘Missing: Two cats.’, with a phone number underneath.)
YT: “No… that isn’t ours. That’s very strange. OH, STRESS, I knew those cats belonged to someone else.” (Thinks.) “TF, we have to tell this to the Quarter family.”
(On the phone with Mr Quarter.)
Mr Quarter: “So, my mum called that number on the poster. The guy who picked up said that you already came by his house today.”
YT: “Oh my God, that must have been that weird stoner guy next door!” (Genuinely uncomprehending) “Why couldn’t he be more clear? What do we do now?”
Mr Quarter: “Just let the mother cat go. She can find her home, and her kitten. All’s well that ends well…”
YT and TF run back home, and let MC go.
MC: “Hurray! SMOKEY IS FREEEEEEE!” (Runs away swiftly and disappears out of sight.)
TF (looking at the clock): “It’s getting late, YT. We should get some food.”
THE END
A MUD BATH
Apart from receiving visitors and chasing after cats, I was also busy working as an archaeologist. Yep, you read that correctly. I realised it was about time that I’d do something I’d actually studied for, and started to look for jobs in and around Dublin. Right then, I happened to bump into a guy I worked with on a dig in Cashel, and he immediately offered me a job in County Mayo. (Mayo is located in the west of Ireland, as far away from Dublin as can be, for those who didn’t know.) I said yes, and there I was.
The accomodation: I suddenly found myself in a small village in the middle of nowhere, over an hour away from the ‘big cities’ of Galway and Westport. Ballinrobe, it’s called. It has a lot to offer:
-There’s a charity shop that sells the latest in grandma fashion. -There’s an abandoned TBC-hospital that’s supposed to be haunted. -There’s one of everything: one ATM, one church, one post office, one bank. -There’s two old man pubs. -There’s a Chinese restaurant that’s always closed. There’s a Supermac’s. -There’s a riverside walk where you’d better not go after dark. -There’s a coffeeshop that sells the most amazing hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted. Keep it secret, before the tourists flood in. -There’s lots of old, derelict houses. One of them has a chimp head in the window, and I still don’t know if it’s real or not. -There’s teenage boys carrying around bottles of Lucozade and beer cans.
In short, it’s every Irish town ever.
Ballinrobe, lively as ever
Our holiday home was located at a ten minutes walking distance from Ballinrobe’s lively village center, and looked like a time capsule. You had to pay electricity as you went, using an old, decrepit meter that only accepted 2 euro coins. We couldn’t turn on the heating, as the money would run out immediately, and had to make do with a turf fire. The house was cold, damp, spooky, and mouldy, and looked like it was decorated with things from the charity shop. It was good fun, though, while it lasted.
The work: The work was tough enough, but because the weather was so nice, I didn’t mind. All the other archaeologists were friendly and helped me get settled in – after all, this was my first ‘real’ job. We had to dig multiple sites located along a main road – most of them were fulachta fiadhs, huge prehistoric mounds consisting of burnt material, usually covering a hearth and a wooden water trough. There was a lot of digging and walking around with wheelbarrows, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I fell into the mud many times. A few days into my work, people from other teams already greeted me saying, “Ah, you must be that clumsy girl!”. My reputation precedes me.
One of our sites from afar
Our team: The site director, a cute-looking, slightly hippy-dippy woman who’d tell you all about the fact that ‘the energy in this house is peaceful’, but also cursed like a sailor, and told us stories that made our ears ring; the supervisor, a tall, cheery lady from Cork who asked us if there had been ‘any action’ after every weekend; J., who kept us amused with her comical stories, witty remarks and ever-changing hair colour; C., a girl who grew up in the Gaeltacht and looks like she walked straight out of an Irish fairy tale; C., a local with muscles like iron, and an endless supply of dirty jokes and innuendos; P., a somewhat older gentleman from Northern-Ireland, who spends his weekends going to farm-raves, and always had a crazy story up his sleeve; R., a local as well, a tough, wiry woman who, despite her size, did the work of three men; and B., an Aussie-Englishman with his countrymen’s typical sense of sarcastic humour. Because of his hybrid accent, people only realised he was English after a week or so, when a good amount of anti-British jokes had already been made.
The other teams: I was really happy that I was placed in this team – the site assistants from other groups were nice enough, but it was the leaders that shied me away. They couldn’t get along. There was a lot of gossip about one of the other directors; he was rumoured to have started to lose his mind, which didn’t surprise me once I realised he had been digging fulachta since early June, and in Mayo of all places, one of the wettest counties in Ireland. I also have the idea that anyone who works as a field archaeologist for more than five or ten years straight is just bound to lose their mind – or else they were crazy to begin with. Whatever the reason for his eccentric behaviour, this guy found strong opposition in the site supervisor, a man just as stubborn as himself. The talk of the day was that they had had a shouting match on site, and the supervisor had nearly left the dig.
The fun stuff: We went for drinks a few times, as archaeologists tend to do. The first time I came along, I once again learned a lot about the Irish drinking habits – one person fell asleep in the pub after necking a pint of Guinness, and someone else barged into the wrong holiday cottage, waking up my supervisor and trying to get her out of bed: “What are you doing here? I need a bed! This is my bed!” The day after we obviously still had to go to work, even though everyone woke up two hours after the working day had started. During my last weekend in Mayo, I went to the Westport Oktoberfest (yes, it really exists), together with the English guy and his Aussie friend from another team. It was…an interesting event. They served Belgian-style beer and Bratwurst that was in reality just a badly disguised Irish sausage, and they played Dutch schlagers. Yep, our most beloved folk singers were played on full volume, their voices echoing across the fields in this remote part of Ireland. A surreal experience, to say the least. I thought there had been a mix-up – it wouldn’t be the first time that people confuse Dutch, Belgian, and German – and was already a bit miffed, until I found one of the (very drunk) organisers of the festival. He turned out to be a Belgian from Flanders, and happily shouted Dutch lyrics in my ear. Mystery solved.
But, despite all the fun, I got homesick. After six weeks, I started to feel deeply lonely. Don’t get me wrong, I had a good time, got to know a lot of nice people, and the job was an unmissable first-time experience in commercial archaeology; but all this couldn’t remedy the homesickness. Maybe it was because I went to visit Amsterdam for a weekend for the first time since I’ve moved – after I got back, I just couldn’t settle in properly. I felt like I’d made a mistake by going away from Dublin so soon, while I was just getting to know the people there. I got caught up in negative thoughts, felt very self-conscious and alone, and that made the job itself terrible as well. Luckily, I could talk it over with my director, who completely understood my feelings. She told me she had had a similar experience when she moved to England – she felt so bad that she had to come hurrying back only a few weeks after she’d gone away. “You have to do what makes you happy”, she said, “and don’t worry about what other people think.” She sent me off to Dublin, and I’m very grateful she made me realise what I had to do. Especially because…
I’VE GOT MY OWN PLACE!
