October 28, 2002
To Be Irish
Naturally, I was concerned about the practicalities involved in moving to Ireland. I’ve worked in a lot of countries before, but always been paid in room and board, or in tips. ‘Don’t worry,’ the recruitment agency kept telling me airily, ‘we’ll help you with everything you need to get set up.’ Whenever I worried about it anyway, she would as airily reassure me that twenty-six others were starting on the same day, and all of them would be as newly arrived, i.e not Irish, and as unprepared.
Five or six of the group are Irish. Most have lived here before, or have been living here already for anything from a few weeks to a few years. Of the agency I am with, only two others are in the same position as me. On the first day, we were shephered into a small room to meet our agency representative who read through every piece of documentation. The extent of the assistance offered to us was one side of A4 informing us of how to obtain a Social Security number and bank account. I have left mine in London. It would take up to three weeks to get the former, and about the same for the latter. In the meantime, we would have to go to their offices weekly for our pay cheque and find a bank willing to cash it – the only one known to us is clear on the other side of Dublin, and again, not on my map; the alternative would be to receive the cheque in the post at some unspecified point and again take time off work to find a bank able to cash it for us. For six weeks.
Our first trainer assured us that IBM were well aware of our problems and would grant us all the time we needed to sort out our paperwork. On Friday, our less personable trainer growled at us that we would only be entitled to a one-off two-hour lunch break either that day or today, Monday. When she asked who would need to go, a sea of hands went up, but in fact there were only five of us today. Or six, if you count Ana, who drove off to the nearest town, Blanchardstown. On returning to the office, we found we had been cc’d into an email to the Training Manager stating, ‘The following people took time off work today and have not returned….’ Ana made it back in time.
Logical problem number one: it is logistically impossible to get public transport out of the business park between 9 am and 4.30 pm. The receptionist suggested we try the bus stop out on the main road. As we stood there, having made our way through the swamp that the roadsides had become, we indeed saw a bus drive into the business park, finally returning to collect us and take us to the Blanchardstown retail park. By the time we had found a bus going into the city centre, we had already used up 45 minutes of our precious two hours. I think 2.30, the time we were due back at work, saw us heading off towards our agency. We finally returned at 5 pm, having taken a taxi from Blanchardstown Village in the end. One of the guys emailed me to ask if we got a bit wet. I replied, ‘Did the Blanchardstown River making its way down the room give us away then?’ It’s been raining for two days. The reason English weather is so light and wispy is because most of it has been left behind here. If the rain continues for much longer the car will be swimming to work.
Apparently this is a new IBM policy, testing to see if we can indeed teleport ourselves or find jetpacks in order to complete all our necessary paperwork. Previous teams did indeed have all the time off that they needed. The building I am in houses the helpdesk and the sales department. I’ve not met anyone from sales, but I do know it is very rare to hear English spoken in the smoking room or while queuing for lunch. I’ve seen from the Spanish team’s noticeboard that most of their staff are Spanish, with one Nicaraguan. I’ve shadowed four of the English-speaking team; only one was Irish. Two were Dutch, the other was Bosnian. A new, very large group started their training period yesterday, and we can guarantee that very few, if any of them will actually be Irish. Some will be fortunate enough to have already lived here, but most will be in exactly the same situation: at the mercy of their agency’s temperamental level of cooperation, and IBM’s willingness to accept the situation we are in.
When I was queueing at the Social Welfare office a week ago to get my Social Security (PPS) number, the receptionist told two Australians that all they would need is a letter from their hostel or the friends they were staying with confirming they were staying there. By the time she reached the person in front of me, the advice had changed yet again. Incidentally, when I mentioned the above advice to some of the others, they reported that they had been turned away; utility bill or nothing.
I have never appreciated how valuable the utility bill is before. The first thing I did in Dublin, after stashing my harp and rucksack under my bunkbed, and pumping the other woman in the dorm for information, was set off for the mobile phone shop that had been recommended somewhere in search of, well, a mobile phone. Having my priorities straight, perhaps. Utility bill required for all models. Pay As You Gos are every bit as expensive here as there are now in England, about €150 or €180. Fine, then, I thought; I’ll get a Monthly phone. Oh, I don’t have a bank account yet. A week ago, I tried to buy a SIM card for my sole remaining handset; it’s been locked by Orange. No mobile. My handset is now being very selective in who it lets me text. At least Social Welfare accepted a letter from the agency confirming my new address; I don’t know how many other institutions would be as accommodating.
