An Irishgirl abroad — New York life through a European lens

Complex operation

Posted in Uncategorized by Frieda on August 30, 2010

Let's hope this works!*

Dear Reader,

I’m in the process of performing a complicated technical procedure known as ‘exporting’ my blog to another site. When I set up this blog I immediately had a change of mind as to its title — I realised that describing myself as an ‘Irish Woman Abroad’ made me feel like a haggard crone, a Peig Sayers of the 21st century. I’m sure that ambivalence towards adulthood has deep psychological roots, but (moving swiftly on) the result was that I changed my title to ‘Irish girl’. It was too late to alter the URL, and I’m now doing my best to sort that out — you can find my new blog with a more appropriate, Irish Girl Abroad URL here. In the meantime, you may see some glitches on both versions of the site, which I hope to to eliminate soon. When all’s ready and I feel brave enough, I’ll delete this, the old version.

Ta for your patience! xx

*Pic comes from here.

Love in Dublin

Posted in Culture, Dublin, Relationships by Frieda on August 24, 2010

Romantic Ireland?*

DUBLIN —  Ireland has a flourishing drinking scene, or ‘pub culture’ as it’s fondly known, but the concept of dating is as elusive here as a mystical dream.

Yet single people do exist, and the notion that this odd American practice could be a good thing is gradually infiltrating our national psyche. Last weekend’s Sunday Independent featured ‘Confessions of a Modern Irish Bachelor‘ by one Hugh Farrelly, a pallid, unsmiling journalist, who admitted he was ‘single, straight and 38’. The female perspective has been gaining ground as well. Irish TV today interviewed an intrepid New York woman who’s currently making her way through Dublin’s urban jungle. (Her website, interestingly, doesn’t mention any actual dates here). As background research, the reporters spoke to a few Irish women, all of whom agreed that dating in Dublin is awful and ‘very hard’.

Romance involves a trip to a pub, the consumption of a number of pints or whiskey or vodka, and a further journey to a nightclub or late bar, at which point the individual may approach and engage with a member of the opposite sex. As the night wanes and more drink is taken, primitive nuptials of a kind may occur.

The real romance is with the pub itself. Here we are eminently faithful, returning again and again to the same bars we frequented in our teenage years. Back then there was a frisson because we were underage and it was illegal, but after you hit 18 — and more than a decade on — the intrigue wears off. That rarely stops us, however.

Meanwhile women complain that men don’t initiate conversation; men say women are unresponsive and scary.

Last week I was at O’Donoghue’s on Baggot Street, a packed, roaringly noisy place, chatting to a beautiful woman in her early thirties, who told me how lonely and isolating Dublin is, and how hard it is to meet people. Her huge eyes fixed on me as she explained her plan to move home to the country to be closer to her family. She wanted to meet a nice man but told me she never met any in Dublin. Meanwhile we ignored a table of guys beside us, who looked over pointedly from time to time but said nothing.

After a while, I decided to conduct an experiment. I turned to the guy beside us and asked him if men and women ever spoke to each other in pubs in Dublin. I forget what his reply was, to be honest — this was after a third glass of the pub’s house white wine — but we got into a conversation. I looked around to introduce my friend, only to discover that she had departed for the toilet. Within five minutes another friend grabbed me. Everyone was leaving.

[*Image source: here]

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Beautiful but broke

Posted in Dublin, Irish politics by Frieda on August 16, 2010

The river Liffey*

DUBLIN — Ireland’s capital long ago earned the nickname, ‘Dirty Dublin,’ but its dirtiness this August seems metaphorical rather than actual. I took a cycle around the city today, pedalling from Rathmines to the Docklands to Rialto. The clear skies and a temperature of 17C (63F) passed for a heatwave, and I found the city quiet, green, and almost regal. I’ve lived out of Ireland for ten years and, though I have many Oprah-style issues with my hometown, I enjoy rediscovering it with each return journey. It’s small and you can visit most of it on a bike in an afternoon. You can see why it appeals to tourists.

