In Transit

A brief word before I go offline for the weekend prior to my departure: Though my feelings are mixed as I prepare to leave Ireland, I'm thankful to all and happy for your passing interest in my ongoing adventures.

You'll hear from me once more when I arrive in Dublin on Monday.

Stay tuned, y'all.

j:.

A Sort of Homecoming

So, I presently live maybe one mile from the ruins of Carrigogunnell Castle in County Limerick. Local historians agree that the castle was most likely built around 1449 and was nearly forever occupied by the O'Brien family (likely, my friend Chris is a descendant) on the site of a former volcano that had gone dormant ages before that.

By the way, Flatmate Kevin from West Cork likes to put on his best Irish pirate voice and say, whenever he sees castle ruins or versions of same, “Ah, dere's a shtink of oppression off it, lads.”

This castle is now covered in the Irish version of kudzu, which would be your garden-variety (known here as “bog-standard”) ivy. And overgrown trees and scrub brush. But it's still an impressive sight.

And it is also a favorite destination of mine, where I take the dog on hikes after work or on the weekends. Bog-standard castle in ruins, according to most. Well, according to me.

Until now, that is...see Bono's backdrop, below.

[And thanks to Jay Stanley for pointing this out.]

What's interesting about this is that, for me, U2—not The Pogues or "The Quiet Man" or Thin Lizzy or Van Morrison or even “Darby O'Gill and The Little People”--put the first images of Ireland in my head, courtesy of MTV Music Television. I had to watch MTV covertly in the homes of neighbors and friends, because my mother wouldn't allow MTV in our house.


So, a flag-waving Bono singing about "Sunday Bloody Sunday" at Red Rocks first taught me about The Troubles that the Irish faced. And one of my first cassette tapes I bought at Hot Dog Records in Jonesboro, Arkansas, was “The Unforgettable Fire.”






So, I've long been a fan. And also, I always thought that the drummer was, like, way hot (far right, in photo.)

The other side of this castle is where Lola and I visit, where the kids have burned bonfires for literally hundreds of years, celebrating celebration and apparently engaging in various levels of grab-ass.

Weird how these things reveal themselves, you know?

Hope to see you, too, soon.

j:.

Sideshow Anecdotes

"Life inside the music box ain't easy/The mallets hit the gears are always turning/And everyone inside the mechanism/Is yearning/To get out..."

--“Musicbox,” Regina Spektor

Some really great and entertaining things have happened in along the roadside here in Ireland.

You can go back to one of my earliest blog entries and click on the photos link to see my St. Patrick's Day celebrations in Miltown Malbay, out in County Clare. Good fun, even if the parade theme intended participants to “take the piss out of” the U.S., as they say.

The Irish are real and honest and what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of folk, but I've also found that nothing is taboo and everything is fair game when it comes to “slagging” (also known as “taking the piss,” noted above) and humiliating people for sport. And they are truly masters of sarcasm.

Overheard when someone asked an Irishman and former Limerick resident what he misses about Ireland since his move to England, your man replied, “I miss the insincerity.”

...

I've heard a lot of great live music while here, and I've traveled a lot on the weekends and on bank holidays, dragging Lola with me wherever and whenever I can. So far we've gone with friends to Cork, West Cork, Sligo, Dublin and out to the edge of the earth at Spanish Point for some beach time...

...which is exactly what she and I did on Labor Day weekend, when I participated in my first-ever Ramadan Treasure Hunt. Anyway, the family of one of my housemates is an endlessly entertaining and creative bunch, and they decided to create the Ramadan Treasure Hunt, which involves said family of revelers who devise clues and divide everyone into teams that drive around the countryside near the Cliffs of Death, and the team making it back with all the answers in the least amount of time wins. Someone along the way realized they were holding this event at the onset of Ramadan, hence the name. And winning earns you bragging rights and the first chance to draw a prize out of the bag that everyone else gets to draw from also.

After the hunt, one of the O'Sullivan family members decided it would be funny to craft an Evil Eye from a marble and molding clay and put it in Lola's nose-nook.

Which he did.

And it was.

For your enjoyment, above.

...

Never the photojournalist, I forget my camera mostly always, so it's a miracle there's any evidence of my ever living here. But I rather like that the images are just filed in my brain and mine to keep. Or maybe that's a convenient excuse for forgetfulness. Dunno.

Thanks to the Aaron Dunn family for stopping by on their Irish holiday, and for picking up the check for breakfast. Much appreciated.

Happy Autumn, y'all.

j:.

That’s Mister Python, To You.

"Life's a piece of sh!t, when you look at it.

Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.

You'll see it's all a show, keep 'em laughing as you go.

Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And...always look on the bright side of life."

--"Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" from Monty Python's "The Life of Brian"

This is all very well and good and lovingly dedicated to my Red Octopus kinfolk:

At the Tom Waits concert in Dublin recently, I was THIS CLOSE to Terry "I'm-the-Jailer-in-'The Life of-Brian'-and-also-the-only-American-member-of-Monty-Python" Gilliam. Only two rows behind, four seats over. (I know! I know! Tom Waits is growling out his songs, and all I can do is hear, "Always look on the bright side of life...") Not to mention that he was the last director to work with Heath Ledger before his untimely Olsen-Twin-induced death. The thought did cross my mind that perhaps if Terry Gilliam kissed Heath Ledger at some point during the movie shoot and if I now kissed Terry, it would kinda be like kissing Heath Ledger by default. Brilliant! More beer.

So, when my whiskey-soaked leprechaun date decided to introduce me, something funny happened. Which is what you want out of a situation like that, if you're meeting a member of the BEST comedy troupe of, like, ever.

LEPRECHAUN: Terry, young Jennifer here is from Amer-i-kay, also. Hails from Arkansas...

ME: (interrupting, as you do, and trying not to stare at his mullet) Hello! You're one of the funniest men of, like, ever. Did you know that?

TERRY: (maybe a little scared?) Hi? And thanks? My granddad was from Arkansas...

ME: (now mesmoried by the mullet--that hair never worked for Mick Fleetwood, either) Well, how in the hell did that happen?

TERRY: (proffering a pen for the autographing of one dollar bill) I don't know, actually. Should I sign, "To Jennifer...?"

ME: Yes, please. It's my last dollar bill. You know, our dollar isn't worth the paper it's printed on these days.

TERRY: Neither's my autograph.

(rim shot)

Thanks, don't forget to try the veal and please tip your servers.

j:.

Revised Routine and Other Tidbits

Things now go like this:

5:45A Up for a run, weather and necessary bravery permitting, then Lola & I take a walk

6:30A Put the kettle on, enjoy some less offensive instant coffee, watch EuroNews, eat a bowl of porridge or maybe Oatiflakes

6:45A Shower & such

7:45A Out the door—mandatory, as I've timed it—for a 20-minute brisk walk to the bus stop (I've only missed it once, and I won't make that mistake again)

...say hello to the calves and their mamas in the field...

...say hello to the Jack Russell terrier, yellow Lab and mutt sidekick who greet me next to the peach-colored house with the best view of Carrigogunnell Castle...

8:05A Arrive at the bus stop, which is not so much a bus stop but more a place along a sidewalk in front of the equestrian centre, next to the only traffic lights in the village of Clarina

…say “good morning” to the three-toothed lady whose remaining teeth protrude and actually move against her bottom lip when she speaks...

8:10A Board Bus #314 to Limerick city centre, at a cost of €3.10 one way or €5.60 for a return, or €50 for a monthly bus pass

...experience a 25-minute ride with fellow passengers of varying degrees of special needs and/or physical or mental challenges, the latter of which is evidenced often in fantasy role-playing among some riders at the back of the bus, in pretending drive the bus around the city of Limerick, making “errrrrrr” braking noises and “vrrrrrrrrmmmm” acceleration noises. [See accompanying cellphone camera photo of a fellow rider who helps "drive" the bus.] Please note that I am not 1) exaggerating, 2) kidding or 3) intending disrespect in any way. I merely reflect fact. And things only get more interesting when a full moon is in effect...also fact. [Author's note: There's poetry in this anecdote that won't be lost on my friend Meg, who is in fact a real live poet.]

8:35A Arrive at the bus/train station in city centre, with a 15- to 20-minute walk to work ahead of me.

5ish P Grocery shop/errand-run and whatnot

5:40P Catch the Sunshine Bus back to the countryside

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

...

Is the hassle worth all of this hassle?

The country hole has been in a state of marginal yet inconvenient disrepair (plumbing & septic tank issues, electrical issues, etc.) since we all moved in—see “Money Pit” starring Tom Hanks & the incomparable Shelley Long.

One of the roommates hasn't quite taken a shine to Lola, or me for that matter, but I'm not too impressed by this person's behavior, either.

Living costs in the church home are lower, yet my days are longer due to the commute and, therefore, I'm physically at home less than before.

So is it worth the hassle? Time will tell. It is awfully lovely to sleep in the quiet, and I do have a nice walk-in closet. And living next to a graveyard isn't as creepy as you might think.

...

