A Good Place is Hard To Find

I live in Dublin, Ireland, where in my apartment I listen to Neko Case and Madlib and scan the walls and ceilings for large, forever dangling spiders and listen to churchbells hourly, seagulls more often, sirens nightly.  I walk a few blocks and buy my citrus on Moore Street with the other non-Irish.  Down the street you can order from the Eurosaver menu in McDonald's where everything is priced at €2 ($3) or head across the street to Tesco's for a bounty of quality, cheap tea.  We have a loft bedroom, a dirty skylight and a bathroom that reads 'Enquiries' on the door, perhaps once a part of the estate agents' office in the front of the building.  There is a purple, abandoned Adult Store to our right (south) and a cream-colored Dr. Quirkey's Good Time Emporium to our left (north) that boasts "the most dynamic and exciting slot action in Dublin."  If you point in a southeasterly direction, you might be referring to England.

There is also a back garden, overgrown and wild.  In one corner there is a rope once meant for a clothesline and in the other, a healthy apple tree.  Green apples, hundreds of them.  I have not had the pleasure, but by way of Mr. F, I know that our one neighbor is a single, Middle Eastern man, by way of our shared wall, I know he likes to blare late-night Polish television and by way of our shared trash bins, I know that he is a regular investor in Jack Daniels and Four Star Pizza. 

I am confused and annoyed with the public transit and so walk anywhere I can, unless there is a chance to take the DART, where I can steal Hollywood views of South Dublin from my seat on the train.  The views are of untouched Irish Sea shoreline, mountaintops and sometimes an unfettered view of old Irish ladies reading new novels or old Irish men looking out windows or inspecting their shoes. 

I spend most of the day alone, working out currency or temperature conversions, watching old BBC tv series, trying to remember old stories, old cities and dreaming of future visits with good friends and the soon-to-be Productive Me, the one that goes to School and works part-time and learns more and more important things about the world.  I also dream of one day Doing Something.

Even so, the days pass by peacefully enough and I am the happiest I've been in some time.  Even in my daily walks through grass-is-greener nostalgia, I recognize that I'm in a good place. 

Here is some music.  Me and the spiders have been listening to this all day:

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I bought a heavily worn Penguin paperback the other day at Oxfam because I liked the way it felt. And that it was 50 cents. Turns out it's Jane Austen's Persuasion.  Never subscribed to the whole Austen thing, but I've read a few pages and like her use of commas and run-on sentences.  This could be, perhaps, the beginning of a wonderful affair and fitting, that after all those years of Austen-scoffing, I fall in love with her last-written novel in a country so close to...  I will stop now.  

In other news, we are moved in.

Been a little over a week having A Place of My Own.  Closest to a Place of My Own since the Chicago days - (NYC: had 4 roommates, Suwon, SK: the studio I lived in was sponsored through my school).  Been alternating between shades of giddiness and swaths of empty boredom of the staring-at-walls variety, while I summon the focus to plan out What Happens Next before school starts in a month.  

But on to more pressing issues: I have become depressingly closely acquainted with my new currency: the euro.

To Dublin!

I had intended to write my one year anniversary since my accident post, but I've felt the need to set my sights on the future, which has resulted in finding an apartment in Dublin town this week.  The anniversary post may present itself sometime in the near future, but for now, I'd like to talk about what it's like apartment shopping in Dublin.

Been staying in Shankill this last while (south suburb of Dublin) and while it's been lovely, I am looking forward to city life again.  Have always preferred the north side of cities (Chicago, New York, not Seoul) and Dublin's no exception.  We settled on a neighborhood called 'Phibsborough' and it's right at the northern edge of the city, just before you hit Drumcondra after the canal (the canals' perimeters are what designate Dublin proper).

Before I get all sentimental and depressing, as I do, let me do some rote listing.  How about some of the differences I had to accept in shopping for an apartment in Dublin?

Dead at 27

Amy Winehouse died yesterday.  Found in her London apartment, aged 27.

I am somehow strangely affected by this news.  Perhaps it can be chalked up to the whole she was 27, I'm 27 thing, but still.  I liked her music and can even remember fond evenings listening to Back to Black in my NYC room on my crummy only-plays-NPR (and thank God) boombox (the one right next to my human-sized blue stuffed bear that I won in a carnie game at Coney Island), realizing I was late to the party in discovering her, not wanting to like her as much because everybody liked her and had liked her for awhile already, but still.

I remember reading all those famous people biographies and picking up on that dead-at-27 pattern that the alcoholic/junkie ones always seemed to fall victim to.  I remember thinking, aged 10 or so, that 27 sounded so old, wondering where I might be when I'm that old.  Settled: certainly.  Boring: probably.  Blogging into nothingness and regularly murdering afternoons with directionless internet browsing somewhere in Dublin: no.  Oh yeah, and engaged and missing front teeth and not knowing what happens next: certainly not.

On a Clear Day in Bray

I followed an old man down to the sea the other day. Old man, not as in some crusty oldish guy wearing cargo shorts and an ugly t-shirt, but an old man, as in he wore a cable-knit sweater, corduroy pants and loafers and looked out longingly into the water. And the sea, not as in a big lake or a large river, but the sea, the Irish Sea.

But I wasn’t in Ireland. I was somewhere where blue and yellow overwhelm, not the green and gray that I know Ireland to be.

 

You Can't Plan for Picnics

So.  It rains here.  A lot.

Not that I didn't know what I was getting into.  At least weatherwise.  While still in the midwest that last week before coming here, I'd look at the 5 day Dublin forecasts and laugh - frowny rainclouds straight through, with temperatures I'm used to only in the thick of autumn or beginnings of spring.  I left 100 degree days for sweater weather - and in my book that's a win.  But.  It rains here.  A lot.  You can't plan for picnics.  It's plain and simple fact that it's just going to rain at some point during the day, if not for the whole day.  Not that I ever plan picnics, but knowing that I now don't have the option does take something away.  The idea of planning for a picnic is one of those luxuriously lazy rights of summer -- for me, it's like thinking about buying a sundress.  The idea of it can be refreshing, thinking about what summery color I would choose, what length for the hemline, the wind kicking up the bottoms of the dress as I eat watermelon or drink fresh, cold lemonade...

Day 8: A Song That Makes Me Fall Asleep

So this is now officially the 25 MONTHS of Music List, seeing as how Day 8 is really Month 10...the whole urgency bit's obviously lost at this point, so why not the 25 Songs I Feel Different Things About List?

Doesn't sound as shiny, I suppose.



Normally I would have gone with something without words, but I've listened to this song so many times and the timbre of Hawley's voice is so enchanting that I will intentionally listen to this song in order to go to sleep with hopes of lovely dreams. 

And sometimes it works.