Well, for now, at least. I’m living in an apartment in Smithfield, an area in North-Dublin that is getting more and more hip and gentrified. There’s cool vintage shops, an indie-ish cinema, an expensive organic & fair trade supermarket, hipster blues bars, and even a hipster chip shop called ><> (do you get it? It’s a fish!). In short, it’s got everything my little Fem heart desires. I just moved in, and spent the last few days organising everything and (re)furbishing the rooms – it was a mess. This is how it looks right now:
It’s great to finally have my own space. Not that it was that awful to live with other people, but when you live with a family, it still feels like you’re on an (over)extended visit, and nothing really feels ‘yours’. Now, I’m beginning to feel like a true inhabitant of this lovely city.
THIS IS HALLOWEEN!
The best thing is that it will be Halloween next weekend! Halloween is my most favourite holiday ever, and now I can finally celebrate it without people moaning about how ‘dumb’, ‘American’ and, especially, non-Dutch it is. Dutch people are no fun: if you wanna complain about merging traditions, complain to the Irish – it’s their holiday after all. (I do realise that even the Irish celebration has been influenced by American traditions: carving pumpkins is American, for instance – they used to carve turnips here. So is trick or treating.) Tonight I’ll kick of my Halloweekend by going to the above-mentioned cinema, where they’ll play old horror films. Tomorrow, I’ll go to this cool festival, and might attend a fancy-dress party; then there’s supposed to be live music all around the city, as well as a Victorian fancy-fair, a showing of Psycho with a live orchestra, a gothic craft market, and a parade! Woo boy, I’m the happiest gal in town! Now if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to reading the collected ghost stories of M.R. James.
This is the newest instalment of a series in which I describe how I try to cook (or, more frequently, bake) something I’ve never cooked or baked before. Find the original Dutch post here.
Somehow I always end up writing these posts around or during the holidays – I guess it’s because the last days of the year make me even more hungry and food-obsessed than usual. I’m sure I’m not the only one. 😉
This time: mince pies!
I probably don’t have to explain to you what those are, but I will tell you they’re not very well known in the Netherlands. They’re part of that British and Irish Christmas tradition that just passes us by – together with Christmas pudding, those funny little paper hats, Christmas crackers, and, in many cases, even Christmas presents. (Don’t worry – we get our presents earlier in December, on St. Nicholas’ Eve, something I you will tell you more about in another blog.) Sure, we have our own traditional dishes and rituals, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to gently introduce the lovely mince pies to the Dutchies, and make our Christmas just a tiny bit better. Who knows, everyone back home might go mad over them! I myself certainly did, especially when I recently tasted freshly made ones for the first time – made by no other than the Irish Mammy of my Favourite Irishman.
I wanted nothing to do with mince pie at first, cause I thought there was actual meat in it (and I hugely dislike most meat-filled pastries and pies). I found out that, originally, there was – although right from the start, in the 17th century, the meat was already blended in with all sorts of fruit and spices. My quick search on the internet didn’t really answer my question as to why these pies were traditionally made during the winter/holiday season, but I’m guessing it’s just because people love eating sugary and filling food at this time of year.
As usual with Christmas delicacies, a lot of Christian symbolism was heaped onto it – the spices standing for one of the gifts of the Three Magi, the original oval shape of the pastry symbolising Jesus’ little crib, and the traditional thirteen ingredients referencing J. and his twelve apostles. I’ve also heard it would bring good luck to eat one mince pie a day between Christmas Day and Epiphany/Little Christmas, so if you somehow find yourself doing just that, don’t be ashamed.
WHAT DO WE NEED? (FOR 16 PIES)
(NB: My new goal is to become the ‘baker’ in the life of my friends, so I can keep them happy by throwing all sorts of treats and delicacies their way, and they’ll keep inviting me to parties. That’s why I finally work with proper measures, instead of just guesstimating amounts I needed like I did before.)
To prepare: Make sure you have a muffin tin, or those paper/tin foil cases you can put the pies in. Oh, and you need an oven, of course, unless you like raw dough – then who am I to judge. (I wanted to make an incredibly bad pun here but I will keep myself in check, for now. You, English-speaking reader, don’t know me well enough yet.)
So, on my Dutch blog I made a list of everything you need when you want to make your own mince meat, as we don’t have those jars of pre-made mix back home. I didn’t try to make the filling myself, as I’ve read that if you want to do it well, you need to leave it for at least a fortnight(!). However, I did find out that the modern mince meat is not completely meat-free yet: there’s suet in it, so if you’re vegetarian, it’s wiser to make it yourself. Here’s a link to the BBC recipe if you also happen to live in a country that doesn’t traditionally make mince pies.
For the 16 pies, you should use about 600g mince meat, which is basically just one jar. You can spice it up with satsuma pieces, shredded apple, and some lemon zest, if you want. I never understood how to make proper lemon zest, myself, as I lack the fine skills and – more importantly – patience. I usually just end up throwing in lemon juice, that’s almost the same, right? Right? (This is why I’m not an actual baker.)
For the pastry, use: *375g plain flour *260g soft & unsalted butter *125g caster sugar *2 eggs: one for the mix, one to glaze the pies with *icing sugar or powdered sugar (as much as you want, really, as that goes on top. Even if you end up with a heap of sugar that’s bigger than the actual pie itself, I don’t mind. Just live and let live – although with these kind of habits, you might not live so long anyway).
WHAT DO WE NEED TO DO?
First of all, you throw the flour and butter into a big bowl. I always like to slice up the butter into smaller pieces, cause I love that feeling of a sharp knife gliding through soft butter – oof. Anyway, that aside, the recipe I used then says you need to ‘rub’ these two ingredients together to a ‘crumbly consistency’, which sounds kind of dirty to me – but also, I don’t really understand what it means. I just kneaded everything into a big soft mess, until it sort of stuck together.
Now add the sugar and one egg, and proceed kneading. Warning: the dough now becomes very VERY eggy, which made me panic a little bit as I thought I did something wrong. It started to stick to everything in sight, mostly to me and my clothes and hands and hair, and I had to suppress my frustration and try really hard not to throw everything onto the kitchen walls. That’s just me, I’m sure you’ll all do fine.
The dough needs to chill a bit (as do I, I guess) – wrap it in aluminium foil or cling film and leave it in the fridge for about 10 minutes. That gives you time to take out the mince meat, and maybe play around with it or add some extra spices or fruits. It’s also the perfect moment to pre-heat the oven, something I always forget. The temperature should be 220 C (200 C fan, 7 gas). Of the oven I mean, not the kitchen.
Daintily sprinkle some flour on whichever surface you’re working on, and roll out the dough. The recipe I used is very precise, and says you should roll it out to 3mm thick. Get out your tape measures! I’m always very impatient when it comes to ‘rolling’ (sensing a theme here), especially cause those rollers always tend to stick to the dough at some point, so I also use my hands, elbows, feet… *ahem* until it turns out somewhat like this:
You can cut out the shapes for the base now – the recipe says that you best use 10cm cutters, but I don’t have that type of baking tool, so I just used my guesstimation skills again and cut out the bases at random – never failed me so far (*ahem*). Leave about one-third of the dough to make the lids afterwards. Place and fold the bases in the tin/holders.