When I was little, and my family from Tennessee would come for Christmas, the whole affair would last for days and I would not miss a moment of it. One memory given back to me by Mom--and others old enough at that time to remember it--places me in the doorway of our Candlewood house, just as the Tennesseans pulled out of our driveway. I'm there watching with my electric Snoopy toothbrush hanging out of my mouth. I had not slept enough in a week for a four-year-old kid and had already eaten an entire Christmas wreath made of M&Ms. Blood had run away from my face and I'd become a holiday zombie midget. Point being, I never wanted to miss out on anything. Maybe that's one of the reasons I came here—to see what I'd been missing. But a new kind of longing has been knocking at my door. I miss my family and friends. I miss all that is familiar, even if all that is familiar lives in a land-locked furnace this time of year.

Miss y'all.

Stay cool over there.

:.j

Country Comfort

"Goodbye, city life! Green acres, we are there!"

--Eddie Albert & Eva Gabor, Green Acres theme

As I typed this yesterday, I was sitting on my bed with Lola, in a fully renovated, 19th-century church-house-cum-country estate.

My neighbors are pretty quiet. And by “neighbors” I mean the cows across the field and the dearly departed in the graveyard next door.

"And it's good old country comfort in my bones..."

--Elton John

Welcome to the Irish countryside, where I presently and thankfully reside.

The former residents of this property, besides perhaps God and members of the Church of Ireland, are locked in divorce court (still a relatively new concept here) and put the property up for rent. In fact, the owner—a man called Doc—has made and lost millions maybe three times over and was recently kidnapped and held for ransom by members of the IRA. No, not the IRS, but the IRA. Like, he was kidnapped from this very property. Hence the CCTV cameras at every corner. But I digress.

So, two of my new roommates saw the rental listing as an opportunity to shed city digs, pull up stakes and head to the countryside. I'd grown tired of the filthy streets and stupid inhabitants that make up most of Limerick city centre. My recent flat was a lovely place and would've been a fine place to live—were it not for a constant barrage of Nordic death metal banging through the plaster walls from my neighbor's gaff (flat, apartment, condo, whatever.) That, and the dirty den of low-lifes located directly across the street on the Dublin Road. I say this after having this fact confirmed by three separate cabdrivers, who not only told me that this collection of people numbered over 40 in total but that all were up to no good.

Check out the new digs, y'all, once I get this damn Mac link fixed. All are welcome.

j:.

To Home and Back

“I am thinking tonight of the Southland, Of the home of my childhood days, Where I roamed through the woods and the meadows By the mill and the brook that plays; Where the roses are in bloom And the sweet magnolia too, Where the jasmine is white And the fields are violet blue, There a welcome awaits all her children Who have wandered afar from home...

“Arkansas, Arkansas, 'tis a name dear, 'Tis the place I call 'home sweet home,' Arkansas, Arkansas, I salute thee, From thy shelter no more I'll roam...”

--”Arkansas State Anthem,” Eva Ware Barnett

Spent two great weeks in the Motherland with family and friends back at the start of May.  Packed up Martha White Buttermilk Biscuit mix, instant Community Coffee and some summertime clothing (wishful thinking, that) and headed back on 8 May.  

And then, 8,000 miles, two continents, and two months (and some change) later, Miss Lola Jolene Loretta Lynn Pierce landed on the Auld Sod.  

KryshtAboveInDublin, as they say here, let me never endure this level of scrutiny, expense or stress again.

It started when I found a relatively new option in the Irish government's import scheme that would allow me to bring Lola here without quarantine.  That is, after I was required to provide the Irish government with three notarized forms from the USDA and my vet, two blood samples approved by the USDA, proof of microchipping, enough dollars and  euros to bolster the entire economy of a developing nation and the dog's entire medical history since birth.  

So, in February, this 25-pound investment I sometimes call “an enchilada of love” was certified as rabies-free and perhaps legitimate enough to enter Ireland, but she was only given a four-month window for entry.  And the airlines, being as customer-friendly as they are presently, had placed further restrictions on flying animals and on Lola's breed in particular.  No flight for Lola if ground temperatures were above 70 degrees, below 45 degrees, had a layover time shorter than four hours in the connecting hub, no transport in cabin and only in cargo, etc.  And even when booked, my airline of choice reserves the right to cancel your booking day-of, should there be any changes to the above.

“Tell your momma/tell your pa/gonna send you back to Arkansas...”

--”What'd I Say,” Ray Charles 

So, in the week I wanted to travel, only ONE flight in the entire United States of America fit the bill between the airline's rules, the Irish government's requirements and the approved timeframe.  And the itinerary took us from Memphis to Atlanta, where we enjoyed an eight-hour layover, and then from Atlanta to Dublin, where we were required to fly in order to make the inspection appointment.  Big (!) blog shout-out, here, to LACEY JAMES with POE TRAVEL in Little Rock and to DENNIS with DANDIE KENNELS in Atlanta for handling me, Lola and the logistics of things to ensure Lola's safe travel.  And my sanity.

