Next day up at six to catch the early bus to Zaragoza, which Joaqín had informed us left "a little after 7, maybe 7:15 or 7:20". Such are the bus timetables in Campo. We were waiting dutifully at the bus stop (unmarked of course) at 7:10, and waiting and waiting...bus finally rolled up at 7:50 and so began four hours of intermittent sleep punctuated by bickering couples, the guy behind me nudging my seat, and having to change buses midway as ours was broken. Some beautiful views coming out of Campo though.
Zaragoza itself isn't really that spectacular - made even less so by rain and our frayed nerves. After we'd booked into a hostel we started to do the touristy thing - the Basilica of St Pilar (absolutely stunning) and a Muslim/Latin palace called the Alfajoreria...or something. Also beautiful and fascinating but by this point we were all so tired from the wedding and travelling and lugging our bags around that we were practically ready to kill each other. Plus Mum got one of her mammoth migraines so Dad and I went out for dinner by ourselves.
Plan next morning was to leave clean but not particularly interesting Zaragoza for San Sebastian. We ate breakfast and wandered the main streets of Zaragoza, I bought a book I've been dying to read for ages ("The Perfume" by Patrick Susskind) and a transformer for my phone charger (I wouldn't bother but my mother would go mental without a mobile) and then there I was on the bus to San Sebastian next to a mute with a distinct and powerful smell of body odour. At least I had my favourite Spanish magazine, El Jueves, to take my mind off it.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Going to the chapel of Love
The next day was an unexpected one in Barcelona - I had thought we were going to Campo right away, but in fact we were going to wait and follow another car whos driver had been to Campo before and knew how to get there. So we took advantage of the beautiful sunny weather (an unheard of luxury in Dublin in October) to walk in and around the Ramblas and go coat-shopping (my shopping mission on this trip was to buy a good winter coat). I saw two Gaudi buildings (brilliant) and found some Dali and Miro prints (but left it until Madrid to buy them, as I was sure I'd be able to find them in the museums). We ate delicious tapas in the sunshine and went home for a rest before the long drive to Campo. We were just about to leave when we find out the guy we are supposed to be following to Campo has never been there before, wouldn't have the first clue how to get there, and now we'd be driving in pitch black. It later transpired that he has a GPS, so our fears were calmed somewhat.
Long story short, we arrived in Campo with only one (small, and quickly corrected) wrong turn and arrived just as the Ronda was beginning. Campo is a small village about four hours' drive from Barcelona, and like the other villages in the region, they have a Ronda the night before the wedding - a few guys in traditional dress, some instruments, strong, melodic voices, and songs dedicated to the happy couple. We stood in the narrow street outside Cris's family's houses and and listened to the songs, sung in traditional style, making fun of Ro, Cris, their families, Argentines, themselves, and anyone else that happened past. They were hilarious - only the jokes are, of course, impossible to translate, so it's a case of "you had to be there". We listened and laughed and ate and drank (incidentally my first jamón in spain and it was delicious) I talked to an Irish couple and their son (from Cork) and met a load of people whos names I didn't remember five minutes later (always the case when you meet a hundred people in half an hour). I saw my aunt and uncle again, Ro of course, who I hadn't seen in 10 years, and met Cris for the first time. All that family around (old and new) was pretty magical. So was the juxtaposition of the Spanish with the Argentines (also quite funny). At about midnight we made our way to the local, which, although pretty and cosy, was smothered in a thick blanket of cigarette smoke (I've become unaccustomed to this in Dublin). My eyes tired quickly of that and I went home relatively early.
The next morning, a lovely relaxing lie-in (first in months) and a leisurely breakfast. We all took our time until someone casually asked what the time was and we realised Ro and Cris were getting married in an hour. I showered like lightning, smeared on some makeup, on with the dress (loaned to me by my colleague Una, thanks a million) and shoes (Penneys, 13 euro, two inch heels, and absolutely fabulous) and I was ready to go. Even the males remarked on how fast I was ready.
It was a gorgeously sunny day, perfect for an outdoor wedding, not too hot and not too cold. We were just commenting on how lucky that was when Cris informed us it had nothing to do with luck; her mother had made a pilgrimage to the monks of Santa Clara with a dozen eggs from her own hens for them to pray for good weather on her daughter's wedding day. Well, the monks came through, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the wedding took place in a lush enclave of verdant trees with a backdrop of the majestic Pyrénées.
