Charity starts at home.

I'm the new medical secretary for a private psychiatric clinic on the outskirts of Dublin, a short-term temp assignment before going back to school in September. You have to pass through a wheat farm and literally through a dark forest to get to the front doors. The grounds are beautiful, no mistaking. The psychiatrist I work for is what the nurses have termed 'old school' - he prescribes a bounty of medication for middling mood disorders and saves overdose cases by upping mgs on old prescriptions. For what it's worth, I've my own office and get free coffee whenever I like: a huge improvement on what I was doing two days prior to getting this assignment. 

If you didn't know already know, jobs are scarce in Ireland.  I've many years experience in the office world, an undergrad, a post-grad diploma and almost a masters degree.  My phone manner is good, I type at 95 wpm, etc., etc., etc.  I have June-August off between first and second year of my masters and I just needed a job that wasn't McDonalds.  Actually.

No dice.  Sure, I got a couple one-day assignments here and there, but nothing for longer than three days.  So, as it goes, I accepted a job as a door-to-door fundraiser for Oxfam.  I got 'trained' in by a 35-year old man wearing a muscle shirt and the thickest Dublin accent I've ever heard.  He's the best fundraiser on the team.  His main words of advice: be yourself. 

The emergency appeal you're supposed to 'sell' is the crisis in Syria.  Something I actually care about.  Great, I thought - right, I can do this.  The brochures say that 81% of all funds raised go directly to this appeal.  I could get behind this. 

We were in a wealthy suburb of south Dublin - an old-ish blond lady opened the door and engaged in conversation with me for more than a few seconds (usually a good sign). She lived in a fabulous house.  She was fully made up, perfumed and everything.  Pearls.  It was 2pm.  She insisted I wasn't interrupting anything.  I went over some of the Syria talking points and it was all "oh, how awful....child soldiers" and "can you imagine". To a point.

The wind had changed, the sky grew dark or something - because in a moment she changed her mind about me, about Syria.  "What a nerve you have... don't you know there are people struggling here in Ireland?  Don't you know that everyone is struggling?  I can't account for children of color in a different country.  What gall you have!  DON'T YOU KNOW THAT CHARITY STARTS AT HOME." 

Back at the psychiatric clinic - on Friday I got a call from a hospital's E.R., an old patient of the good doctor had overdosed "following a row (fight)", the E.R. doctor said.  Could you please fax over a new script.  Later in the day, an old woman with a shaky voice asked if she could please talk to somebody.  As instructed, I took down her details and asked questions resembling, but not quite "are you thinking of killing yourself" to determine the urgency of the call.  You see, the psychiatrist has a full schedule of patients, every morning, every afternoon, everyday.   I told her I would pass on her message as soon as I could.  I wanted to comfort her, but I've no capacity for writing scripts, so didn't know how to really. 

She then told me, in a truly heartbreaking tone, "I'm a woman living alone.  I can't sleep, I don't know what to do.  I AM ALONE.  Please tell the doctor as soon as you can."  She was crying at the end.  I faxed off a script to her before end of day. 

I'm training to be a social worker.  We don't prescribe medication or fundraise, though both of these are involved in the work.   Our mission is social justice and we attack the problem at its roots; we look at all angles.  Medication and money, certainly, are necessary and helpful.  These encounters I've described above are perhaps less dramatic than what I've experienced thus far in social work, but somehow feel so much darker and depressing. 

You Just Get Fed Up

Polish Tomas started crying when he told us about his broken heart.  His aorta had detached itself from his heart a few years ago and he'd had emergency surgery down at the Mater.  Snot was dripping down his beard when he showed us the elaborate crucifix tattoo he'd gotten in tribute to his guardian angel, the heart surgeon.  But then he had to go home back to his family in Poland to recover, which ended up being two bedridden, motionless years and when he came back to Dublin his job was gone.  Because he'd been away for that long, he's no longer entitled to social welfare benefits and now he's on the streets, despairing over the life he once had, bettering his English with fellow Polish homeless and getting his meals from the likes of me on depressingly gray Saturday evenings.  But that was just the beginning of the night.