But hardship isn’t far beneath the surface. Yesterday my mom and I got a taxi to a local restaurant, which we wouldn’t normally do, except that she’d twisted her ankle. A huge cab brought us there, so big we had to speak up to be heard, and you could tell it had been bought in the expectation of transporting far larger groups than our mother-daughter party. The driver said business was tough, recounting how in the two hours up to that point, he’d earned just €5. A different taxi took us home and that driver was more vocal. He said he struggled to bring in €500 a week, and added, rather ominously, that since Christmas, ten Irish taxi drivers had committed suicide.

Yet I can recall queuing for two hours on a Saturday night on Dame Street to get a taxi home, when I was a teenager. Then, there weren’t enough taxis: often my friends and I would share a cab with strangers, and sometimes we’d choose to walk rather than wait, arriving at our houses teetering in our heels at dawn. At that time a taxi license cost £85,000. In 2000 the market was deregulated, and licenses became cheaper, which meant that those who’d purchased the expensive ones now competed with drivers who’d paid much less. Soon, too many taxis were roaming the Dublin streets. The taxi-drivers’ hardship arises not just from the country’s financial woes, but also from government policy.

To accompany my rediscovery of Dublin this time round, I’m reading the greatly informative, edifying and aptly named, ‘Ship of Fools’ by Fintan O’Toole, subtitled, ‘how stupidity and corruption sank the Celtic Tiger’. It’s utterly brilliant. O’Toole identifies, confirms and elucidates many of the things I’ve felt about Ireland (gleaned mainly from overheard parental mutterings), and which, as I grew up, led me to feel powerless.

O’Toole’s observations on our leaders’ lack of eloquence cause me to rethink the criticisms of Brian Cowen I made in an earlier post. I was surprised at his incoherence, which seemed so disappointing coming from a leader, but now I wonder if it was planned. If so it would fall in with tradition, for O’Toole remarks that in order to bewilder listeners, Cowen’s immediate predecessor Bertie Ahern ‘underplayed his own keen intelligence, sometimes deliberately resorting to gibberish, not caring if if make him look obtuse or inarticulate.’

O’Toole makes some sharp points about the Irish: ‘The Irish electorate showed an extraordinary degree of tolerance towards politicians who were known to have engaged in dodgy dealings … [T]he truth was that many voters didn’t greatly care.’

Or again, ‘The real wonder was not that fraudsters got elected but that more politicians did not claim to be crooks in order to get elected. There had been a time in ireland when it was a political asset to have served time behind bars for Sinn Fein. In the Celtic Tiger era, it was an asset to have been behind bars for Me Fein [Irish for ‘Myself’].’

The government that demolished the Celtic Tiger is still in place, along with many of its corrupt systems and structures. Ireland’s future, I’m afraid, seems grim.

*******

Bogland in Kiltubrid, Leitrim*

If that doesn’t cheer you up, I plan a post on Leitrim during this holiday. It’s my mother’s home county, an isolated and gorgeously scenic region that experienced a large amount of development in the past decade. Its fields (some of them) were replaced by housing estates, which in turn were a source of tax breaks for builders. At least 30% of houses there now sit vacant.

*These pictures are from a few years ago. I took some sunnier photos yesterday but I haven’t uploaded them yet. They will follow, and they’re meant to balance my gloomy text!

Losing things

Posted in Irish, Local, New York by Frieda on August 6, 2010

The city

You may have noticed that I haven’t blogged here of late. That’s because something very sad happened which I didn’t want to write about, but didn’t want to bypass either. The result was that I didn’t write.

When I feel stressed or tired or upset, I often find that I’m clumsy, more likely to trip, or lose things. True to form, yesterday I lost some prescription spectacles (the purple ones that you can see on the right) when their case fell out of a hole in my bag as I cycled along St. Mark’s toward Franklin Ave. The day was gorgeously hot and I was wearing sunglasses, and though I heard a clatter behind me I just kept going. Later, when I went back peering under cars to look for them, they were gone.

A few months back, an acquaintance told me about a friend of his, an Irish woman called Lydia Prior who was based in LA, but moved home to Belfast when her father died. She’s writing a blog about his death called the Dead Dad Diaries. I’ve glanced at it from time to time, and I’ve found it to be excellent and intriguing, though the title is a bit much for me. Recently Prior posted up a poem by Elizabeth Bishop on the subject of loss. It’s a well-known poem, perhaps almost cliche; still, I’ve found that, more than anything else, poetry articulates these feelings best.

One Art

By Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.