The wedding itself matched the natural beauty of the surroundings; simple, elegant, and moving. After the judge had (eventually) married them (thanks to some nudging from his sidekick who helpfully pointed out he had forgotten the "I now pronounce you husband and wife" part) there were some heartfelt speeches which had the whole audience in floods of tears. I must admit I'm not really into the idea of marriage; the nuclear family just isn't that important in the 21st century, the wedding rituals and traditions are fraught with misogynistic undercurrents (the "pure", ie. chaste bride in a white dress being given away by her father who hands ownership of her over to her new husband) and I hate the ridiculous way some people get totally carried away with the wedding part of the marriage and forget about the marriage part (the most important part). Not to mention weddings are often over-formal and stuffy. However Cris didn't wear white, but gorgeous orange, the atmosphere was relaxed and buoyant, and it was clear how in love with each other the bride and groom were and that this day was about declaring that love and pact of friendship in front of their family and friends. Clearly there is something charming about weddings that a cynic like myself needs to recognise, if, like in this case, it's done with love as the prime motivator.
After the wedding, the speeches, and the floods of tears (and after I had done a great job of aerating the soil with my two inch heels) we made our way around the corner for a bite to eat. As usual everything was delicious and we ate up, unawares of the magnitude of the feast awaiting us at the reception. After a short walk down to the restaurant, we chomped our way through soup, lobster, fish, lamb, sorbet, wedding cake, alfajores and liqueur (clearly a digestif was sorely needed by this point). Following those four hours of continuous and gleeful gluttony, down to the basement where the party continued with dancing, music, and an open bar. We all tried to dance but the DJ was clueless - insisted on playing slow numbers with no beat. We persisted valiantly however, and I mastered the art of the porrón (glass contraption with which you pour wine through a spout directly into your mouth without touching your lips - harder than it looks). At about 1 am we were served a delicious supper (as we were all clearly starving) but after a while the smoke started to really bother me and I snuck out early with my parents. I can't believe I used to go out to bars and clubs in Melbourne where people are allowed to smoke. I cannot stand it. Your eyes and throat fill with smoke, the air is viscous and lacking in oxygen, and the horror doesn't end when you step outside - you have to go home, change your clothes, have a shower and wash your hair before you can breathe easy.
The next morning, tired of being a fat lazy piglet, I woke at 11 (delicious sleep in) and went for a run. What a place to run though - at the feet of the Pyrénées, the vista was magnificent and the air as pure as you can get - so long as you didn't meet anyone on the way, who would invariably be smoking or in a car blowing exhaust in your face. But every silver lining has a cloud, and at 700 m above sea level, running in Campo is slightly harder than a jog to Stephen's Green. I felt like a new woman afterwards though and well disposed to listening to the dissection and post mortem of the previous night by the people who had stayed on after I'd hit the sack. The conversation was most enlightening however - I can now say with complete confidence that you really do learn a lot more if you keep your mouth shut. For instance, in this case I learned that in their unguarded and basic state, men really are crude and vulgar creatures. Bless them in all their simplicity. Points for best quote of the night go to the Spanish girl who asked Luis, in her slightly inebriated state, to, "Cojeme un poquito". Luis, being Argentine, raised an eyebrow at this request but although he is the perfect gentleman he couldn't resist replying, "Te cojo todo lo que quieras".
After that much needed caffeine we sat down to lunch where I finally got together the courage to speak to people...it really is infuriating, as I'm sure everyone I met over those few days thinks I'm timid, shy , stupid or snobby. It's just that I don't have the vocabulary to be my usual exuberant, opinionated, stubborn, narcissistic, ebullient self in Spanish. I usually resort to speaking when spoken to, which, although when well executed can come across as mysterious and enigmatic, but when coupled with my obvious discomfort at having to speak at all is revealed as a simple lack of confidence. This wouldn't be so frustrating were it fact; but the truth of the matter is that I have loads of self-confidence (some might say an over-abundance) and having to present a distorted image of myself is irritating and makes me feel like I'm wearing an ugly mask. Or like my personality is being asphyxiated by a large downy pillow. Perhaps my personality could do with some asphyxiation (you decide) but that's quite beside the point.