Pregnant Colleen is almost at full term.  The last time we saw her she was sobbing and red-faced and crying into the arms of whom we know to be a first class asshole, an elderly Englishman in a pristine white suit.  While he was going on about himself and how wonderful he was for "taking an interest" in Colleen, she managed to get a word in and asked me what her options were. For a minute I forgot I was in Ireland and almost told her to go to the local Planned Parenthood where she would have an actual range of options.  But I caught myself and short of alluding to the abortion ferry to England, I had to admit I didn't know what to tell her.  But this time she is fresh-faced and alive and preferring brown-bread sandwiches, not white. She looks ten years wiser and five years younger.  A boon for the evening.

Young Darren prefers sleeping rough.  He says it's more comfortable than the shelters, even when it's raining.  I figure him to be 17, maybe 18, my soup run partner guesses early 20s.  But he has the voice of a boy and an unusual look of naïveté for a street kid.  Darren asks for some chocolate when Hollywood Neil comes along and orders two sandwiches, a chocolate bar and some tea as if he's just strolled up to his local cafe.  It's always like this though.  He doesn't remember me and so I feign ignorance and ask him where he's from, he mutters "Dublin" in the most perfect mix of surprise and condescension.  He wears a clean black wool coat and has product in his hair. He doesn't speak again and we all walk away from each other, leaving Young Darren sitting on the street with his sleeping bag and styrofoam cup. 

It's the end of the night and I prepare for a going away at a nearby pub.  Friends are miles away though and so I kill some time by wandering the streets straddling the Liffey.  The night is darker than I anticipated - summer will be gone soon.  There are throngs of drunken Irish, English, Eastern European and the odd American scrambling into reluctant taxis in very unforgiving yellow street lights, half of them half-naked, the other half with death wishes stumbling about in the tiny streets of the North side, just missing cars. 

The sum of the evening swells inside me and I want to buy a drink from the newsagent's, like I used to in Korea, but I don't remember if Ireland has open container laws and anyway, friends will be here soon.  I'm river-bound and wondering what drinks will be on tap at the pub when I see a dark figure wearing a familiar-looking threadbare hat walking toward me.  It's Michael, one of the service users I see on Wednesday night Social Club and whom I sometimes see on the Ha'Penny late at night.  One of the most sincere people I've ever met.  He looks in a bad way though and I feel awful when I have to lie and tell him I'm on my way home when he asks me what I'm up to.  He might have asked to go have a can with me and rejecting him would've been worse. 

His eyes are glassy, though not from substance.  He looks sad and dreadfully tired.  I can tell he doesn't want to hold me up, though I would've been glad to talk with him for much longer.  I ask him if he's alright and he says "You just get fed up, you know?"

Camping at Lough Dan

This past weekend, I headed down with some friends to Lough Dan - a ribbon lake in County Wicklow.  (lough = lake in Irish) Haven't camped since I was about 7 and it was at 'church camp', which wasn't really camping so much as extended Sunday School on location.  This was real camping.  Tents and fire and marshmallows and everything. I wore four layers of heavy clothing with a rain jacket on top, woolen mittens, wooly socks, a thick scarf and brought with me a fancy sleeping bag and tent.  Yay Irish summer! 

All of which is to say I slept a total of 1 hour through the night and sat shivering next to the dying embers of campfire at dawn, stoking the flames and rocking back and forth like a junkie in the effort to keep warm. 

But oh my, is Lough Dan wondrous.  These Irish got it good.  Drive 40 minutes south from Dublin and you're in a magical fairy land, replete with stony, electric green mountainside, misty mirror lakes and air so fresh you get a headache.  Growing up in the suburbs of midwestern America, I was so starved for nature that a group of trees on the side of a highway was akin to a nature preserve.  Look - a tall tree!  Some mulchy dirt!  And oh look, a bird.  That was it.  

It takes about 30/40 minutes to hike down to the beach, once you pass the 'No Camping Allowed' sign just opposite a field of sheep.  Descending into Lough Dan, there were moments when I fully expected the scenery to be one big green screen - Cabin In the Woods style.  Truly, this bounty of nature couldn't be real! I brought the camera along and ended up taking 1200+ pictures.  The sun began to set around 9pm and night set in just after 11pm.  I was grateful for sunrise (at about 4:30am) cos I got to capture some pretty amazing mist rising up from the lake. 

Here are some of my favorite shots from the trip:

The pathway in.

The beach. 

 The campfire kindle.

The rocky mountains next to the beach.

 Natural wine cooler. 

That morning mist.

After the mist. 

