I got the apartment I wanted, in the area I wanted, at the price I wanted, for the length of time I wanted, with the preferred aesthetics I wanted, shared with the person I wanted. This place is the coolest. I’m really happy to be here.
oneIf there were some kind of update on the apartment situation, I’d surely post about it here, but the real estate out there — even the rentable real estate — is a miserable situation for a couple kiddos who’re just barely hanging onto their paychecks in the meantime. (Or paycheques, now, I suppose, because EVERYTHING MUST BE DIFFERENT.) There’s a lot of false advertising and outdated photos abound.
And with a one-way ticket into Dublin from the country costing €5.40, after a long day of toiling in front of the computer, rushing into the city to look at an apartment I can dismiss just by the carpeting in the main lobby — well, let’s just say I’ve had it UP TO HERE with apartment hunting the last four weeks.
Our requests are simple, really:
Not too extravagant, right? We’re not fancy, our budget isn’t out of control for a starting salary, and we know we can make a place nice and comfortable on our own. This is a very attainable list.
EXCEPT IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO ATTAIN. These requests are possible in pieces, but an apartment with all of these qualities does not exist. And so, while I continue to fool myself into thinking that maybe one will come up tomorrow or next week, possibly, I would like to show you exactly what I’m dealing with here.
And this pattern is called...?
There's matchy-matchy, and then there's the opposite
Such gorgeous accent pieces
"Oh good, it's got wood floors." "No. Come closer." "AHH!"
More than one person chose this couch pattern! Like, dozens did!
The dining room chair cushions are in the same pattern.
Look, I’m not trying to be cruel towards other people’s style choices, but for the areas they belong to, and the state of the economy, and the rise of modernity in apartments elsewhere in the city, the price they’re asking for on these types of places is inexplicable. So, while I continue to waste time during the day browsing the pages of DAFT, I’m going to keep cataloging the evidence until someone takes the hint and drives to IKEA.
noneOh! Hello. Didn’t see you there.
Okay, yes I did, I’ve been extremely aware of how much time was slipping by without an update. It’s kind of rude of me, yes, but don’t worry — my thank-you graduation post cards are finally in the mail, and I think I have some decent reasons for staying quiet.
There’s a law of physics that not many people know about, but I do because I’m a doctor. It says: Moving to a new country will be batshit crazy for at least four weeks. You might think I’d be excused from this, seeing as I’ve already conquered Ireland once before. I have to admit, I THOUGHT SO TOO. I knew the Irish were slow as hell at getting public service things done, so I would just get them done early and be done with it. But is anyone ever really done with immigration?
I suppose I am now, as of yesterday, but that’s only after I’d gone to the Dublin bureau for a few hours only to find out I’m not living within their jurisdiction at the moment. I was going to tell a long story about the whole thing, but THERE’S NO TIME.
I sit at a computer all day long but I still have no time to update anyone about anything. I’ve been typing this entry progressively for a week or two between work and getting the bus and writing up letters and going to bed.
Work is going well, I enjoy it, although my eyesight doesn’t. Straight after work, I bolt into the city (or as fast as a bus will take me) in order to view apartments that disappoint me time and time again. (Although, we saw one yesterday that I’m crazy about. Let’s all work together to will this one into happening.) By the time I’m home, it’s 9:30 pm, time for heating up dinner, finishing up some part-time work, and going to bed for work at 8 am.
I’m exhausted, although since it’s from bountiful work and progress — and not, you know starvation or poverty or illness — that’s really nothing to complain about. Sometimes I just need to go into an empty room by myself, cry it out, and then get back to lobbying my old landlord for a reference, or my bank for a reference, or my employer for a reference.
Oh, and also enjoying the fact that the last 9 months are completely over and that I don’t think about them at all anymore. It’s like I never left.
none
Wild Turkey with ice.
Yeah, somewhere along the line I switched from being a non-drinker to a drinker. Not just somewhere along the line, actually: It was November 11, 2008, I believe, after I’d become completely smitten with a certain gentleman who invited me to a house party. My master plan, as I explained to a friend, was this: “The reason I am still single after this long while everyone else isn’t is that other people drink, and they have Facebook. I am going to try this, and if he’s not my boyfriend by Christmas, then I will quit both.” I brought a German friend to the party, and the two of us drank orange juice (a kind gesture of solidarity from her), until she needed to catch the bus at 11:30. I was too attracted and picking up too many signals to just leave, so I said I would stay and walk home with the guys later. Everyone around me was extremely drunk and I was lonely, standing against the wall, feeling jealous. My future boyfriend craned his neck to spot me across the room and motioned me over, rolling his eyes at everyone. ”Bored?”
“It’s pretty boring being the only sober one,” I said. He laughed, and I stared at the can of Tuborg in his hand. ”I want to try it,” I said.
He looked shocked; we’d had this discussion before. On our first date, I’d even stupidly turned down his offer of another drink (who drinks more than one Coke in succession? Later I was to learn that he expected me to at least offer to buy him another Guinness in return. I didn’t understand these customs.). ”Are you sure? Really?” he said.
I said yes, and tasted it. He let me have the rest of it. It tasted like I assumed it would. After a while, all I felt was the desire to dance.