After lunch we bade farewell to the wedding party who were off to continue the festivities in Buenos Aires and then had the afternoon and evening by ourselves in Campo to relax. Campo is lovely and soothing during the daytime when the views give pleasure to the eyes and walking does your body and soul good, but in winter it gets dark pretty early and on a Sunday night in a small pueblo in the middle of nowhere in a catholic country like Spain, you have to make your own fun. My parents proved too tired to have an interesting conversation with, and so on discovering I had exhausted my only reading material on the way to Barcelona I was at a loss until I pulled out Dad's Mac and began to organise all the music on my iPod. This, unbelievably, kept me entertained for hours on end and I spent the evening reliving the 60s through to the 90s, from the Beatles through U2 and INXS to the Hilltop Hoods and DJ Format.
Long story short, we arrived in Campo with only one (small, and quickly corrected) wrong turn and arrived just as the Ronda was beginning. Campo is a small village about four hours' drive from Barcelona, and like the other villages in the region, they have a Ronda the night before the wedding - a few guys in traditional dress, some instruments, strong, melodic voices, and songs dedicated to the happy couple. We stood in the narrow street outside Cris's family's houses and and listened to the songs, sung in traditional style, making fun of Ro, Cris, their families, Argentines, themselves, and anyone else that happened past. They were hilarious - only the jokes are, of course, impossible to translate, so it's a case of "you had to be there". We listened and laughed and ate and drank (incidentally my first jamón in spain and it was delicious) I talked to an Irish couple and their son (from Cork) and met a load of people whos names I didn't remember five minutes later (always the case when you meet a hundred people in half an hour). I saw my aunt and uncle again, Ro of course, who I hadn't seen in 10 years, and met Cris for the first time. All that family around (old and new) was pretty magical. So was the juxtaposition of the Spanish with the Argentines (also quite funny). At about midnight we made our way to the local, which, although pretty and cosy, was smothered in a thick blanket of cigarette smoke (I've become unaccustomed to this in Dublin). My eyes tired quickly of that and I went home relatively early.
The next morning, a lovely relaxing lie-in (first in months) and a leisurely breakfast. We all took our time until someone casually asked what the time was and we realised Ro and Cris were getting married in an hour. I showered like lightning, smeared on some makeup, on with the dress (loaned to me by my colleague Una, thanks a million) and shoes (Penneys, 13 euro, two inch heels, and absolutely fabulous) and I was ready to go. Even the males remarked on how fast I was ready.
It was a gorgeously sunny day, perfect for an outdoor wedding, not too hot and not too cold. We were just commenting on how lucky that was when Cris informed us it had nothing to do with luck; her mother had made a pilgrimage to the monks of Santa Clara with a dozen eggs from her own hens for them to pray for good weather on her daughter's wedding day. Well, the monks came through, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the wedding took place in a lush enclave of verdant trees with a backdrop of the majestic Pyrénées.
The wedding itself matched the natural beauty of the surroundings; simple, elegant, and moving. After the judge had (eventually) married them (thanks to some nudging from his sidekick who helpfully pointed out he had forgotten the "I now pronounce you husband and wife" part) there were some heartfelt speeches which had the whole audience in floods of tears. I must admit I'm not really into the idea of marriage; the nuclear family just isn't that important in the 21st century, the wedding rituals and traditions are fraught with misogynistic undercurrents (the "pure", ie. chaste bride in a white dress being given away by her father who hands ownership of her over to her new husband) and I hate the ridiculous way some people get totally carried away with the wedding part of the marriage and forget about the marriage part (the most important part). Not to mention weddings are often over-formal and stuffy. However Cris didn't wear white, but gorgeous orange, the atmosphere was relaxed and buoyant, and it was clear how in love with each other the bride and groom were and that this day was about declaring that love and pact of friendship in front of their family and friends. Clearly there is something charming about weddings that a cynic like myself needs to recognise, if, like in this case, it's done with love as the prime motivator.