Scoop the mince meat into the pastry – between one and two tbsp per pie. Then, cut out the lids from the remaining dough (7cm, the recipe says) and put them on top. You can close the pies completely or do something funky with the lids, like cutting them in the shape of a star, Christmas tree, or a baby Jesus, depending on your skills. I had to improvise once again, and made this:
Glaze the top of the pies with the other (beaten) egg, and put them in the oven! They need to stay there, nice and warm, for about 15 minutes. Sprinkle with icing sugar or powdered sugar, and they’re ready to serve. Mince pies are nicest when they’re still warm – have them with some mulled wine and put on some lovely, oldie Christmas music to really get into that December feeling.
Happy holidays, everyone! I’ll be going home in a few weeks, but I promise I won’t stop translating my older blog posts, as well as putting up some new content. I’m working on a post about Irish myths and legends on my Dutch blog now, so keep an eye open for that! Bon appetit!
From the archives, first written on August 14, 2016 (3,5 months after my big move). You can find the original blog here.And yes, the next post will finally be one that takes place in ‘real time’. 🙂
Hello and Welcome to the Fourth Episode of ‘Fem in Ireland’!
I know, I know, it’s a while since I’ve last written, please excuse me: I’ve been very busy, and still have to get used to my life here. A lot of people I got to know over the past few months moved back to their home countries, and that made me feel quite sad and melancholy. Last month I suddenly realised that I have to build up a new life, if I want to stay here – I can’t just cycle to my parents’ place whenever I feel like it, or meet up with my old friends back home. I’m starting to miss the weirdest things, such as my bookshelf (even though I’m on my way filling a few new ones), my lovely bike (I still have to get round to buying a new one here, but I’m deadly scared of the prospect of cycling through Dublin), and my Dutch Saturday mornings, when I’d make myself a cup of coffee and go out to get the weekend newspaper (the Irish papers just don’t do it for me). I miss the Amsterdam canals, the terraces in summertime, the hagelslag*, and of course I miss everyone I’ve left behind in the Netherlands.
Still, it’s much easier to get used to living in Ireland than I thought it would be. Maybe that’s because I choose to live abroad, and wasn’t forced for lack of jobs or any other shitty reason, which means I could move back whenever I’d want to. I will admit that I sometimes don’t understand my choice, and have told myself many times I’m an idiot for having left, and have asked myself why I emigrated to a country that historically, everyone has always emigrated from; and even during the short stretch of time I’ve been here, there’s already been a few moments when I was on the verge of just booking my tickets back right away. “Why am I making my life so much harder than it needs to be?”, I tend to ask myself dramatically when I’m in one of those moods. Well, I’ll tell you why: because it’s a great adventure, and I’d hate myself just as much – if not more – if I’d never left at all. Besides, apart from a few minor setbacks, I’m doing really well settling in here and meeting new people. I have to keep in mind that life, wherever you live it, can never be a continuous high – you’ll always have to deal with some lows, and that’s just the way it is. It would be boring as hell, if everything would just fall into your lap without any struggle.
The most important reason I’m still here, however, is the beauty of the country. Just an hour on the train from Dublin, and this is what you see:
Now, that makes everything right.
WHAT’S NEW?
I moved to Ranelagh early last month, a neighbourhood just outside the city centre. It’s one of the more affluent areas in town, and you might call it the ‘Oud-Zuid’* of Dublin. There’s expensive restaurants, lots of speciality/craft shops, funky cafes, big free-standing houses, pop-up stores, and parks; but you can also find your local old-men’s pub, prize-fighter supermarkets, and lovely second-hand shops there. Everything you need. This is what it looks like:
And this is my favourite new hangout, a second-hand bookshop*:
I’ve already made friends with Sean, one of the owners, who’s very interested in archaeology and mythology. He promised to keep some books about the subjects safe for me. Further down the street, there’s a little hipstery coffee shop where I always get my ‘flat white’ (the ultimate hipster drink*). As you can see, I’ve completely settled into this neighbourhood already.
It also helps that I’m ‘boarding’ with a nice group of people: I’m staying with a friend of mine, his brother, and their mum. They’re like a surrogate family to me, and help me with any problems or questions I have. That really made a difference, lately, because I got stuck in the Irish bureaucracy – it’s funny to see how things get resolved way faster once you have some ‘natives’ behind you. I feel completely at ease in my new home, and even have my own little room. I can come and go as I please, and can be completely myself (this family might be just as mad as mine). My favourite new flatmate, however, is an old, black lab, named Ruby. She’s as good as deaf, and nearly blind, and when she gets startled (which is often) she barks at everything and anyone, although she somehow manages to completely overlook the cats roaming the garden. It’s a dangerous game to eat something while she’s near, cause there’s nothing wrong with her sense of smell. This is herself, wearing socks*:
I’m still working at the same cafe, and really enjoy it, although I have to say it took me some time. During my first weeks, I got completely stressed out regularly, because my schedule was a disaster: I worked super long hours, sometimes by myself, and almost had no time to organise all my other shit. Thankfully, I’ve learned from my past mistakes, and brought it up with my boss. Now, I’ve got a regular schedule and a 4-day work week – not bad at all! I’m earning enough and have enough time to go on little trips during the weekend – for instance, to Galway (my favourite place in Ireland), or Belfast, or to one of the little picturesque towns along Dublin’s east coast. Working is so much easier since – it’s funny how that tiny change worked wonders.
Of course, it also helps that I’ve figured out how everything’s done here now, and got to know all the regular customers. Irish people are very loyal, once they like a place they’ll always come back. The first few hours of my working day I’m usually chatting away with the ‘regulars’: “nice-weather-did-you-have-a-good-weekend-how’s-the-kids?” The Americano-and-a-glass-of-water-guy comes in earliest, and we talk about the news and world politics (he’s on holiday now, and I really miss him). The Two-shot-large-latte-guy is my man when I’m in need of a silly joke or pun.
I’m enjoying my freedom a lot, although I do have to find an archaeology job soon. As usual, it’s taking some time for me to start looking: I’m not one to organise everything in a single week, but that’s okay since most people in Ireland seem to be the same. Somehow I did manage to get in touch with other archaeologists – I even met a few of them on the bus during one of my trips! – and I’m sending out messages, applications and CV’s, but I’m taking my time for it and I’m not expecting any immediate answers.
I’ll be doing a health and safety course next week, which is needed if I want to work in Irish archaeology. The course is mostly meant for builders (as an archaeologist, you usually work on or near building sites), so I’m expecting to be the only woman there, surrounded by tough Dubliners with unintelligible accents*. My flatmate told me it’s near impossible to fail the test at the end if you have more than two brain cells, so at least I don’t have to stress about that. (I say that now, but I also failed my theory driving test twice, so anything could happen.)
NEW OBSERVATIONS AND THOUGHTS
I realised I’m way more Dutch, and specifically ‘Amsterdammer’, than I thought.
–I’m used to people being direct and honest, even blunt. In Ireland, this is NOT the case. Irish people are polite and friendly, but they will never tell you what’s what. Most of the time, that’s perfectly okay and even quite nice, but it can be very annoying as well. It’s hard to tell what people really think, which is an awful pain in the ass if you’re working in hospitality. (Me: “Is everything okay?” Customer: “Great, thanks.” *proceeds to not eat their sandwich and leaves in a huff*). Sometimes people glare at you in a slightly annoyed manner, or they start to sigh a bit louder and more often than usual, and that’s supposed to tell you they’re discontented. Sorry, you have do to better than that to grab a Dutchwoman’s attention.