Finding somewhere to live in itself has not been terribly easy. As I was looking with two French men, they decided I shoud make all the phone calls as, well, my English is better, also I can sound very Irish on occasion which we thought would also help. We also thought that the fact that we were Professionals, hired by IBM, would also count in our favour. I think all the furore about the Nice Treaty has said a lot about the Irish attitude towards foreigners; I have talked to several people about it, but eventually only got a glimpse of the actual story from the listings magazine I bought on the day of the referendum vote. Ireland, not the most multinational of countries, has very mixed feelings about immigrants and foreigners, and the core issue was the prospect of receiving residents of Eastern European countries. Initially only Sinn Fein, the Green Party and some Eurovision Song Contest winner had been against it, but that was sufficient to delay the Government’s decision until this weekend when the referendum finally took place.
This house was the third one we looked at. The first one was very funky, and in an excellent location. The owner acted like a gruff grandfather, so I played up my charming granddaughter role, hoping it would be sufficient to sway him in our favour. He rented it to three Irish sisters. The second house involved waiting outside in the cold wind and rain for forty-five minutes; the landlord gave the house to the gothic-looking Irish friends who had been waiting with us. We were probably the first to see this house – it is not the kind of house that would sit on the market for any length of time – but both the agency and owner of the first house were not very well-equipped to deal with overseas references and the logistics required in obtaining them. I think that is probably one of the things that deterred the owner of the first house, and certainly concerned our agency to some extent.
Dublin in itself is not a very practical city to live in unless you are both a driver and a car owner. I had been told by a guide book that the city has a very impressive bus network, but that is probably only in comparison to what it could be, or to the rest of the country. I have already mentioned, both above and probably in other pieces as well, the impossibility of finding public transport leaving the workplace outside of key commuting times. The last bus in the morning leaves at 7.55 am; the first one out is at approximately 4.30 pm. When we unexpectedly finished work early one afternoon and decided to go to a pub, those of us who were lucky enough to get a lift had to wait about an hour and a half for those who were not. One thing preying on my mind is access to the airport. From this house, it is no problem at all; it is on the airport route, and there are five or six buses to choose from. From work, which is only slightly east of the airport, I would have to find a bus to the city centre and then another back out to the airport. Although, according to the Time Out guide, there are ‘about 900 buses serving well over 100 routes’- that’s actually rather a depressing statistic – very few, if any are actually available to where you want or need to go. They run on Irish Time as well, which means they turn up when they feel like it, if at all, which ultimately means: Forget It. Perhaps if I could drive or had a motorbike I might actually be less apprehensive about exploring and visiting more of Dublin. Could go to the bank in my lunchbreak and not accumulate uncashed cheques. And the amount it rains, god you do not want to be spending half an hour for a bus that is probably too full anyway, and is going to get stuck in gridlock traffic.
I know that the recruitment agency I am with is responsible for hiring approximately half of us, which leads me to question why they had assumed so many would be starting in this country from scratch when they knew very well the other candidate’s situations. Also why they would be so poorly equipped to handle assisting us with the practicalities involved in moving here. Perhaps the recruitment staff are not kept sufficiently informed of agency practice; perhaps they actually think a sheet of paper and at least six weeks’ waiting for a bank account is perfectly acceptable. The two men I am living with, Yannick and Olivier, are with an agency called Eolas; I know of them from their website which took about half an hour to open. Although their agency did not gather them around on their first day, they met in the first week, and again at the start of last week, when they helped Olivier set up his bank account. He came with us into town today to collect his credit card. From what I can tell, their agency is helpful, considerate and professional.