Needless to say, my master plan had worked, and it was all fine at first. He felt terrible that my first alcoholic experience was Tuborg, and introduced me to some finer varieties, as well as whiskey. My tongue became discerning — I preferred whiskey to vodka by a long shot, ales to lagers usually, white wine to red. I enjoyed a number of parties and a good amount of dancing. I would never wake up sick or with a headache, but instead with a keen urge to go on a hike while lifting weights.
And then there was some drama in our group of friends, and it didn’t become quite as fun anymore. I would start the night sober and anxious, which, after a few too many, would lead to me boxing myself up into a silent creature who wouldn’t make eye contact or respond to any questions. I would walk home in a fury, reach my room, and sob. Even on the good nights, I would shut my door and sob. Even as the drama dissipated and everything started to go my way, I would leave a pub and burst into furious tears. My psychologist and I later concluded that something about having to leave a place, having to accept that all the anticipation and the night were over, pushed me over the edge. Perfect nights turned sour on the walk home, and led to arguments over absolutely nothing but my inexplicable mood. Then I would shut the door and sob.
One night in particular was very embarrassing. The magazine I worked for had a launch party on a rooftop bar, chock full of free drinks and C-list celebrities. I started the evening feeling strange over God knows what, and then remember walking down Westmoreland Street, using my mind to force the annoyance to slip away so that I could make it through a few hours. And then, things turned awesome. There were free ginger beers and free Häagen-Dazs and a great DJ. My boyfriend and I made friends with an Australian couple, snuck some of his pals in, had an absolute ball. We went to the Pav at Trinity after, for more fun. The Australians called it quits there, but by now I was hanging out solely with men who weren’t finished, so I stupidly followed them to an infamous dodgy club, where we still had a good time. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed. I burst into tears — I couldn’t remember a thing from the club! My boyfriend grumbled, “Really, not anything?” and the tone of his voice jarred a sudden memory of screaming at him on the street that I could walk myself home, but also distinctly remembered having absolutely no idea where I was. I remembered screaming, “You never talk to me!!!“ He told me my attitude came out of nowhere, that moments earlier we had been laughing. A small saving grace was that none of his friends witnessed my behavior; but he did, and I could not explain what I’d say at all.
I know, everyone has these moments. But it was becoming an every-single-time sort of thing. Not the blacking out, I mean, but the crying. It would start out as a treat, and end with me crying on some steps, refusing to say what I was upset about. The truth was, I was upset that my relationship seemed to have an expiration date on it, one that matched my visa. This was something we worked on to get over. We focused our alcohol consumption towards appreciating it more — visiting whiskey distilleries, committing our trip to Scotland to Scotch tastings, trying new beers, asking bartenders for their top recommendations. Eating food, drinking water. Knowing when to stop.
And the number one rule: Never, ever drink if you’re in any way upset.
Sticking to this rule has revealed a lot about what kind of mindset I’m in, and the theme of the last academic year has been AWFUL, LONELY, and AGONIZING. Which is a shame, especially since I assumed that, because I had developed an affinity for spirits and beers, I could return to the States and BC and finally partake in the social sphere, thereby tackling the loneliness head-on. And this… did not happen. American colleges appalled me (and continue to). The binge drinking and the lack of true socialization; the shots and the games designed around getting really drunk, really fast; these are things I cannot enjoy. So once again, I hid in my room while parties raged on, declined invitations to happy hour, and had an arsenal of excuses at hand to get out of any social situation.
Because I knew what would happen to me. The thing I’ve always known would happen to me, one of the major reasons I never, ever wanted to drink before: if I am in anyway upset or uncertain, I can’t handle it, emotionally. My inhibitions save me from self-deprecation and depression; they are what I’ve worked on strengthening for years to get myself to a livable place. When I am with my boyfriend, fortunately, I have little need for them — I’m so happy, and the majority of the time now I don’t have a breakdown when we drink together. But boy, is that hard to keep up when we’re not together. We try to recreate a sense of it — cheersing each other over video cameras, playing 24 drinking games while streaming an episode at the same time. But once the call is over, I am left sitting in my room, buzzed and alone. This fast turns into buzzed and lonely, then buzzed and depressed, then just flat-out misery. This then leads to wailing on the phone at my mother and sending bitter texts just because someone has to go to bed 5 hours earlier than I do.
This has been just yet another downer associated with my senior year, because I thought I’d gotten to a place where I was happy and social — but there’s no doubt about it, those have never been two traits people in the States have used to describe me. On the other hand, they are the first two things my boyfriend says he noticed about me. Something about being in Ireland brings out good things in me, even when it comes to drinking. It must be how it’s a place that values quality beers over 30 packs, and where drinking games involve tricky word puzzles and math equations instead of guzzling.
(I should note that this is because of the sort of people I hang out with. In no way am I suggesting that there’s no such things as alcoholism or binge drinking in Ireland, because there absolutely are. Just, fortunately, not in my crowd of college students.)
I’m having a Mayflower Porter at the moment, and not freaking out. But that can only be explained by it being so, so close to my departure date for the motherland. Can you blame me? The start of next week will go down as one of the happiest moments so far in my life — the end of my long-distance relationship, the continuation of my real-time relationship, the start of my first job, my first apartment, and getting to raise a glass of champagne (and then Guinness, and then Wild Turkey, and then hopefully not a Jägerbomb but we all know it goes there sometimes) to living out my super-crazy dream life.
none