Chantal - Have Laptop Will Travel

I concluded in ‘London’ that the reason I am not having the same experience that previous visitors to Dublin had predicted is because I am living and working here, not visiting for an alcohol-fuelled weekend. But I never expected to feel as, well, at a loss as I do here. That’s partly because I’m only vaguely certain of where this house is in relation to the city centre, and have no clue at all about public transport out of here. Public transport connections have always been very important to me in all my years of living in London, so I feel even more stranded and cooped up than usual. Also we still only have the one key to the front door, so going out on my own is not even an option. I don’t think we’ve gone out once since the day we moved in here. I bought a new listings magazine today, which lists three sets of belly dance classes – one is for complete beginners, which I am certain enough that I am not – and another will be for the teacher I have already decided to avoid. There is one contemporary dance class advertised for non-beginners, although that is in Dun Laoghaire. I know the DART stops there, but I have no idea where it is beyond that.

It would help if there were any adequate maps available of Dublin. I remember arriving in Mexico City six years ago, having already bought a city map and listings guide at the airport, and scoured the Yellow Pages on arriving at the hotel. Within twenty minutes I had a list of music shops to visit, in the hope of harp strings; I walked away with yet another guitar, and very nearly another harp as well. That was also the year when I spent about a week in the city carrying out a photographic project, which involved exploring most of the city in search of the images I needed.

I looked for maps of Dublin on my first or second day here. Only two were available; Yannick later bought the other one. Mine is not laminated, granted, but at least it admits to an extra inch or so of coverage. Also the pages are sequential. I had already done my Yellow Pages search on moving out of the hostel, but found that most of the places I had noted were not within the area covered. Which in itself is not very encouraging, as it means that there is no capacity for extracurricular activities within the city centre or immediate vicinity. Except for a full-time Taekwondo dojang, which I suppose is more than even London can boast. Admittedly I left my notebook with all of its listings in London last weekend, a detail which does not actually bother me very much. I think that also says a lot about my feelings towards participating in this city, but again that does not bother me very much. After all, if I cannot even find these places on the best map available, what is the point in trying to find them physically when I can simply stay put instead, and maybe crank the heating up a bit higher. My umbrella is also in London. It has not occurred to me to buy another here, nor gloves.

Something else that does not bother me: not going out. I realised earlier today that since I stopped going out each night – in the vain hope that a drink or two would persuade my memory that the day had actually not been all that bad – I have had far less to write about. Today was voting day for the referendum on the Nice Treaty. When I arrived, I was taken with all the billboards telling people to vote whichever way; it took me a while to decide that Nice was in fact not a person, more likely an issue. I then thought that Irish people are far more active politically than the English, but apparently the frenzy is because of the funding that ‘No 2 Nice’ received. Had I gone out more, perhaps I would have listened to more opinions and facts about this issue, perhaps even gained enough material to write about it as well. Instead, we have now been listening to Coldplay for two and a half hours, and I have no idea what the voting results are. I fume all day at work, and have little recollection of what happens after, but I am sure that it is not very much.

I am already imagining in my mind how I would structure my life should I return to London: dance classes three evenings a week, belly dance classes again after all these years, making the effort to go to gigs and other activities. I then worried about how dance classes would conflict with my gigs. Would I bring my harp to work and then to class?

Last time I was away from London for a long period I missed the regularity of my dance schedule; before I left London I was proud of my gigs schedule, feeling strange if I did not have a gig lined up for the weekend. Now in Dublin, and at the end of my second week, I am no closer to establishing any sort of schedule, given my notes are in London and my map is a waste of time. Public transport is such that I very much doubt I would even be able to arrive anywhere in time anyway. Two dance classes and three taekwondo classes weekly is an interesting, if slightly odd concept.

What worries me more is the lack of musical opportunities. Once I have bought a pair of fingerless gloves I do not mind the idea of busking in Grafton Street, unfortunately that is not quite the career development I had in mind. I have been assured it might lead, not only to a handsome income, but also to Greater Things; however, one of the last things I did before leaving London was break with my reputation as a solo Celtic harper. I don’t have enough material to maintain that direction here; besides, how could I find anything but Celtic sheet music in this city? Country? Today I bought Dublin’s equivalent to Time Out. On Wednesdays, in the music section, there are eight music events listed. Five are traditional sessions. There is one open mic night per week. Apparently there is a jazz scene here as well, but if there is, ‘In Dublin’, ‘Hot Press’ and ‘Events Guide’ haven’t heard about it yet.

All that has mattered to me wherever I move to is that there is a good music scene, dance schools and martial arts lessons. I never realised before I moved here, however, how hard that might be find, how few other people take pride or interest in such activities.

Perhaps you think I am being over-fussy, that I have set my expectations too high. But the unfortunate reality is that I have never maintained a lifestyle that involves spending much time at home, returning only when events are over or when I need to catch up on a week’s sleep. Certainly there are breaks, when I stay home out of choice, or because I am too tired to do anything but maintain an image of the sofa in my mind, and keep moving until I reach it. I know that these lulls are only temporary, that it is only a matter of time before I return to the music scene and to my five weekly dance classes. But what of the situation in which there are no dance classes or gigs to go to? When all that awaits me is returning to the house, four or five hours to kill until it’s time to go to bed. No garden to work in, no punching bag to work on. One fiction book that I’m rereading for the second time in as many weeks.