Mine is not. I met out trainer’s evil twin today at the agency. They had not expected any of us to arrive to collect our cheques, so the receptionist summoned a bouncy young woman to bring down my cheque as the other two had been posted. (Soizic is puzzled; he does not recall giving the agency his new address.) When I started asking about bank accounts and the impracticality of losing half a day’s pay each week simply to collect what was left over, she bounced back up the stairs to fetch Evil Twin. Firstly, she told us off for not having made an appointment. She argued hard, in the manner of someone who is used to being listened to and not questioned. (Another aside: a few years ago, I was considered for the role of recruitment agent; the agency finally decided I appeared too young and too sweet. Any of you laughing out there?) Certainly I argued back that she was not listening; although my first question was about providing a letter of introduction that I would need to open an account, the second questioned her mantra of ‘thou shalt have a PPS number in order to have an account’ when Olivier and others were clearly able to open theirs far sooner without one. She was still harping on about the letter of introduction while I was asking her if there was any way around having to take time off work to collect or even cash the cheque. We ended at an impasse, but she gave me her business card. I haven’t looked at it yet. Oh. ‘Consultant.’
Again with my recurring theme, this is why tourists leave with such a positive impression of the place. I am not certain about how they would find their impression of Irish people as they are in a severe minority in the city centre, but all the same, they do not have to worry about the ridiculousness of public transport, getting money and a mobile phone so that you don’t have to snap at everyone who innocently calls you. Some banks seem to do all they can to discourage you from opening an account, from what I have heard, so even that is hardly an option. When I tried to phone Eircom to find out why we couldn’t receive incoming calls, each option on the automated service I tried returned me to our voicemail. The Irish people in my group are all very nice, however I’ve had a shopkeeper pick an argument with me, and I think I’ve made my feelings about our trainer very clear. The men I have met outside of work have been lecherous timewasters.
And, come on, with all the rain this country gets, you’d think the roads and pavements could at least be level.
Posted by chantal at 03:57 PM | Comments (0)
October 21, 2002
Rocky Road to Dublin
Midnight, Saturday. My second Saturday in Dublin. I’m at home. Yannick is stretched out on the sofa reading a Stephen King hardback. Olivier has finally woken up and is doing something to some photos on the computer. We’re listening to Coldplay. I’ve just spent the last hour and a half writing ‘Helpdesk’ after listening to Olivier leaf through his Beatles songbook trying to find potential busking tunes. Welcome to the Dublin Experience.
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…
Posted by chantal at 03:54 PM | Comments (0)
October 16, 2002
Work
There are 26 of us. Many of us complain that we feel that we are back at primary school; we have a different trainer this week, and she conforms all to well to the mould of intimidating high school teacher. We miss our laidback, accommodating trainer of last week.
We are due to start work at 9 am. After nearly two weeks, none of us have staff numbers yet, and very few of us have actual passes. Reception has started to grudgingly hand out a small number of swipe cards, but due to the strict ‘No Tailgating’ policy, we cannot take advantage of these, and have to wait patiently in Reception for maybe twenty minutes before we are allowed to enter the building and hastily stock up on coffee and tea. Again, we have to wait patiently – or preoccupiedly, as we eat breakfast and sip our drinks – before our trainer will swipe us onto the helpdesk floor. Our previous trainer allowed us ten minutes or so to settle and catch up on email; this one prefers to pretend we aren’t all typing away frantically all day in the attempt to not pay attention.
Introduction to Helpdesk. I haven’t yet gauged the level of the rest of the group; three have worked on less technical helpdesks; another has, but been out of work for a few months. Many have recently completed programming courses, including myself. Still, there are those who do not understand right clicking, or Windows Explorer. Nevertheless, that is still no excuse for the basic nature of the course; surely, if we are to provide effective technical support, we have to be trained to a higher level than the customers we are supporting. Last week I corrected, made suggestions to, and helped out Liam; without even thinking, I know to sit quietly around Tara, our new trainer.
Liam made the effort to communicate and reach out to us; Tara does not. Admittedly I missed the end of Monday and start of Tuesday, but we have spent the last three days working through exercise booklets, practising using a database that does not work, and sitting two ‘exams’. During presentations, where she reads and rereads directly off the slide, we are told to switch off our monitors so that we do not tune her out as is our natural instinct. We can read faster than she can read and reread and rereread aloud. One of the smokers was discreetly playing a game, another was chatting online. A guy two desks down was nodding off over an online newspaper. I subtly tweaked my CV, then sent a quick email to my temp agent apologising that it would take me longer than planned to change it and send it over to her. The Problem Management team gave us a short presentation; Tara stood at the back for the second half. As soon as they left, she blasted us for our disrespect in continuing to surf the internet in their presence, and indeed in hers.