After the wedding, the speeches, and the floods of tears (and after I had done a great job of aerating the soil with my two inch heels) we made our way around the corner for a bite to eat. As usual everything was delicious and we ate up, unawares of the magnitude of the feast awaiting us at the reception. After a short walk down to the restaurant, we chomped our way through soup, lobster, fish, lamb, sorbet, wedding cake, alfajores and liqueur (clearly a digestif was sorely needed by this point). Following those four hours of continuous and gleeful gluttony, down to the basement where the party continued with dancing, music, and an open bar. We all tried to dance but the DJ was clueless - insisted on playing slow numbers with no beat. We persisted valiantly however, and I mastered the art of the porrón (glass contraption with which you pour wine through a spout directly into your mouth without touching your lips - harder than it looks). At about 1 am we were served a delicious supper (as we were all clearly starving) but after a while the smoke started to really bother me and I snuck out early with my parents. I can't believe I used to go out to bars and clubs in Melbourne where people are allowed to smoke. I cannot stand it. Your eyes and throat fill with smoke, the air is viscous and lacking in oxygen, and the horror doesn't end when you step outside - you have to go home, change your clothes, have a shower and wash your hair before you can breathe easy.
The next morning, tired of being a fat lazy piglet, I woke at 11 (delicious sleep in) and went for a run. What a place to run though - at the feet of the Pyrénées, the vista was magnificent and the air as pure as you can get - so long as you didn't meet anyone on the way, who would invariably be smoking or in a car blowing exhaust in your face. But every silver lining has a cloud, and at 700 m above sea level, running in Campo is slightly harder than a jog to Stephen's Green. I felt like a new woman afterwards though and well disposed to listening to the dissection and post mortem of the previous night by the people who had stayed on after I'd hit the sack. The conversation was most enlightening however - I can now say with complete confidence that you really do learn a lot more if you keep your mouth shut. For instance, in this case I learned that in their unguarded and basic state, men really are crude and vulgar creatures. Bless them in all their simplicity. Points for best quote of the night go to the Spanish girl who asked Luis, in her slightly inebriated state, to, "Cojeme un poquito". Luis, being Argentine, raised an eyebrow at this request but although he is the perfect gentleman he couldn't resist replying, "Te cojo todo lo que quieras".
After that much needed caffeine we sat down to lunch where I finally got together the courage to speak to people...it really is infuriating, as I'm sure everyone I met over those few days thinks I'm timid, shy , stupid or snobby. It's just that I don't have the vocabulary to be my usual exuberant, opinionated, stubborn, narcissistic, ebullient self in Spanish. I usually resort to speaking when spoken to, which, although when well executed can come across as mysterious and enigmatic, but when coupled with my obvious discomfort at having to speak at all is revealed as a simple lack of confidence. This wouldn't be so frustrating were it fact; but the truth of the matter is that I have loads of self-confidence (some might say an over-abundance) and having to present a distorted image of myself is irritating and makes me feel like I'm wearing an ugly mask. Or like my personality is being asphyxiated by a large downy pillow. Perhaps my personality could do with some asphyxiation (you decide) but that's quite beside the point.
After lunch we bade farewell to the wedding party who were off to continue the festivities in Buenos Aires and then had the afternoon and evening by ourselves in Campo to relax. Campo is lovely and soothing during the daytime when the views give pleasure to the eyes and walking does your body and soul good, but in winter it gets dark pretty early and on a Sunday night in a small pueblo in the middle of nowhere in a catholic country like Spain, you have to make your own fun. My parents proved too tired to have an interesting conversation with, and so on discovering I had exhausted my only reading material on the way to Barcelona I was at a loss until I pulled out Dad's Mac and began to organise all the music on my iPod. This, unbelievably, kept me entertained for hours on end and I spent the evening reliving the 60s through to the 90s, from the Beatles through U2 and INXS to the Hilltop Hoods and DJ Format.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
The Odyssey
The last week or so at work before my holidays was typically stressful. Handholding the temp doing my old job, trying to learn my new job, dealing with the typical IT crises (read: small problems that people make a big deal out of) and trying not to stress about making the plane on time. Not to mention, much as I love my parents and how much I enjoyed showing them the city I live in, having them around meant sleeping on the floor in the living room and living with five people (though, mercifully, it meant the burden of nourishing myself could be temporarily handballed to my more than capable father). Finally I was able to bid a quick goodbye to my colleagues and rushed out of the office at 15:00, anxious for my holidays to begin. Before they could though, a marathon (12 hour) journey by tram, bus, foot, aeroplane and car to Rodrigo's apartment in Barcelona.