–I want things to be on time. I know, I’m always late myself, but there’s a difference between personal lateness and a country that just doesn’t run on time. I want things to be done or arrive ‘within five working days’, not ‘maybe within about five working days but probably a bit longer, depending, we’ll see, we might get round to it next week, no need to call cause we’ll just tell you it’ll be done soon, ah don’t worry, you’ll get it eventually’. I want to be able to rely on public transport, not having to play a game of ‘will it be there or not?’ every day. Still, I have to say that I also admire the Irish mindset, the way people are more relaxed and flexible about appointments and schedules and seem to be a bit more laissez-faire. Now THAT’s perfect for me.
NB: Sometimes you meet an Irish person who completely overcompensates for their countrymen’s indirectness and poor timekeeping, and they are usually the scariest fuckers.
-I’m a super-atheist. I don’t get how Catholicism and traditional values are still so big in this country, even though people tell me it’s not as all-encompassing as it used to be (and, of course, it’s true that most young people aren’t religious anymore – but the traditionalism and conservatism are still there). The people I’m staying with are of Protestant stock, so they gave me a good insight into the other part of the story. Apparently, it was (and maybe still is) quite hard to grow up here as a non-Catholic: you have to deal with a lot of prejudice and even discrimination. As a small example, a lot of schools still require kids to be baptised as a Catholic before they accept them; and I’ve heard a few stories of ‘mixed’ relationships (especially from a generation or two ago) that weren’t accepted by the families. The power of the church might wane, it’s still strong. It’s strange to me that almost all people I know here have been baptised – back home, I only know a handful. It’s interesting to be the ‘odd one out’ for once.
–I can’t deal with the way Ireland is slightly in-crowd. Do you want a job? Do you want to get stuff done? Well, you can try yourself, but it would be better if you’d know this person…or that one…or even better still, if you were related to them. This is a concept that’s just completely alien to a Dutch person like me. I’m sure it happens in the Netherlands as well, but in Ireland, it seems to be way more normal and obvious.
-I’m used to the hipstery vibe of Amsterdam. Sure, Ireland is getting with the times just as much as any other country, but everything seems to arrive just that tiny bit later (in line with the buses and the mail, I guess). Everything that’s cool and hip in Dublin right now, is on its return in Amsterdam. My new city is a bit less innovative and not really a forerunner – but it suits me fine, because that’s also what gives it its lovely ‘townish’ feel.
Isn’t this refreshing, after all that fawning about Ireland I did before? Of course I still love you, little green country, but I realise now that you’re not perfect. That’s fine. That’s okay. Nobody’s perfect, not even me.
HAHAHA, who am I kidding, I’m a fucking delight. 🙂
HIBERNO-ENGLISH AND HIBERNISMS
I’ve studied the way people are talking here (I have to, otherwise I don’t have a clue what they’re saying), and made a list of ‘Irishisms’ and the things that I constantly hear around here. Obviously it’s far from complete!
Howaya? Did yeh? What’s the craic? See ya! Thanks a million! But like… In fairness You know yourself No worries! No problem! Giving out [=speak angrily] I’m just after going to… [= I just went to…] How ya doin’? Are you well? Are you okay there? [This threw me off a lot, because I kept answering ‘yes’and then not get served] How are you keepin’? The press [= the cupboard] Shift [= kiss] It’s fair mild [= the weather is nice and mild] I’m happy out! (Sure) (you’ll) be grand Grand! Grand so! ‘Tis grand! Ah you’re grand! Sure lookit! Good man yourself! Good woman! Yer man… Yer woman… [= that man/that woman or just he/she] ‘Tis himself/herself Delightful! It’s a delight! Disgraceful It’s a disgrace Manky Feck For fuck’s sake Ah you’re very kind What’s wrong with ye? Bollocks (or: bollix)! Eejit Ye big eejit ye To be fair Not at all (at all) (at all) Im only messin’ I’m only jokin’! Unreal Deadly Gas The offies [= off licence] Ohhh right! Right so!
WHY IRELAND IS JUST GREAT
Did any of you follow the World Cup?* There’s your answer.
I was there, when Ireland played Italy. I was with a group of Italians, watching the game at the pub. Halfway through, everyone around us was so elated, that even the Italians started to cheer the Irish. “Forza Irlanda!” they shouted. It was total chaos on the street, and people came up to our blue-jerseyed group. Not to fight, but to hug us and say they were sorry. “Next time, lads.”
*(1) A type of chocolate sprinkles us Dutchies put on our sandwiches or toast, usually for breakfast. Over the years I’ve been here, I’ve been repeatedly told how ridiculous this eating habit is, but I fail to see how it’s that much weirder than eating ‘breakfast rolls’ stuffed with three types of meat, and slathered with any sort of condiment you can lay your hands on. *(2) Oud-Zuid (“old south”) is quite a posh area in Amsterdam, although it depends on where you are. The level of poshness ranges from Dalkey or Grand Canal Dock (super expensive, with some billionaires living there) to, well, Ranelagh and Rathmines (a bit more up-scale, with lots of expensive shops, but still liveable enough for many). I grew up in an area like the latter, myself. *(3) Sadly, now gone, and replaced by a hotel. *(4) Is it still? It seems a very ‘basic’ drink at the moment, though I guess that happens to all hipstery stuff. It doesn’t keep me from drinking it, anyway. *(5) Ruby died about a year or two ago. She was the best. *(6) An entirely accurate prediction, as it turned out. *(7) Obviously, the soccer world cup of 2016. Ireland won against Italy and the Irish supporters were a delight, as usual.
The third blog from the archive, originally posted on June 14, 2016 (original post can be found here). I know, I know, it’s nearly Christmas, but who doesn’t like a little throwback to sunnier times? Especially when it’s to the early summer of 2016, when there was a little heatwave in Ireland. I promise I will soon post Christmassy stuff, as well as new, original content, because I’m planning to translate all my next posts directly. This Saturday, I’m gonna try my hand at baking mince pies, something I will post the recipe for (my Dutch blog has a category that’s called ‘Fem Cooks’, although a better name for it would be ‘Fem Bakes and Tries not to Fuck Up’). Happy reading!
As expected, I didn’t keep to my promise to post a blog once every week, but don’t be afraid – I’m still alive! And I won’t come back yet, even though I did feel a little bit blue lately. I think I just need some time to get used to living abroad. My stay here is less and less like a holiday and is starting to feel like ‘real life’ now, with all the upsides and downsides that come with it. I’ll just see that as a good development, as it means that I’m settling in. I have to stay positive, cause I really don’t want to leave Dublin just yet! Here’s a little overview of what I’ve been up to the past few weeks.