Despite our varying levels of experience, we cannot be expected to sit quietly while we are fed the most basic of computer training, with too long to work on exercises and exams without trying to keep otherwise busy. Most of us are from abroad, and are either trying to arrange settling here, or stay in touch with friends and family back home. And again, despite the levels of experience, all of us are uniformly bored and the trainers seem reluctant to accept this and adapt their training style and content accordingly. Indeed, this approach to training: presentations and exercises, with minimal interaction, does not allow for even determining our learning speeds and difficulties, opting instead for a general blanket tuition that will satisfy the training requirement.
I spend my breaks in the smoking room, despite the other smokers’ preference to stand outside in the biting cold and wind. There are a few who join me, but the main social point is during our hour-long lunchbreak. For all but two of us, this is our first time of working on this, or any business park, and we are finding it hard to adjust to entertaining ourselves within the walls of the building. I have read all of the cards in the shop, as well as newspaper headlines and magazine fronts. I’ve also read all of the plaques and signs on the walls; this took part of one lunchbreak. There is a small gym, but we are not yet entitled to use it; there is also a rumoured pool room, but only one of us knows where it is. Usually I am too dehumanised and livid by each breaktime to want to mix much, so I eat my lunch with the others and then slope off for some solitude and nicotine. Two people usually join me: an Irish non-smoker, who stays to chat for a while, and a French smoker who tells me his stories of heavy drinking, blacking out, and getting fired.
Small groups are forming, but conversation is at least partly strained by the different nationalities and languages among us, and the conflict between speaking in a native tongue or English, depending on the mix of people and the topics of conversation. I joke that coming to Dublin is far better an opportunity to learn German, Italian, Spanish or French rather than the more obvious English. When talking about the others, it is a surprise to find out how few names each has learned; we usually have to run through their nationality, which language team they will be working on, where they sit in the room and any distinguishing characteristics before giving up. One woman has already left, and yet very few know who she was.
Much as we dread returning to the training room, there is so little to do in our lunchbreaks that we usually return early, and sit outside despairingly, making feeble jokes, until the trainer arrives to unlock the room. There is a phone in the room that worked for part of last week which we would queue up to use; now that Tara insists on locking the room outside of class time, even if we could use it, we would not be allowed to. I wanted to relieve the pressure on my flatmate in London so offered to make some of the phone calls to take my name off of the bills, and have not as yet even taken them out of my bag. Henning, a German, has been waiting over four weeks for his contract, and is anxiously trying to chase this up (the agency’s email addresses conveniently no longer work), as well as straighten out logistic problems back in Germany.
Another feature of our training sessions is the air conditioning. As I emailed someone, the ones who are too hot are far louder in their protests than those who are too cold to be able to muster faint squeaks of discomfort. An Argentinian/Taiwanese woman sits next to the thermostat, and firmly keeps it on cool; I swapped my work jacket for my biker jacket when I was back in London, and have yet to take it off. I turned the heating up high after lunch today; within a few minutes, Tara was complaining that the room was too stuffy.
Despite our attempts to start each day with a fresh and positive outlook, we know what awaits us, and even though we may not know what is to be covered (or not: we are already two days behind schedule), we know what the presentation and attitude of Tara will be. Most spend the day chatting online, playing games or emailing in the need to keep sane, although there is a small number who long for extra tuition time, maybe staying late or coming in weekends so that they can cover subjects in yet more depth. At break times we will finish the email we are writing or game we are playing before rushing for the door, and the main topic of conversation will be exasperation. The only time I have seen everyone smile and look happy is when we were unexpectedly informed yesterday that we would be finishing early. And yet this overwhelming sense of foreboding and frustration clouds the real situation: that we have been hired by IBM to work on their helpdesk, an excellent opportunity in itself. Even if it does not lead to further opportunities within IBM, we can almost guarantee the doors it will open for us on leaving. Regardless of our experience or background, we have been presented with this chance to establish ourselves within the industry, and yet we do not know whether we are filled with more dread at the thought of the next day or the training finally coming to an end.