I checked in at the Iberia desk (though my ticket had "British Airways" printed on it in at least three places in several garish colours) and eventually boarded the plane, seated between two serious looking businessmen. The three of us studiously ignored each other all the way to Madrid as is customary on all manner of public transport in the Western hemisphere.
10 minutes to touchdown at Barajas, and a crackly but friendly disembodied voice announced the connecting flights from Madrid. My flight to Barcelona was not included. Only then did it occurr to me that I had to disembark, collect my luggage, locate the check-in desk, check in, find my departure gate, and get on my next flight in 50 minutes. Oops. Fortunately the late hour meant the airport was relatively empty, and I was able to powerwalk off the plane and run down to the luggage claim.
Madrid Barajas has more than 20 baggage belts, all of which are numbered.Usually this would help, but whoever designed the layout for the airport had their own weird, totally impenetrable logic. After going through numerous doors, peering through floor to ceiling glass panes and following arrows seemingly pointed at walls of solid brick, I finally located baggage belt number 15, although I had the feeling of being a kind of 21st century "Alice in Wonderland". My bewildered almost-panic was of course, completely in vain as the tape revolved for almost 15 minutes with the same two green and black bags before our luggage began to appear.
Now with only 30 minutes until my flight to BCN, I began to worry. I grabbed my pack and ran for the "Salida" (exit). More arrows and two flights of stairs later, I found the Iberia information centre, who pointed out the check in, which proceeded at a reasonable pace and now to find my departure gate.
There are two types of airports. The first includes airports like Beauvais, Hobart, Rio de Gallegos and Dublin. These have all the prerequisites of airports - check in desks, security checks, coffee vendors, and planes. Not much else. The other kind of airport, LAX, Ezeiza, Heathrow, Barajas and their ilk are the size of a middling town in a second world country, can sustain a population of 50,000 for a week, where the departure gates are not only lettered and numbered but colour coded, and the time from check in to departure gates is measured in minutes and those in double figures. I started at a fast walk, was soon jogging and then broke into a run, following the red squares to gate H06, dodging people, baggage, prams, security guards and postcard stands for what seemed like about 5 kilometres. Gate H06 was predictably located at the end of a very long pier of departure gates, but thankfully they were still boarding the aircraft when I appeared, hot, sweaty, ruddy and panting, heart in mouth and passport in hand. I got on the plane (again in a middle seat, those Iberia people must really hate me) between a sour looking woman and a youngish man who offered me chewing gum (a nice gesture, politely declined as I could smell the sugar in the chewing gum from where I was sitting). Finally I relaxed, finished the (incredibly boring) book I had bought for the trip, and tried to sleep the rest of the way.
By the time I made it to Barcelona, I had been travelling by foot, train, but and plane for 11 hours, I hadn't eaten in 13 hours, and I felt less like I was on vacation and more like someone had taken to me with a solid oak cricket bat. Unfortunately this was not the end of my travels as we got lost on our way home from the airport and subsequently spent 20 minutes looking for a parking space at 3am. We finally parked about four blocks from the apartment and walked back in the freezing cold with my luggage. We sat down to a quick meal of cheese sandwiches, prawns and potatoes, I had a shower and finally sweet, sweet bed.
I checked in at the Iberia desk (though my ticket had "British Airways" printed on it in at least three places in several garish colours) and eventually boarded the plane, seated between two serious looking businessmen. The three of us studiously ignored each other all the way to Madrid as is customary on all manner of public transport in the Western hemisphere.
10 minutes to touchdown at Barajas, and a crackly but friendly disembodied voice announced the connecting flights from Madrid. My flight to Barcelona was not included. Only then did it occurr to me that I had to disembark, collect my luggage, locate the check-in desk, check in, find my departure gate, and get on my next flight in 50 minutes. Oops. Fortunately the late hour meant the airport was relatively empty, and I was able to powerwalk off the plane and run down to the luggage claim.