The main thing that pained me about leaving London, finally, was leaving my lovely home and my new flatmate. I do have a surprisingly nice home here now, an extremely snazzy and well-decorated house in a good area; given my feelings about Dubliners’ drinking habits, it is also notable for being perhaps the only area of Dublin to be completely pub-free. The house is in an even better condition now than it was before last night’s party, yet all I can find to do is wander between the rooms, stare out of the window at the excuse for a garden, and perch on one of the living room chairs. My harp is busily going out of tune; the only times I have played it is on request. I know that this is where I live now, but the only belongings I have here are my harp, Guatemalan parrot, duvet and pillows. It feels more like temporary self-catering accommodation than a permanent home – I cannot settle here, or find any roots to attach. We are building up to squabbling about the central heating, which means I cannot even look forward to the luxury of sleeping through the night without waking up shivering several times. I’m simply not used to spending this quantity of time at home, at least not without my usual props: my piano, troublesome garden, weights, punching bag and satellite TV. And internet connection.

Objective though I was trying to be in ‘Work’, the conditions at work are truly driving me mad, and actually driving me to contacting my London temp agencies in the hope of any work, so long as it is not this and not here. Scenario: I was emailing my mother, Ana beside me was in the midst of her day-long online chatting, and Niall beside her was working on some coursework for his evening class. The trainer notices only me, asks me why I am not working on the exercises, and returns a few minutes later with next week’s presentations to read through. Given the quantity of Lotus Notes problems I have already supported, I fumed over every page of idiot-level introduction. The trainer has already had a lengthy go at Henning, who is having too many problems with his contract to keep up with, and who needed to miss the morning session. She then informed us that we would only be allocated one two-hour break on Friday or Monday to collect our paychecks, not to be repeated. Those of us who have just moved here will need to repeat this every Friday, until we are able to collect our Social Security numbers, after which we will need further time off to open a bank account. She has also not considered the impossibility of actually leaving the business park by public transport outside of commuting hours. The point of that apparent diversion is that I need to inform her that I will be missing two and a bit days next week, and I’m stupider than I appear if I think she will accept that without fierce recrimination.

I have worked and lived in far too many random places, many of them third world, and felt instantly at home and happy to be familiar with this level of discontent and unsettledness. Intuition apparently not an issue, I have been confidently and repeatedly assured that all I need is more time to adjust, but when I have absolutely no sense of permanence about, or interest in this place, and enough awareness of my experiences and intuition, I silently disagree. Disagreeing out loud has been futile. I am trying not to be hasty, trying to break my instinct for running away, and at the very least staying on at IBM until I find something better, preferably in London, where I can be reunited with my lovely home. But persisting here also seems an unnecessary waste of time and energy, although I appreciate the potential potential of this city and job.

Last night we had our housewarming party. I was amused by the concept that after only two weeks of living in Dublin, over thirty people turned up. I had had a bad day – Lotus Notes presentations and bad job interview – and was tired, in no mood for a party, simply for returning to my New Cross flat and curling up in the living room under my Mexican blanket amongst my potted palms. Three people came with us straight from work; about two or three hours passed before others started arriving. I was grateful when everyone but Olivier and myself went straight to the shop for beer and pizza, giving me time to unwind, change clothes and hairstyle in peace. I had just finished tuning the harp and was running through a few pieces when they returned.

When people started outnumbering seats, Caroline and myself made ourselves comfortable on the hearth; I did not move from there for several hours, trying to look interested when one of the guests would have to open the door to let yet more people in. (Towards the end of the night, Loig followed me into the kitchen, asking me how to get a cup of coffee. I pointed at and named: ‘Kettle, cup, coffee’ before walking back out again.) The kitchen started filling up; I commented at one point that two men were dancing in the kitchen, and was told it was probably a prelude to fighting, which finally broke out about an hour later. It quickly transformed into bear hugging, which continued for most of the evening. How strange to have such a large party, and have no actual friends there, only people I know by sight or who I have spoken to a handful of times; how strange to have a party and not have the people I actually want there. I texted an ex-colleague about the party and accidentally called it a leaving party. My clandestine bottle of Morgan Spice (discovered unexpectedly in a retail park) helped raise my spirits, certainly, but not enough to feel that there was anything particularly natural or engaging about the party. I watched, absently, present in body but most certainly not in spirit. I had long chats with three people, failed to persuade the Spanish man to talk to me in anything but English, and relished in the pre-end-of-party tidy-up. I continued tidying up over the next hour or so, but unfortunately it did not give anyone the idea of leaving. At three o’clock I abandoned protocol and went to bed.

I am intrigued by who Dublin is turning me into. I seem to have a blanket reputation for meeting lots of people very quickly, and being oversociable to a fault. Now, I rarely mix at work except with a very small number of people, and try to avoid talking to anyone even when I do go out. I am living with two French men and working with several Spanish speakers, yet tirelessly speak only in English. From someone so passionate about dancing and music, I have no interest in either, having already accepted that I would be wasting my energy hoping to progress with either while I am here. When in London last weekend, I was restless without my harp to play; here, it is sitting beside me and I don’t even notice it. Perhaps the only positive thing to come out of this is that I seem to have lost all of my feminist instincts.

I decided to write this piece because I am getting fed up of justifying my feelings about Dublin. The best way I can think to describe it is this: imagine you’re going to visit a distant friend for the weekend in a place you don’t know. Partway through Sunday she needs to pop out quickly to meet up with a friend, and leaves you there for an hour or so. You’ve never visited the house before, and you didn’t bring enough with you to keep yourself entertained in her absence. You wander about listlessly, watching the minutes pass. She lives in a residential area you don’t feel like exploring, and you don’t want to thumb through her belongings in case she catches you. And so you sit there, twitching, waiting for time to pass…