Hello stranger

It's been nearly seven months since my last post on here.  Part of why I haven't updated is because I wanted to post something really stellar upon my return - some real good, quality piece of writing.  But seeing as how I am awash with distraction (despite being unemployed), for now, I will just update on a couple things.

I finished up my post-graduate social policy course at University College Dublin a couple months ago and was recently accepted into the two year Masters in social work at Trinity that I've been vying for since Korean times.  I start this autumn.  So that's another two years guaranteed here in Dublin, which is wonderful.

Last month I started my own little picture shop on Etsy: Candy Mountain Photos, which you can view here: www.etsy.com/shop/candymountainphotos

Most of you know that I've long been fond of (obsessed with) picture taking pretty much as soon as I got my first passport in 2009.  The majority of the listings on the shop are for pictures I've taken in Ireland this past year, though I hope to add my Asian collection sometime soon. 

I've been in Dublin now for just over a year.  Now that I've this Masters to start and finish, Dublin will be the city I've stayed longest in since New York City, three years ago.  The novelty of living here hasn't worn yet and so I hope to be reporting more on things like Irishisms and whether or not it becomes natural for me to insert silly u's into words or break into song for no reason whatsoever. 

Here's a photo I recently took in Phoenix Park (bigger than Central Park!) that I feel represents the mood of where I am right now.  That sounded way more hipstery than I intended, but sure - I'm a grad student who's trying to sell photos, so what are you going to do. 

9 Movies That I Saw in 2011

I'm not dogging Dublin - it's just how it is.  We see movies that opened in New York  several months ago (in some cases, over a year) - so 2011 was the Year of the Download for me.  There should be more foreign films on this list, alas, it is difficult to get working subtitles on downloads.

So instead of a proper top 10 - here are nine* films that I saw last year.  The good ones.  Some excellent.

DRIVE

(U.S.) It was the starkness of this film that got me.  Bare dialogue.  The viewer knows next to nothing about the protagonist. Except that he can drive.  That this is his life.  That he is a good person.  That he fancies his next door neighbor, the cute semi-single mother with an actual story.  That when there is a threat against the good people in his life (Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston in their usual stellar performances) horrific spikes of violence pop on the screen. 

Gorilla-sized guns used expertly, fast cars on L.A. highways driven expertly, beautiful, still shots of innocent, romantic scenes. Albert Brooks, not playing the bumbling good-guy.  He uses forks and knives not to eat, but to kill.  Pulsating, rhythmic music and no sound at all.  You can't help but not breathe through most of it.
 THE GUARD
(Ireland) Let me first say, that I love Brendan Gleeson.  He can dress up the dowdiest of films.  Luckily, he only added to this already wonderful movie. Writer/director John McDonagh shares the same hilarity/tragedy bend as his brother, Martin McDonagh (In Bruges) and it shows up brilliantly on the screen.

Aside from being absolutely hilarious and absolutely tragic, it’s also an interesting observation on Irish/American relations.  The exchange between Gleeson and Don Cheadle (who plays a FBI agent come to the west of Ireland to solve a drugs case) says much of both cultures.  Gleeson’s unintentional/somehow innocent racist comments suggest a culture ignorant of race relations.  True enough – Ireland (especially non-Dublin) is all white people! And that’s Irish white – so…translucent.  Cheadle’s incessant reminder to Gleeson that maybe he shouldn’t be telling him all this stuff suggests a culture of cautiousness, of over-awareness (at least in the 'privileged' classes, such as Cheadle’s character describes himself a part of).  

One of the funniest moments in the film is when the gardai (Irish police) are doing their debrief and introducing Cheadle’s character.  Gleeson, in the usual Irish fashion, swears like no tomorrow and his boss screams at him: “not in front of THE AMERICAN.”  

P.S. A cop in Ireland is called a “garda”, not a guard. 

MELANCHOLIA
(U.S.) Scary.  Probably the scariest non-horror I’ve seen in some time.  The realization of the end of the world.  A meandering path through mental illness and shots of a beautiful, giant planet, overtaking Earth. Duo sunrises, duo sunsets. And a wedding.

The slow, subtle death march to the end reminds of battles with cancer in the modern age.  Still horrific, except there is a genuine optimism on how technology and modern science will save the cancer patient.  Things start to look better, remission, hair grows back and then, from out of nowhere, it all returns, it’s spread, it’s grown bigger, it’s terrifyingly unwieldy.  The modern age, with all its sciencey promise, fails.  And in the end (of this film), we are all desperately afraid.