Posted by chantal at 03:59 PM | Comments (0)
October 11, 2002
London
Helena Wetterberg, a photographer, titled her graduation piece ‘Home’. A Swede, she had been raised in Malaysia. Around the time she moved to Torquay, England, her parents moved to Stockholm. Her sister lived in the States. She had spent two years in Torquay and three in London by the time I met her. For her, home was where her parents now lived, and she had severed all her links with Malaysia. She had spent a long time trying to define ‘home’; her piece was an installation, with basic furniture projected onto the walls of a dark room: a chair, a wardrobe, a bed, a light, a window. A music box tune could be heard faintly.
I’ve spent more years than I care to admit to in London. I’ve always yearned for a sense of belonging, always felt at odds with what I define as English culture. At one time, I made a concerted effort to Be More English; a few years later, I started a photographic project, researching how English people themselves defined englishness. As most of my friends have always been from other countries, I’ve discussed with them recently the fact that no matter how long you live in London, you will always be made to feel aware of being a foreigner. For me this is a more complicated issue, as I don’t seem to have any obvious nationality, and I have been living for too long in London to feel this way.
Four years ago, I was living in Guatemala when I realised I was far happier than I had ever been whilst in London, and had all I needed to build my life upon: a good circle of friends, a high quality of life, the potential of a lovely home, more music work than I could schedule in, and the offer of studying music at the Conservatory in the capital. Six months later, I found myself unexpectedly back in London, and chose to stay on for a few specific reasons: my egyptian dancing teacher, who I was very fond of, my circle of friends, and my ‘sister’ Marina and my father, both of whom I wanted to get to know better. Within a few weeks I had become a fixture on the live music circuit, literally playing where other harpers dared not tread.
It’s been two and a half years since I last did an egyptian dance class, and seem to have developed a psychological block against ever returning. Marina is living in Spain now, and since partially losing contact two years ago we’ve never regained the friendship we had before. I have lost touch with virtually all of the friends who were so important to me a short few years ago. And in that time, London has been the place that stood witness as bad things happened, as I fought to recover from them, and laughed at me every step of the way. As I flew over the Irish Sea five days ago, my mind was filled with images of my flat in London, and it’s those images that are making me glow at the thought of returning tomorrow.
I’m aware that a visitor’s snapshot experience of a place, in this case Dublin, are going to differ greatly from a resident’s long-term view. I’ve been too tired, and also too discouraged to do all I had thought of in my first few days here. But I came with a list of the ingredients I would need – egyptian and contemporary dance classes, a diverse music scene, martial arts classes, that all-elusive sense of belonging – not forming any expectations beyond finding and enjoying them.
I set out tonight to an egyptian dance class with the intention of writing a piece on ‘Arabic Dance in Ireland’, but realised a common theme during the class. Tonight’s teacher appears to be the sole egyptian dance teacher in Dublin, and bears an alarming resemblance – personality aside – to a teacher I viciously boycott in London, objecting to their philosophy of using class time as a platform for showing off in lieu of teaching. And I don’t think I’m alone in feeling it to be inappropriate and insulting to perform while teaching complete beginners who are struggling with even the simplest of moves. The rest of the class was extremely boring, with basic moves practiced for far too long.
I’ve been raised with both the American and British ethics, the American being that you work hard, push yourself hard, throw everything you have into what you’re doing; the British, mediocre is adequate. My brother has been living in the States for three years, and has been dealing with the same conflict since his return a year ago. At least in the States, he says, if you work hard you are recognised, appreciated and promoted accordingly. In England, he struggles to receive basic recognition of his achievements, while I simply get fired. I’m working for IBM now, on their helpdesk, having just finished on the Price Waterhouse Coopers helpdesk. I was intrigued at the prospect of three weeks’ training, and have been horrified to find this is because they have hired people specifically without experience, in some cases barely computer literate, and that this is perfectly acceptable for the Irish branch of a major technological firm. A brief few minutes’ conversation was sufficient to gauge our language skills. They did not even ask for references. Admittedly, this is the only experience I have of working in Ireland, and do not know if other companies do indeed operate on the same basis. Tonight’s class, however, again sought out the lowest common denominator and dropped it sharply. In such environments, it seems most obvious to slow down to the point of stopping altogether, as there is no incentive or reward for seeking a faster pace, indeed a challenge. And in the cases I have seen so far, not even the capacity.