WORK
The most important news of all: I’ve found a job! Unfortunately, I’m not an archaeologist yet, although I’m still keeping my eyes peeled. I’m back at my old spot, behind the coffee machine. * (This doesn’t sound hip enough, I’m better off calling myself ‘barista’, or, if I’m really feeling it, ‘coffee artist’.) I found this job in a typical ‘Femmish’ way, just by being lucky. *
During my first month in Dublin, I was always going to this little cafe on the quays, a place tailor-made for me: filled with books, lovely jazz music in the background, and with a huge inflatable Dalek as a decoration piece. Of course, I immediately asked if they were looking for staff, but sadly they didn’t need anyone. For weeks and weeks after, I wandered around Dublin, CV in hand, getting rejected left and right. I did the most awful trial-shift of my entire life, in a coffeeshop just outside the city center. I was only due to be there for half an hour, just to see if I could deal with the morning run. In the end I had to stay for 3 hours straight, making coffee non-stop, while the manager was out doing her nails (or something in that vein). I didn’t even get paid for those extra 2,5 hours I could’ve spent looking for another job. Sometimes I feel like I need to be more assertive, and looking back I wished I had just walked out after my 30 minutes were up. Oh, well, it’s all over now. To be honest, I’m suspecting that this was just a clever scheme to save money on real staff.
Anyway, after this streak of bad luck, I felt a bit dejected, but I didn’t want to give up. While going for another CV run in town, I happened to walk by my new favourite cafe. I waved at one of the owners behind the bar, and he ran out to ask me: “Are you still looking for a job?” And that’s the story of how I ended up there.
My new work place has a strange name that nobody understands or can explain (and it sounds even more like gibberish in my accent). It’s run by two slightly odd Eastern-European guys. I usually work with two other girls, both Irish, who are just as absent-minded and clumsy as I am – every time I’m working a shift, one of us is either late, hungover, or forgot that they had to come into work, and whenever you come into the cafe, you will hear the constant sound of cutlery and plates falling onto the floor. It doesn’t deter any of our ‘regulars’, though, and it’s lovely to see the same faces every day and have a little chat with the locals. The job does wonders for my understanding of the English language – especially the Dublin/Irish accent – and it helps me getting to know some real Irish people. (Finally!)
The BEST thing about this job for me personally, however, is startling Dutch tourists by unexpectedly addressing them in their own language. It’s especially funny when they don’t catch on until I’m halfway through my sentence, and you can see the realisation slowly creeping in. (“Oh no, I hope I didn’t say anything weird when we walked in here!”)
(View from my work – I don’t want to pinpoint my exact working spot, especially in hindsight)
PARTIES
Work hard, play hard, is what they say, so that’s what I’m doing. I have to get to know the city, right? My money is running out quickly, because I apparently need to hang out in the pub every other day, but it’s totally worth it. Through my Roman flatmate, I’ve got to know a huge group of Italians (plus one Italian-American guy and a French girl who’s just as lost as me) that I go out with regularly. Last month, the group organised a dinner night: the food was lovely, but my God, there was a lot of it. I ate one plate of pasta and was incredibly proud of myself for finishing it – I prepared myself for dessert, my mouth watering already thinking about pannacotta and tiramisu, when one of the Italians happily announced: “Now we’ll have another pasta!” There was also an endless supply of wine. Horrible indeed.
I went to a few Irish parties, as well, one of which was held on a boat. A friend of mine works on a small tour-ship (if that’s the right word) with his dad, and I got an invitation. The boat is docked in the Irish Midlands, and roams around Lough Ree, the biggest lake in the Republic. Sounds like the ideal work place, doesn’t it? That evening, we drove to the lake as well. One of the guests made cocktails, and all of us acted as if we were on a yacht in California, while the temperature didn’t even hit the 20 degree mark. We even took a dip in the water – it was just as cold as you’d expect. As the night continued, you could find little bunches of drunk people scattered around the boat everywhere: some were lying on the deck, some tried to open the door to the hold and failed miserably, some others were telling ghost stories below decks, some were chatting about the latest episode of Game of Thrones. It almost felt unreal, as if we weren’t really in Ireland but rather in some cool, exotic place at the other side of the world. I’m hoping this party will be continued soon.
THE HEATWAVE
Ireland suffered under yet another heatwave * – ah, they can pretend it’s always dreary and rainy here, but I’m starting to suspect it’s just a big scam to keep the tourists away. Every time I’m here, the sun comes out! Sadly, I do have to say that the ‘waves’ only last for a few days max, before the sky turns grey again, and the fog reappears. Right now, we’re back to the old ‘four-seasons-in-one-day’-climate. Still, it hasn’t rained for almost two weeks, which prompted the Irish people to either of these two reactions: a) they immediately quit whatever they were doing before, took off most of their clothes, and ran to the nearest beach or beer garden; b) they started to complain about the heat. The two responses are by no means mutually exclusive, by the way. Even the Italians started to moan about the weather – “the sun is too strong here” – and they all got sunburnt, BECAUSE THEY REFUSED TO PUT ON ANY SUN SCREEN, DAMN IT. This has to stop! Please, save your local Italians by showering them with sunscreen when the next heatwave comes along.
Meanwhile, I decided to make the best of the nice weather as well, by going to…:
THE BEACH AND OTHER BEAUTIFUL PLACES
During the last few weeks, I spent more days on the beach and in the mountains than I did at home. When the heatwave was at its hottest, my Roman flatmate and I took the train to Clontarf, where we were due to meet the rest of the Italians. You have to understand, however, that it’s never an easy task to get a group of Italians together at the same place & the same time. (It’s like their entire nation consists of Fems.) When the two of us arrived at our meeting place, the others had already disappeared: they’d decided to go to another beach, on an hour walking distance from there, because it was said to be a better one. It was nearly three o’clock, and we weren’t keen on going for such a long hike. “We’ll look for another beach, an EVEN BETTER one”, we said to each other, but it was ebb-tide, and the sea had retreated. “Okay, we’ll take a taxi to that other beach”, we said, reluctantly, but it was rush hour and the cab went at a slower pace than the pedestrians around us. The taxi driver assured us we had to get out at the park, which we did, immediately regretting it when we realised we were still 2km away from our eventual goal.
After a long and sweaty walk, we finally arrived at the promised beach. There was a festival going on, as is usually the case in Ireland. We could easily spot our group: they were the only people around wearing jeans and coats, as well as oversized sun glasses. I sat myself down and built a sand castle. A local rapper provided the backdrop to this beautiful scene; he was so terrible that it was a joy to listen to him. Some of the Italians went on the hunt for an ice cream, but came back empty-handed, as the Irish 99s weren’t up to their standards.
The way back was just as much of an adventure. It took ages to get back into town, and we nearly got lost because our phones died. When we finally found our bus stop, our ride disappeared from the notification board *, only to reappear just when we sat ourselves in yet another taxi. We didn’t arrive back home until 10pm, but thankfully our flatmate hadn’t eaten yet, having waited for us instead: he had fame bestiale *, as had we. It was lucky we had bought steaks for dinner, cause we had all nearly perished. Steak never tasted so good as it did that evening. It was a wonderful ending to a wonderful day.
Howth
Last week, during the tail end of the heatwave, we decided to go to Bray. Stupidly, we had forgotten it was a Bank Holiday weekend, which meant that the public transport times were even less logical and more irregular than usual. We tried to leave the house on time, but failed because we are three Italians and one Fem, so we missed both our train and our opportunity to go to Bray. Thankfully, there was another train still going to Howth, and we hopped onto that one, just like the rest of Dublin had.