A Separation

(Iran) A story so small and specific, it is thoroughly universal.  The viewer feels like an intimate voyeur – able to view every single small detail, all the cracks and unspoken conversations.  

There is a laid back quality to the movie – it feels as if you are watching a real family’s life unfold (and unravel) in real time, all the while sensing a strong undercurrent of something big about to happen.  And then you realize big things are already happening: a separation, a custody battle, dealing with a parent with Alzheimers, a conviction of murder, debilitating depression and unemployment.  Nothing is overdone or overstated and still this film manages a surprising intensity throughout it all. 
Super 8

(U.S.) The most commercial of my picks, definitely the biggest budget.  An almost all-kid cast.  How is this on my list?  

It was entertaining – in an earnest, sincere way (i.e. there weren’t random cuts to gyrating teenagers or efforts to establish older characters as ‘hip’. Granted, it’s set in the 70s, but still) It has one of those magical coming-of-age qualities, reminding me of watching films like Jumanji and Jurassic Park growing up – where you want to watch it over and over again and aren’t severely disappointed when re-watching as an adult.  

And of course, the effects are amazing.

Take Shelter

(U.S.) Quiet, haunting.  Parallels to Melancholia in its attention to the gravity of mental illness and foreshadowing of the end of the world.  Nightmares of a super storm and a scare of schizophrenia plague the protagonist, expertly portrayed by Michael Shannon.  

Even in the midst of terrifying murmurations and visions of weightless furniture and trios of tornadoes, Shannon’s character attempts to hide it all away from friends, co-workers and especially from his wife (played by the new and wonderful Jessica Chastain) and deaf daughter – all the while building a military-grade shelter in his backyard. 

The Trip

(U.K.) Very British.  And surprisingly funny.  A buddy/road trip film starring the ever-narcissistic Steve Coogan and the underdog Welsh comic, Rob Brydon. Think Sideways, except in documentary-style, Northern England instead of California and even less of a plot.  

Dueling impersonations, drawn out to cringe-worthy lengths and still, somehow, surprisingly FUNNY.  Their best: Michael Caine, Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins.  Their worst: Woody Allen and Dustin Hoffman.  They can’t get the New York Jew down! 
The Yellow Sea

(South Korea) I’m so happy to include a Korean film in this list.  From the same director of The Chaser, comes this bloody, heart-wrenching story of one man’s desperate journey from China to South Korea to settle a gang leader’s debt and his private mission to find his estranged (somewhat dishonored) wife.   

The protagonist, unassuming and dejected though he is, fights tooth and nail (and dismembered thumb!) to survive in this sepia-colored, jaundiced world.  At one point he actually uses a large meat bone to clobber his enemies, often fighting off twenty or more men at a time.  The viewer wants him to live, to surpass all highly ridiculous odds, knowing he has less than nothing to live for.  This film boasts seemingly impossible chase sequences and still manages to unload an emotional heft, leaving the viewer weepy and exhilarated. 
We Need To Talk About Kevin
(U.K.) Themes of red, shame and crippling horror throughout - I know I cannot properly describe this film, so I will say little.

Except that it is brilliant and terrifying and leaves the viewer desperate to watch sugary drivel immediately after leaving the theatre.  Also, Tilda Swinton is excellent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

P.S. Here are 6 documentaries that I saw in 2011, but don't want to write about because it would take too long. They are all, in their own very different ways, quite good:

Bobby Fischer Against the World
Conan O'Brien Can't Stop
The Interrupters
Knuckle
Project Nim
Tabloid

* I watched way more television than I did movies in 2011 and consequently, couldn't eek out a 10th film to put on the list.  Seems t.v. is more and more the writer's medium - so I was very consistently entertained (read: obsessed and taken over by) the quality of tv series I watched this last year.

All I want for Christmas is my three front teeth

They come in piecemeal.  If their name isn't on the list, they're told to come back later.  Mostly Irish, the occasional Brit and the odd woman.  The first thing we ask is if they'd like some tea.  Milk and sugar?  Almost always.  The blind man  in the corner asks for coffee.