Retracing my steps, and my previous piece, people’s enjoyment of Dublin seems to be based on the friendliness, the atmosphere, the nightlife. ‘Friendliness’ seems to be a licence for men to hit on every woman they see. The nightlife I have not really experienced, and I’ve not yet figured out what this special atmosphere is. All that has happened is that I have learned to appreciate London all the more. Yes, it is hostile, enormous, discouraging and harsh, but its very size offers a wealth of activities that cannot be found in a small, mostly unicultural capital such as this. Even the size of London itself is a deterrent to taking advantage of most. And I found that the lifestyle and culture of London were such that the opportunities I sought were not enough.
Perhaps that is part of the problem. Although Dublin’s technological industry is apparently developing rapidly, the market itself is too small to provide the resources that are needed; similarly, culturally, there are very fixed expectations which discourage diversification or the competition needed to improve the quality of what little is available. Innovation appears to be scarce, and change unimportant. London… it brings to mind, actually, a rather dire Queensryche song which I can no longer remember, but which was aiming towards gothic. I know of the richness of London’s culture at the start of the last century, and its role in the Sixties’ and Seventies’ culture, but those are very different worlds from the one experienced today. You can gaze at the blue plaques demarcating where the artistic heroes once lived, but remain excluded from the society that formed and created them. I can be proud of this city’s past, but remain, for the most part, relieved not to be eking out a life there anymore.
A lot of London’s harshness is due to its size, and the difficulties in so many people co-existing in such an overpopulated place. Too many people commuting, too many people in your way, too many people you dare not trust. And a very strong sense of impatience, that you will not allow the too-many-other-people slow you down or interfere in what you plan to do. People’s natural instinct is suspicion and solitude, which makes it all the lonelier for others who are not accustomed to such a lifestyle. However that impatience leads to certain expectations, a level of quality or service, or even a basic lack of interference. Certainly one downside of a friendly culture is that you’ll always be late for all that you plan to do; the flip side is that that usually disregards your own preferences and is not always out of choice. But there’s a little voice in every Londoner that says, ‘Nope, not good enough’, ‘you’re joking’, or, simply, ‘next!’ when faced with something not worth your while. The England I know is very reluctant to appreciate or praise, which makes it all the easier to take advantage of the competition available. In a culture without such tension, you simply enjoy and do not question.
What perplexed me in my previous piece, and again in this one, is what is so different about Dublin – or myself – that I cannot settle as immediately here as I have done in so many other places. It is extremely rare for me to get lost, except in London (and particularly where a friend, Madge, is involved!), and wherever I go I am struck with a sense of dormant familiarity. A few years ago, while working somewhere in Central America, for weeks or months I was recognising places from dreams I had had, even though I had never been there before. In Guatemala, my heart swells on arriving, relieved and satisfied by the familiarity and the sense of being ‘home’. In other places, it has been wholly natural for me to live and interact there, with little of the awkwardness or questioning that I have in Dublin or London. The happiest moments of this week have been finding somewhere to live, and buying my ticket back to London, albeit only for the weekend. Nevertheless, the London I am returning to tomorrow is not the one of my experiences, but specifically to revisit my home, the place that has been my source of strength for too long.
I’ve asked my colleagues, most of whom have lived here before or for several months now, what it is about Dublin they enjoy. I’ve never asked Londoners what consciously keeps them there. My experience is that the good times last only a short while, and then everyday life takes over. There is only so long you can repeat the same actions and retain a sense of integrity; you can harden yourself only so far before you forget why. And if you work during the day, there is only so far across London that you can travel to take advantage of something without repercussions. As I did, as two ex-colleagues are doing, if you shut yourself away and choose not to get too involved in the outside world, then you may as well be anywhere; being in London is too expensive and stressful to make it worthwhile. However, if you decide at some point to reemerge, then I hope you choose your place more wisely than I did.
At the end of the day, and this is the extent of my new ‘positive’ outlook, I applied for very many jobs, and this one in Dublin is the only one I got. So be it.