So, day-of, it was raining.  Like pouring water from a bucket (see “lashing,” above) at 6AM.  Just ugly weather.  I'd gotten maybe two hours of sleep in my anxiety and packing, was running late (of course) and had to drive my vehicle on account of the four bodybags I call luggage that I used to move myself.  These, packed along with Mom, a kennel and Lola along for the ride.  Hydroplaning and cursing our way to the Memphis airport, our mission was to arrive at the cargo facility at 7AM to check in Lola.  

I got lost. 

No one answered the phone at the cargo facility.  

I violated several traffic laws and asked a drunk for directions, just as Mom remarked how happy she was to have taken vacation time for this kind of morning.

I was, like, even more lost.

But angrier than before.  Memphis traffic.

And needing, somehow, to exact revenge on Travelocity for their stupid, stupid directions.  Stupid map people and the stupid Internet.  Al Gore's invention sucks.

Mom then got through airport information and some man—whose name regrettably escapes me—answered.  She said something to this effect:

“Hi.  You don't know me, but I need your help.  My daughter is scheduled to fly at 10AM to Dublin and needs to check her dog in at the cargo facility, and we are lost.  This is not good.  We are panicked, low on gas and nearing a breakdown.  Can you please help us?”

This had become a bad action film film, of sorts.  I grabbed the cell phone like some kind of Z-list actress playing a government agent with a bomb strapped to her chest, asking Headquarters for instructions on WHICH. WIRE. TO. CUT.  (Red or blue!  Simple answer!)  I asked Very Nice Man to please stay with me on the phone until I had the cargo facility in sight.  He did, out of fear I think, mostly.  

We arrived at five minutes until 8AM.  My flight departed at 10AM.  Checking Lola was said to take an hour.  The airport said I had 45 minutes to get myself in line to check in for my flight or I'd be bumped.

A man we'll call Cargo Dan had no idea what malestrom walked in to the facility that morning, but when I arrived I brought hell with me.  Adrenaline-fueled and not yet fully caffeinated, I pulled my act together enough to slowly explain my sitch, as they say.

DAN:  You have the little pug-dog?

ME:  French bulldog, yes.  Her name is Lola, and she's all set in her--

DAN:  (interrupting) Yeah, can't fly her.  Too hot.

ME:  Well, I was told by my travel agent, who confirmed with Atlanta, that as long as I presented a certified acclimatization letter from my vet, stating clearly that Lola--

DAN:  It's not our call, m'am, it's Atlanta's.

ME:  But Atlanta said that...

DAN:  I'm sorry, but I'm not authorized...

ME:  (nothing, as I'd dissolved into a puddle of heartbreak and emotion on the counter in front of Dan)

DAN:  (pausing) Okay, lemme check with Atlanta...

ME:  Please....please let her fly....if she can't go, I can't stay there....

Dan calls several higher-ups, who were all at Krispy Kreme or anywhere else besides their desks that morning.  He leaves messages and then tells me that all we can do is wait.  I go tell Mom, who dutifully gets out of the car and comes up to the office to see if she can use something akin to a Jedi mind trick on them.  No dice.

Conjure up your own cinematic images here, clock ticking, palpable tension, hi-vis vests, etc.

Meantime, I leave sorrowful messages for both Lacey James and Dennis, asking for any information they may have that might sway the verdict my way.  The phone rings.  Dan says they are checking with Atlanta to see if they make this one concession.  I respond with more emotion, now approaching the scale of Miss Celie when they took her sister Nettie away from her in the film version of “The Color Purple”.  I go outside and call Jay, who kindly gave Lola a place to live until I got settled, to ready him for the possible return of one French bulldog until I can get my stuff moved back.

Dan yells, “Okay!  We're good to go!”

I nearly pass out.

The next day's worth of travel was a blur; completely jet-lagged 

and haggard, I collected Lola from the inspection clinic outside Dublin and bummed a ride back to Limerick with my kind friend, Deirdre.  And then spent the next week with Lola at my side at work [see visual aid] and in my new flat, where she seems to be fitting right in.  More on that next.

Hot fun in the summertime.

j:.

Character Sketch: Annie Fitz

Most (well, many) locals here will tell you tales of Annie Fitz, and most (well, many, unfortunately) of these tales are true.

Meet the illusive and infamous Annie Fitz, captured here by some low-rent camera phone operated by a passerby who was not me.