It was my first night at Dublin Simon's 'social club' - a night where DS 'service users' (the homeless) come and eat with the volunteers.  

I don't know my way around and feel in the way of other volunteers.  So I sit down and start talking.  This man is from Lithuania.  His English isn't good and my hearing is bad.  I feel I am doing more harm, making him stammer out broken sentences.  He uses his hands to speak louder.  He is missing his ring finger.  Someone tells him they ordered a garlic pizza just for him and he smiles wide.  He's missing four front teeth, not all in a row.  He excuses himself and I move on.

A famous Irish comedian makes a surprise visit.  His name is David McSavage and at first, I mistake him for another service user.  Half his jokes are about Americans and how superficially positive we are.  I think his jokes are funny, if brash, but a service user interrupts his show to tell him there's an American in the audience.  He makes me identify myself and apologizes. My cheeks redden and I tell him it's alright.  I leave the room to talk to the blind man in the corner.

Let's call him John.  He wears a long, black coat and wired spectacles.  He seems regal, despite the stains on his jacket.  He notices my accent and asks me where I'm from.  Chicago.  He gives me an encylopedic history of the state of Illinois.  Most facts I'd forgotten, some I never knew.  I ask him if he's been to the States, he says no.  But it's a lifelong dream and one day he'd like to go to Alaska.  He smiles big and I notice he too is missing three front teeth.  All in a row, just like me.  Except I have dentures, so no one knows. 


I've been living with dentures now for over a year.  In lieu of being able to afford dental implants, I got a nice set of fake front teeth that everyone says look very nice.  The nice dentist in Ann Arbor said mine were the second brightest shade of white he'd ever fitted to match someone's teeth.  It was nice of him to say.

John knows everything about everything and still has a sense of humor.  We laugh about differences between the Irish and Americans and I hardly notice when my dentures start to slip a little for laughing a little bit too hard.  I know John doesn't notice. 

It's the end of the evening and we're made to say goodbye.  I let him know I'll be back next week and that it was so very nice to meet him.  He lets me know there isn't another social club til after the holidays, so be sure to mark it in my calendar. 

Someone helps him up and leads him outside.  I wonder how his holidays will be. 

I am grateful for my dentures and for my warm apartment.  And that I can come back and talk to John again.  After the holidays, of course. 

Merry Christmas everyone!  

More American comments on living in Ireland

There is always a cup of tea in the near distance.  So too is a raincloud.  Such is Ireland.

The rain.  The tireless, mailman-like presence of THE RAIN IN IRELAND.  In all weather sunny, windy, but mostly grey, the rain comes.  I've seen more rainbows in the last 4 months than ever before.  Is it sunny out?  Better take an umbrella.

Oddly enough, the only time I've witnessed the presence of lightning in Ireland was about a month ago.  My first in-Europe flight: Dublin to Manchester.  On take-off, I was giddy at the thought of visiting Korea friends in England.  A couple minutes later, I laughed at the realization that it would take longer to get from Chicago to Indianapolis and here I was, about to cross a sea to touch down in another country.  A few minutes more, about 10 minutes into the flight, 30,000 feet up...

The engines turned off.

There's always that moment in flight when it feels as though the engines have stopped- but I remind myself that it's only because the plane has reached altitude and the engines simply aren't working as hard.  But, not this time.This time, they really did turn off.

I stopped breathing.  Everything was quiet. Nothing moved.  I'm fairly sure my heart stopped.  Then I saw a flight attendant race down the aisle toward the cockpit.  The pilot came on, in a tone more suggestive of 'it's time for tea!', letting us know that the plane had been struck by lightning and that, gosh darn, we needed to make a tiny little emergency landing back at Dublin. 

I'm not going to go into the few minutes after the pilot's announcement.   Let's just say that I'm pretty sure I saw my life's version of 'roll credits' trickling down the window I looked out on upon descent.  (the engines eventually came back on)

It was raining back in Dublin.

I remember the rain montage in Forrest Gump: Forrest's trying to explain all the different types of rain in Vietnam. Picture that and trade Vietnam for Ireland.  Then turn the rain down.  It never really pours here, it's a consistently mild rain.  Just enough to annoy.

But it does keep the place green I suppose.

Here's a view of my backyard!

(no, this is in County Sligo somewhere)

I'm off to put the kettle on for some Barry's tea (to my knowledge, the most popular tea in Ireland)