Dublin, 10 October 2002
Posted by chantal at 03:39 PM | Comments (0)
October 09, 2002
Land of the Eternal Alcoholic
I’m trying hard to be positive. I really am. When everyone you know is so unequivocally positive about a place, it’s probably not natural to be suspicious. I am. What happened to them? Where did they go that I didn’t? What commission are they getting from the Irish Tourist Board? Should I wonder about where else they have been to make Dublin so wonderful by comparison?
I have a belief that the start of the year is indicative of what the rest of the year will be like. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot, wondering if the same applies to potential new homes as well. Okay, so I didn’t get much sleep last week, and I might not be in the best frame of mind to judge a place. But where did judging come into it? I thought Dublin was meant to be pure, undeniable enjoyment and satisfaction. After all, even people who have never been there rave about it. I also didn’t get much sleep on Saturday night either so that probably didn’t help much either. I was meant to be gigging tonight but am too tired. I had planned to go to bed after Eastenders, my usual habit, but I missed it and my plans took a hasty diversion from then on. It’s now way past my bedtime so thank you diversion.
I think I expected a more significant difference between Dublin and London. Certainly the Temple Bar area reminds me of a weird combination of Brighton and Amsterdam. But that’s only a few blocks, and if you head south of there you end up in Grafton Street, Shopping Land, where you’re confronted with Boots, Marks & Spencers, Carphone Warehouse and any number of familiar high street chains. Spar is your local friendly late night shop. The streets are reminiscent of being in north London – and not the pleasant bits either. There are enough tourists about to confuse you as to where you actually are, although I’ve had the joy of listening to a Chinese woman speak with a broad Irish accent. I know all too well the Irish reputation for extreme friendliness, but when I walk down the street I end up thinking, ‘Naah, tourist,’ at most of the people I see. I’m sorely missing Arabic music and dancing, but each time I see any arabic people I can’t decide whether they’re tourist or local.
Maybe one definition of Irishness is its conformity to monoculture. I know that artists – and I think that applies to all artforms – receive tax breaks by way of encouragement, but to what extent does culture need external influences to develop? And that seems to be what is sorely missing here. A lot of Irish artistry seems to be confined to an alarming number of tourist shops, catering to their stereotypical image, which seems a shame, given its heritage and richness. I have heard a number of buskers playing cover songs, but the Land of Music’s heart is firmly entrenched in traditional music, and has a sufficiently small music scene to not even make it into the listings of the main nationwide events guide. I recognised one of the upcoming musicians from the London acoustic circuit, but it seems that Dublin simply doesn’t have the capacity to cater for divergent interests. When I mention my flamenco or hebrew music, I receive blank looks, although not as blank as the looks I get when I ask after Arabic music. I think I read something about Ireland having an important film industry – think The Commitments, The Van, Michael Collins and the depressing one with Emily Watson and Robert Carlyle – but I can’t find cinema listings anywhere.
And yet Dublin is meant to be a highly international city. Certainly it is possibly as expensive as London, but something about this city draws or retains tourists and won’t let them leave. I’ve met a number of people who chose to work in Dublin so they can improve their English; very few of them have been here before. And yet where does this multiculturalism go? Perhaps it’s what I was accusing America of a few hours ago – that you are forced to adopt the country’s own unique culture and forget all that came before. I really don’t know what draws them here. The nightlife, the friendliness of the Irish, the buzz, the ability to sit in a pub and drink alone.
Someone at my leaving party a few days ago – at least, I think that’s when it was – told me that the Irish are extremely paternalistic, that they see these puir defenceless wee youngsters and seek to parent and reassure them. Perhaps it’s more upfront an attitude than I’m used to, but when you meet as many people as I do, I don’t think there’s that much difference except perhaps in the presentation. Or perhaps it is a way of being able to express friendliness and openness whilst still maintaining an element of distance. My impression was that it enabled men of questionable intelligence to act superior and omniscient, asking many questions, not paying the slightest notice to any answer, and repeating themselves a lot. It’s sort of hypnotic at the time, but it’s not until afterwards, when I’m storming back to my hotel, that I can properly fume about it. When I was in Barcelona, the night before a job interview, I appreciated being blessed by some stranger and being told by a chainsmoking tarot lady that I was making a terrible career move, but as a rule I don’t appreciate beatific strangers assuming confidential information about my destiny. Or maybe I’m too intolerant. I had hoped that Dublin would soften my feminist instincts, but I don’t know what I’ll do about my resentment of omniscient types. The mad painter kept telling me that I was enjoying myself here, even though I had told him that it’s actually quite major to give up the last three years and a half of your life, however unhappy, and relocate yourself to a place you’ve never been drawn to, and that I’m a bit apprehensive about the number of reservations I’m having. He repeated many times that I should enjoy everything that comes my way, and wholeheartedly expected me to turn up in another pub an hour later so he could continue.