Howth is a tiny village to the north of the city, looking almost Mediterranean on a good day, with its little terraces, colourful fishing boats in the harbour, and blue sea. We ate some fish and chips there – you can’t avoid it. It was the best fish and chips I’ve ever had, but I had to wait almost three hours to finally try it, it was that busy. Afterwards, we went swimming – by which I mean, I went swimming: the Italians declared I must be crazy. I have to say they were at least partly right, cause I left my towel at the edge of the beach, and when I came out of the water the sea had flooded in and had completely soaked it. Even though I had nothing to dry myself with and got chilled to the bone, it was worth it: after all, I had floated around in the Irish sea for almost an hour, only accompanied by the sound of the waves and the shrieks of the gulls. (I’ve decided to ignore the fact that someone started their motorboat only a few seconds into my reverie, and disturbed my peace. They can fuck off.) We went back to Dublin, drank pints along the canal, and had some lovely Libanese food (the pizzeria was closed). It was a wonderful ending to a wonderful day.
A walk in the Dublin Mountains
WHAT I’VE LEARNED
*Italian-English uses of the word “Beautiful!” – which you can use to describe almost anything, from the weather to the food to the fact that I once again stumbled over my own feet, and “Incredible!” – which can be used in the same way, with the addition that it can be both positive and negative. *My bus skills are pretty well developed by now, as I no longer say “city center” or “Chapelizard“to the bus driver when I get on – instead I just tell them “2-oh-five, please”. When I get off at my stop, I say “thank you”. I also say “sorry” a lot as I move through the bus, especially when it’s busy and I keep stepping onto other people’s feet or bumping into other people’s backpacks, or I have to ask them to get up for me because I want to sit down or get off. I’ve fallen off the stairs of the night bus more often than I dare to admit now, and I also walked into the sliding doors once after a bit of day drinking. As you can see, the bigger part of my life takes place on the Dublin Buses, which is a sad thing really, cause they’re always late and their fares are expensive too. I guess it’s time to buy a bike. *I’m learning new things at work, such as: how to greet people like an Irish person, how to talk about the weather like an Irish person, how to make lame jokes like an Irish person, how to complain like an Irish person, and how to understand someone with a heavy Dublin accent. I will master all these skills in due time. Hopefully. *It’s just as bureaucratic here as it is in the rest of Europe (although maybe a bit more lenient). I have to organise all sorts of things to make sure I won’t have to pay a 40% ’emergency’ tax, but it takes ages to get an appointment with the tax/immigration offices. A few weeks ago, I was finally able to go, and I was sure I had prepared myself well, bringing all the documents they needed. “Do you have any proof of employment?” the unhappy-looking lady behind the counter asked. (Why are people in these jobs always so unhappy-looking? Is it because they realise they’re ruining other people’s days?) Well, I hadn’t, cause that particular piece of information wasn’t mentioned at all on the official website. Every Irish person I’m telling this story, just sighs and goes, “Well, that’s the Irish government for ya”, but to be fair, this is something that could also happen in my lovely home country. Nothing new there…
Now the weather’s like this again
I hope I will have time to write again soon – I’m sure there will be a lot to tell you! Until then!
*(1) Just before I moved to Dublin, I was a barista in a very posh part of Amsterdam. Oh, the stories I could tell you! The entitlement I had to deal with! I’ve also seen more ‘influencers’ in real life than many other people ever will. I wouldn’t recommend it. *(2) I’m an extremely lucky unlucky person. I’m very clumsy and would probably already have died, if it wasn’t for my weird luck. Apart from that, I’m always losing things or getting lost or walking into the wrong neighbourhoods, but somehow always end up on my feet, making friends on the way. Even though I’m fully aware of this, it never seems to keep me from worrying anyway. *(3) I also happened to be in Ireland during the Great Heatwave of 2013. *(4) This is a common occurrence in Dublin. I’ve since learned to ignore any and all information displayed on those boards. *(5) Beastly hunger.
From the archives (16th of May, 2016).It was fun to read this, cause I realised I had many thoughts and observations about my old self, in turn! They can be found at the end of this blog. Original text can be found here
This week on “Fem in Ireland”: an overview of the thoughts and observations I’ve had during the past week, for Ireland keeps on surprising me. I also wanna share some things I’ve learned lately: fear not, it will all be very useful knowledge that will bring you much joy in life. Then, to top it off, I will tell you a fun bedtime story about a lost wallet. Here we go!
Observation no. 1: Big Men, Small Dogs I firstly encountered this phenomenon in the Irish countryside, but it’s even more apparent in the Dublin parks. The biggest, toughest Irish men are out walking their dogs, and those dogs are usually…very small. I’ve thought a lot about this, as it gives me the same feeling as the one I had in Sweden, where big tall Viking men greet you with a cute ‘hej hej’. The stereotypical image you have of them is immediately shattered (which might be a good thing anyway). Why Big Men, Small Dogs, though? Are small dogs secretly cooler than labradors or Saint Bernards? They’re definitely more vicious, that’s for sure. Maybe the men are so in touch with their Manliness that they don’t give a fuck about what people like me think about them (and who can blame them). Maybe they’re just Irish and don’t give a fuck regardless. There’s one other explanation, although it’s still an unsatisfactory one. When I told a friend about my ‘BMSD’-observation (have to be careful there not to mix up the letters…), he shrugged, laughed, and said: “Fem, those guys are just walking their girlfriends’ dogs.” *
Something I’ve learned (1) I can finally pronounce the word ‘Chapelizod’ almost perfectly! The bus drivers no longer look at me weirdly when I try. There’s a knack to it – you just have to act like the second part of the word is ‘lizard’, rather than ‘lizod’, and there you go. *Extra News! Last week I also said ‘Hiya!’ for the first time in my life, ever. It won’t take long now until I go around saying ‘Thanks a mill!’ and ‘What’s the craic, lads?’ to everyone. *
Thought/observation no. 2 Small Irish kids are unbelievably cute, I always thought. The accent! The ginger hair! (NB: They are usually accompanied by Irish dads who are just as cute, playing and joking around with their kids, making me think they’re the best fathers in the world. *) But then I made the huge mistake of expressing this thought out loud. My Italian flatmate, M., didn’t agree with me. “They all have really big heads”, she said, “just look.” She was right. Irish kids have huge heads! After she had pointed it out, I could not unsee it, and am still looking for an explanation. Maybe it’s the ginger hair? Or maybe all kids have big heads, and I just never paid any attention to it? Whatever the reason, the world will never be the same again.