By all accounts the most well-known drunk in the city of Limerick, Annie Fitz will do anything for a can of cider. Or beer. Or whatever beverage might come in a can-shaped vessel and contain even trace amounts of alcohol. Annie lives in the park, in good weather, and howls at the moon, when visible. And she is always, ALWAYS drunk.

Townsfolk speak of the following--

Annie relieves herself in public. Yes, both #1 and #2. Amazingly, against storefront windows, somehow defying physical laws of nature.

Annie performs certain acts on men in exchange for booze. Maybe she is an equal opportunity booze whore, too, but no female stories have surfaced. And why men admit to participating in that is beyond me.

Annie pulls steak knives on elderly shopkeepers to demand chewing gum. See previous item.

Annie set her boyfriend or her brother on fire. Perhaps, one and the same.

Of all the travellers (Irish gypsies, see Brad Pitt's character in "Snatch,") homeless people, street urchins and otherwise shady denizens traipsing around over here, Annie Fitz is by far the best-known character. For Little Rock residents, this would mean she's bigger than Dirty Walking Man and Dirty Santa combined. She's the Elvis of the Underbelly. Team Fitz.

Happy Anniversary (to Me)

One month, I've been here.  A whole month.

You can do a lot in a month.

Something I've not done with any regularity, unfortunately, is picture-taking.  (That, and also blog-updating.  Har, har, very funny.  Thanks.)  So, I'm forever forgetting my camera.  Those who know me well are presently musing in front of your computers that I conveniently forget my camera, lest the lens capture me and, therefore, my soul.  Annoyed with pictures of myself, it's true.  So here's a link to some images not of me but of the things I'm seeing all around...

http://gallery.mac.com/juniperpie#100015

It's sleeting now.  Happy Spring.

j:.

The Daily Grind

The routine goes like this—

(6:30AM) Cell phone alarm goes off. I roll out of the bed I’ve made on the floor of my flat. Two twin mattresses pushed together and made up nicely. I walk three steps across a landing and unlock my bathroom door, turn on the immersion switches and take a nice hot shower. Warmest I am all day. The steam kinda hangs in the air, cold and damp as the world is here.

Make instant coffee,

Eat strange-tasting Cheerios,

Get dressed and ready for whatever weather is waiting on me,

(7:30ish) Head out to work.

On the days it hasn’t been pouring rain, I walk. 25 minutes at a brisk pace, and I’m at the Bóthar office. Couple of days I’ve gotten lost on the way. Frustrating. Then it’s work, work, work through the day, usually without stopping, so I can leave at 3PM to run errands. And by “running errands,” I mean literally walking to shops and stores, carrying bags all along the way. Thank God for smart Arkansan friends and their genius gift of a backpack.

“I think I lost it, lemme know if you come across it…” --Lucinda Williams

So far, the only meltdowns I’ve experienced have both happened in the grocery store. The first happened only a few days into my relocation; the second happened a week later. Each time, it felt like a monumental task to select food, because hardly any of the brands are the same and even some of the food names are completely different. And when I decided to make my mom’s lasagna recipe, and converted all the measurements into grams and the baking temperature into Celsius, I found myself confused and in front of the canned tomatoes, tears running down my face. But the end result was a somewhat odd-shaped dish of the tastiest lasagna this side of the Mississippi. Take that, Metric System, with your grams and your logical approach to measurement.

It’s Friday—bank holiday on Monday, with St. Patrick’s Day celebrated throughout the weekend.

Happy Paddy’s Day, y’all.

j:.

First Days

Sitting at my desk in Bothar's offices, trying to get used to the quiet and cold. The cold is the hardest thing to get used to--didn't anticipate the cold. Air is all-the-time damp, so it feels colder than it should. My new friends here talk about a "bite" in the air in the "lashing" rain, making it all feel "feckin' Baltic" outside.

"The first days are the hardest days..."
--Grateful Dead

Arrived in Dublin on Thursday, 28 February, and hit the ground running in Limerick with my first week of work last week, in dealing with broken washing machines and my broken foot and losing my way around town and grocery shopping and government red tape and all kinds of new experiences. But the people here, truly, are what makes the place. Could NOT be more gracious. I thought Southerners were the nicest people around, but the Irish make us look like a bunch of Yankees. At least I think these people are nice--can't really understand everything said through thick (pronounced "tick" here) Limerick accents. Because I am quite sure I'm not the one with an accent, of course.

So, for your enjoyment, check out this link to brush up on your Irish slang--

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiberno-English

I miss my family and friends and, of course, my Lola. Pictures and hopefully some video to come soon.

j:.