Most of you will know how shocked I was at being offered a job here, considering how specific I was about working in either Holland or Mexico. Dublin? Where did that come into it? And so I figured, completely independent of the Rolling Stones, that you don’t always get what you want, instead you get what you need. Certainly I know I Have My Issues – feminism, intolerance and a latent fear of nationalism among them – a horror of heavy drinking being yet another. It’s something I’ve never been able to stand in British mentality, that one drinks because, well, they must, and being obscenely drunk is something to aspire and look forward to. Oh Christ. On Saturday night I had to sidestep drunk people and pools of vomit the whole way home, and smile sweetly at people who had long since ceased to be coherent. I don’t think this is something I want to change about myself, yet a city renowned for its overabundance of pubs is not an appealing place to be. Do I learn to tolerate and indeed appreciate these people, or simply avoid staying out late? And despite ‘Alcohol Addiction’ having its own separate entry in the Yellow Pages’ index, this is such a prevalent aspect of Irish life that I don’t even know how alcoholism is defined here. Or how it is recognised. London taught me to value pub culture, but Dublin has taught me the value of non-alcoholic drinks. The Irish government is considering raising the cost of cigarettes to 10 euros a pack, using cost as a deterrent, yet the high cost of alcohol has apparently made no impact at all.
The pleasant surprise about this pub culture is the wide spectrum of society it covers. There are so many pubs, so few other institutions that people of all generations and lifestyles naturally socialise in pubs and not more exclusive places. Middle-aged women dress up to go to the pub, and I missed an elderly woman belting out a full-throated song in the lock-in party I went to afterwards. Although I have been repeatedly told what a youthful city Dublin is, it’s the older people who I notice, who don’t stand out because they wouldn’t belong in a Londoner’s eyes, but because they seem to represent some unique aspect of Irish culture.
As I said, I’m trying hard to be positive. My last few years in London have not been something I would ever choose to repeat, and somehow moving to Dublin has not been enough. Someone told me that having no interest in a place and no excitement about moving is a Good Thing, that it prevents false expectations and hopes. Moving to this country has felt like going across London to stay with a friend, with the obvious exception of the friend. What do I miss about London? My lovely home, my dance classes, the music scene that I resolutely avoid. Or maybe what I miss about London is the illusion of stability – the familiarity and predictability – and the security of knowing that the backdrop will never change despite the number of jobs I go through and the friends that come and go.
When I was in Central America over Christmas and New Years, I missed the stability of my weekly schedule, neatly divided between dance evenings and days of complete exhaustion, but at least I could pick a day of the week and know what I was doing. I never returned to my dance schedule. Familiarity and predictability aren’t enough, and so that is why I chose to move. I don’t know what I’m looking for here, but certainly it isn’t slapping me in the face and biting me in the nose. Maybe the difference between myself and all the others who raved about this place is that they came here with the knowledge they would be leaving in a few days, whereas I’ve been looking around and thinking, ‘Home?’
I’m the sort of person who can arrive in a place and feel instantly at home – anywhere, that is, apart from London. And surely three and a half years of London should be sufficient to make me embrace any new place with open arms and a huge smile. Is it simply that I’ve lost the knack? No matter where I arrive, be it for a few days or few months, I maintain the same approach – hit the Yellow Pages, wander about lots, look friendly and talk to everyone in sight. Despite my reputation for overfriendliness, the only people I’ve met so far are a bunch of musicians and a deranged painter from Cork. The first person to speak to me was a South African looking for a restaurant. I have fond memories of life in Guatemala, where knowing everyone in town pretty much on the spot is a way of life, yet now I’m having apprehensions, wondering how long I would cope back there without regular dance classes and a varied music scene on tap. Here’s it’s traditional music, there it’s Andean. Take your pick.
Dublin, 7 October 02.
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