Idea I’ve talked about this with many people now, and I will say it again. Ireland needs Bitterballs! (The name has to be changed, sure, but that’s beside the point.) Bitterballs are amazing – they’re a Dutch delicacy, consisting of ragu meat that’s been breaded and deep-fried. You eat them with mustard or mayonnaise, ideally around 4 pm, with a glass of Dutch gin on the side. Those little round snacks are perfect for alcohol-induced peckishness…Just imagine, you’re drinking pints with some mates and all of a sudden you’re hungry. What to do now? You could open a packet of crisps or peanuts, but that’s not enough (speaking from my own experience). You could go to the nearest chipper, but that would mean you’d have to leave the pub! No, it won’t do. The solution: give every pub a small deep-fry facility, or even a microwave, and Bob’s your uncle. Fem’s Bitterballs, available in every bar. (Yes, we definitely do have to change the name.) *
INTERLUDE I saw this ^ picture in the National Museum of Archaeology: an artistic impression of an inhabitant of Ireland during the Bronze Age. This is what I thought: apparently the Irish were very… BRONZED back then! Ha! *
Something I’ve learned (2) I now know how to say ‘[stoned] off his/her tits’ in Roman-Italian: Fatta come una pigna, “as stoned as a pine cone”. I’ll just leave that here.
A very short story a friend told me: Nothing works in Ireland * The year 2000 was approaching, and the Dublin municipal government thought it would be nice to celebrate the new millennium in style. It was decided to install a light-emitting clock in the River Liffey, showing the countdown to the new era through the water. Great idea! Expensive, too! However, people soon realised that the River Liffey was usually too murky to see the clock at all. If you could see it, it was entirely possible that it showed the wrong time. Then, it just disappeared for a few days. It goes without saying that the clock was removed before the millennium had even begun.
Observation no. 3 Once upon a time, someone in Dublin woke up and thought it was a perfect day to write these immortal words on a lamppost: “THIS IS MY POLE.” I love Ireland. *
Something I’ve learned (3) I realised that even in Ireland I’m still the same person, and that means I will still be prone to worrying and bouts of sadness. Last week, I ‘had a moment’: not exactly homesickness, just a vague, annoying feeling. I started to think about my future. Will I ever find a job? Will I ever find my own place? Am I driving the Italians crazy yet?* It’s not great, but at the same time, it’s somehow also reassuring. I guess it means I feel at home here. On a lighter note, the fact that I feel at home is also shown by my…well…bowel movements. There is no way to say this properly, in English (it’s way more normal to talk about this in Dutch), but I’ll just get it out: I have to shit at the exact same times as I used to do back home, even taking the time difference into account, and that’s an absolute relief. Everyone secretly knows how important this is, dear readers – don’t shame me for it!
A Bedtime Story, as promised Last weekend, it was incredibly sunny in Dublin. It was so sunny, that even the Sicilians started to complain about the heat. So sunny, that even the Roman burnt his nose. (NB: Italians never use sun cream.) Like everyone else in town, we of the Chapelizod-gang spent our weekend outside. A friend of the Sicilians, named G., had had the same thought, and had walked up to us through Phoenix Park. It hadn’t been a nice stroll, though, as he had somehow lost his wallet along the way. He had arrived at our place in an agitated mood, waving his hands Italian-style. “I’ll give you whatever you want if you can find the thing”, he said. As I’ve mentioned before, Phoenix Park is one of the biggest parks in Europe, so the chance of finding G.’s wallet seemed to be non-existent. The only thing we could do now, was to let it go and to trust in the goodness of the Irish people. The Sunday after, we decided to go to Phoenix Park as well, and have a picnic. The Italians were messing around with the barbecue at a clearing where it’s illegal to use one, and it drove my Dutch rule-loving self a bit mad, so I decided to do what I usually do when something drives me crazy: find some peace and quiet. I wandered along meandering, overgrown paths along the small river running through the park, and suddenly felt something snap under my feet. I looked down to see what I had stepped upon, and picked it up before I even had had the chance to think about it. It was a card-holder, containing a Leap Card (public transport card), and some credit cards. Something started to dawn on me. “No, that would be way, WAY too much of a coincidence”, I softly said to myself, but my brain had already decided for me, and I couldn’t stop myself from taking out one of the credit cards and inspecting it. The name on the card left almost no doubt. Just to be sure, I rummaged through the wallet a bit more, and found a passport and some other documents. When I saw G.’s picture on one of them, I finally allowed myself to believe that I had done the impossible. I ran back to the clearing, hiding the wallet behind my back: “Guys, guess what I’ve found!” They looked at me, uncomprehending, and of course had no idea what it could be. Even G. didn’t believe me, and thought I pulled a prank on him, until he saw the thing with his own eyes. And so it’s proven once more that wallets never really get lost in Ireland. *
Until next time!
*(1) An observation about myself: why was I so obsessed with big men and their dogs? Suspicious… *(2) I still haven’t done that and to be honest, I’m proud. *(3) Two other observations about myself: OK, now it makes sense – I was definitely a bit…lonely when I wrote this. Haha. Oh, and thankfully I later realised that not all Irish kids are ginger, although when they are, the ginger hair does make their head look bigger. Fact. *(4) I’ve since found out that there are a few places in Dublin that do actually sell Bitterballs. Two of them are very fancy, which is hilarious to me, but there’s also a Belgian guy who sells them from his food truck in the park – check it out here, thank me later! *(5) Fun fact, they were indeed– I later found out that it’s probable that the prehistoric inhabitants of Europe were much darker-skinned than (obviously, white) Europeans are now. Also, the person in the drawing wasn’t ‘Irish’ in the same way as we’d now perceive it – there’s been loads of movement around Europe during the ages, and our modern nationalism hadn’t taken hold yet. Still an amazingly lame pun, though. *(6) Whew, I found THAT out quickly!Interestingly, clocks in Ireland never show the right time anyway, so the Millennium Clock could have gotten away with it. Extra fun fact: Dubliners love to nickname their statues (good topic for a blog!) and this one was called ‘The Time in the Slime’. *(7) Still thinking of making the quirky graffiti in Dublin a topic for one of my next blogs. *(8) The answer to the latter is most definitely ‘yes’. 😛 *(9) This is a reference to the time I myself lost my wallet in Ireland (somewhere in West-Cork) and the whole community helped me find it back. I wrote about it in another blog, but will probably re-visit it here sometime, because it’s an awesome story. Wallets – and most other things – really never do get lost here, anyway: Irish people are the best at bringing lost items back, and they usually don’t even want to accept a reward.
First blog from the ‘archives’, originally posted on May 9, 2016.I had just arrived in Ireland a week before and it still felt like I was on a short holiday! How odd to think that this was the start of my long Irish adventure.You can find the original text here
I finally have some time to write my first blog post! I say ‘finally’, as if I’ve been gone for months and haven’t spoken to anyone in forever. It’s pretty crazy to suddenly be based in Dublin, even though I really like the city. I’ve been here before, and it feels like I already know it a little, although it is getting more and more obvious that I don’t know it at all. Where are the best pubs, the nicest cafes? Where can I find the cheap-but-good restaurants? What buses take me where I need to be? What supermarket do I go to? And, last but not least: where are the best bookshops? Suddenly, I have to start from scratch again.
The River Liffey
I can absolutely imagine that Dublin will one day become ‘my city’. Every time I’m on the bus into town, driving along the quays and spotting Ha’penny Bridge in the distance, I feel as happy as can be. Unless its %$*()^ rush hour and there’s not a single seat left – then I feel like a sardine in a can. A happy sardine, I have to say, but still.
It does take a while getting used to living in a new country. Even though Irish people are truly the friendliest in Europe, even though my English isn’t bad, there’s a few things that are somehow hard to understand, or are done just a little bit differently here. Last week, I had to figure out how to do such mundane stuff as writing my resume, applying for jobs, and getting a social security number. I won’t bother you with the details – it’s terrible enough that I’m even mentioning it in a blog that should be fun – but suffice to say that I have to acclimatise.
Luckily, the ‘acclimatisation’ is going pretty well, so far. I’m incredibly happy that I already know some locals from my earlier ventures into Ireland. To be honest, I wouldn’t have known what to do if I was just left here all by myself. To make it even better, I’ve also managed to find a great Airbnb. I’m staying in Chapelizod (I have no idea how to pronounce that – the bus drivers never understand me when I try), a small village-in-a-city type place to the east of Dublin, consisting of a main street, a small square with a pub and a pharmacy, and two old churches. (For the literature lovers amongst you: James Joyce and Sheridan Le Fanu have both lived here, and the latter even wrote a novel set in Chapelizod.) “My” apartment is located in a small building complex, overlooking the village and the eastern end of the River Liffey. Phoenix Park – the largest park in Europe, or so I’m told – is just behind our estate, and…we have our own private entrance. The place is lovely, if you take the time to explore it – there’s lots of great reading and picnic spots, and you will without a doubt run into some of the semi-domesticated deer roaming around.
Chapelizod’s square (ericbyrne.ie)
The house I’m staying at is wonderful as well. It belongs to an old literature professor at Trinity College, and is filled to the brim with books – the walls are completely covered in shelves. I’m not exaggerating when I say I could gladly spend every minute of my day here without getting bored. Best of all, the house is rented to an Italian couple, who will be my flatmates for the time being. They’re from Sicily, and have been working and studying here for a while. There’s another guest staying with them, a guy from Rome, who only arrived recently. I’ve already heard my fair share of jokes about the difference between northern and southern Italians.
I immediately felt at home with my new roomies: they are relaxed, very hospitable, enjoy having deep conversations, love good music, and – it goes without saying – they’re really fond of good food. You could say I’ve ended up in a little Italian corner of Ireland. Food is a constant topic of conversation, as it’s obviously important to know what you will eat that day: what will we have for lunch, what for dinner? The woman, who’s a chef, will sometimes spend hours in the kitchen just to make the perfect pasta sauce. When I suggested I’d cook something, my proposal was immediately met with a barrage of questions: what exactly do you wanna make? What ingredients do you use? I managed to make Dutch pancakes for lunch (always a safe bet), and – thank goodness – they loved it. Victory! The two men told me I should start a ‘Dutch pancake house’ in Dublin – both of them are really into their finance and management, and are always looking for a good business opportunity. I usually quickly lose track of what’s going on when they’re chatting amongst themselves; as soon as I hear the words ‘business’, or ‘stocks’, my mind goes into daydream mode.
My room in Chapelizod… a book lover’s dream
As I’m now constantly surrounded by Italians, I’m also picking up a little bit of the language. Whenever they skype with people from the homeland, I prick up my ears, trying to see if I can understand some of it. (Terrible, but it’s all for a greater good!…Right?) And then there’s the gestures – whenever I sit next to one of my flatmates on the couch, I have to be careful not to be thrown off because of all the fierce movements going on around me. (I’m exaggerating, but only a little.) I’m also thoroughly enjoying the Italian accent, although they obviously don’t share my feelings about it – they’re afraid they sound like they can’t speak English.
In short, I’m enormously happy to have ended up at this little Italian place in the grey northwest of Europe. I never feel lonely now: we always eat together and on the few days we all have some time off, we usually manage to go for a trip to the park or the pub. Unsurprisingly, my flatmates already found out that I’m ridiculously clumsy, because I managed to slip and fall into a puddle of mud on the first day I arrived. Later during the week, I was attacked by a toothbrush and managed to launch myself off a pouf, so it’s obvious emigrating hasn’t changed me a bit in that regard.
It’s remarkable how many Italians are living in Dublin – something else you’ll only fully realise when you’re hanging out with some of them. There’s an Italian restaurant on every corner, run by ‘authentic’, REAL Italians (who’d have known?). My female flatmate works in one of those restaurants, and I went to visit her the other day. When I said I knew her, I was immediately offered everything I wanted. Italian Dubliners walked in and out, ciao-ing here and ciao-ing there. The super-Mediterranean waiter had a great time letting his charm loose on me, an unsuspecting northern-European. He ended up writing his phone number in the foam of my espresso macchiato, which I accidentally stirred and drank right away out of sheer awkward shock. I didn’t even take a photo of it! The snubbed man treated me way more coolly after that.
Okay, the coffee didn’t look like this, BUT LOOK AT HOW COOL THIS IS (spoon-tamango.com)
Apart from Italians, I have also spoken to a lot of Irish people, as I’m in Ireland after all. Coincidentally, it turned out that the Irish archaeology union was organising some drinks last Friday – someone I know from my internship in Tipperary invited me to it, but I hardly knew anyone else who was going. I went anyway, believe it or not. “You have balls of steel”, one of the people there told me, and I felt very brave indeed. Still, this is Ireland – what can go wrong? It’s ridiculously easy to talk to people, especially when you’re in the pub. Of course, you have to be open to it, but as soon as you join in, everyone chats with you. I fluttered from one person to the next and talked about a range of wildly different topics, from clay pipes (don’t forgot, this was a bunch of archaeologists) to the struggle for Irish independence. As usually happens when I visit Ireland, I was one of the last people to leave the pub. Hopefully this will help me getting into Irish archaeology, as I can’t wait to find a new job. Apparently, there’s a lot of excavations going on this summer, so I should be fine!
Last weekend I went to Belfast, to visit a good friend of mine. We went to a music festival to see an old Jamaican reggae legend, who was muttering into the mike and constantly bringing out toasts to the audience – I wish I was as cool as he. Oh, and Belfast is such a nice city: the recent struggles are never really far away, but it’s good to see that the younger generations are a lot more open to talking to each other and letting the conflict end. The ‘worst’ thing I’ve seen was a bunch of boys battering an election poster, but the city seems no longer a dangerous place (for the most part). To be honest, it’s now getting much hipper and cooler than Dublin, especially around the university quarters: there’s a Scandinavian cafe there, and that says enough.
Scandi-cafe in Belfast. These are Irish songs translated in Swedish.
I still have loads to say, but this computer is excruciatingly slow, so that will be for another time! I have a very busy schedule the coming weeks. I already feel like I’m completely at home here, although every day I still have to get used to the fact that I’ve actually moved to Ireland. Me! To Ireland! I wish I could tell my ten-year-old self that. Moving somewhere else, becoming an archaeologist – it has always been my dream, and now I’m living the dream. A terrible cliche, but true.
Aww, how nice to read my first ever entry!I seem so care free and happy! It sounds like I was walking around wide-eyed, taking everything up and exploring everything new. My life is very different now, as I’m back in the everyday grind and I’ve grown a little bit less enchanted and a bit more skeptical of Ireland (all in a good way!), but that little spark is still there. You will see it in my other blogs, I’m sure.
Fem in Ireland 