Madrid Barajas has more than 20 baggage belts, all of which are numbered.Usually this would help, but whoever designed the layout for the airport had their own weird, totally impenetrable logic. After going through numerous doors, peering through floor to ceiling glass panes and following arrows seemingly pointed at walls of solid brick, I finally located baggage belt number 15, although I had the feeling of being a kind of 21st century "Alice in Wonderland". My bewildered almost-panic was of course, completely in vain as the tape revolved for almost 15 minutes with the same two green and black bags before our luggage began to appear.
Now with only 30 minutes until my flight to BCN, I began to worry. I grabbed my pack and ran for the "Salida" (exit). More arrows and two flights of stairs later, I found the Iberia information centre, who pointed out the check in, which proceeded at a reasonable pace and now to find my departure gate.
There are two types of airports. The first includes airports like Beauvais, Hobart, Rio de Gallegos and Dublin. These have all the prerequisites of airports - check in desks, security checks, coffee vendors, and planes. Not much else. The other kind of airport, LAX, Ezeiza, Heathrow, Barajas and their ilk are the size of a middling town in a second world country, can sustain a population of 50,000 for a week, where the departure gates are not only lettered and numbered but colour coded, and the time from check in to departure gates is measured in minutes and those in double figures. I started at a fast walk, was soon jogging and then broke into a run, following the red squares to gate H06, dodging people, baggage, prams, security guards and postcard stands for what seemed like about 5 kilometres. Gate H06 was predictably located at the end of a very long pier of departure gates, but thankfully they were still boarding the aircraft when I appeared, hot, sweaty, ruddy and panting, heart in mouth and passport in hand. I got on the plane (again in a middle seat, those Iberia people must really hate me) between a sour looking woman and a youngish man who offered me chewing gum (a nice gesture, politely declined as I could smell the sugar in the chewing gum from where I was sitting). Finally I relaxed, finished the (incredibly boring) book I had bought for the trip, and tried to sleep the rest of the way.
By the time I made it to Barcelona, I had been travelling by foot, train, but and plane for 11 hours, I hadn't eaten in 13 hours, and I felt less like I was on vacation and more like someone had taken to me with a solid oak cricket bat. Unfortunately this was not the end of my travels as we got lost on our way home from the airport and subsequently spent 20 minutes looking for a parking space at 3am. We finally parked about four blocks from the apartment and walked back in the freezing cold with my luggage. We sat down to a quick meal of cheese sandwiches, prawns and potatoes, I had a shower and finally sweet, sweet bed.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Seven Sleeps to Spain!
Of course, as usual, a million things have happened since the last blog that I don't have the time or energy to relate it all, but in a nutshell - I have a new life. It has been transformed beyond all recognition from what it was a few posts ago. Along with my new flat I have a new job - Market Research Account Manager with W5 Marketing Intelligence Ltd. I also have so much on my social plate it's all beginning to spill off the sides. On top of that I've started Adult Literacy Tutor training and creative writing classes on top of my Wednesday salsa class. In short - I barely have five minutes to scratch my nose these days.
Firstly my new job. While I loved my old job, it really was time for a change. Challenging and interesting as admin is, I like to keep learning all the time, and after a while in the same job you tend to get stuck in a bit of a rut. Last thing I need is to be bored at my job - nothing could be worse for motivation. Anyway, as my contract was up end of this month, W5 (Genesis's wholly owned subsidiary) decided to employ me. I'm up to my eyeballs in market research - customer satisfaction, focus groups, surveys, clients and respondents. At the moment I'm learning the practical side of the job - survey implementation, reporting, the mechanics of SurveyWriter (the online software we use to deliver our online research). This can be a little tedious at times but of course you have to learn the slightly more boring part of the job before you can move on to the more interesting part - questionnaire design, presenting to clients, project co-ordination. Basically I've no experience, study or training in Marketing at all and am slightly bemused at the idea that they trust me to do this job. But learn it I will. And they've already got me proofing all the proposals, tenders and presentations - and you know I always relish any opportunity to hunt down and kill grammatical errors! My main projects to start off with will be Jurys and Microsoft. Both these projects are in the process of growing from smallish little reports into larger, more important projects so I've come in at a dynamic, fascinating time for these projects, and they're great for me to learn on. Jurys is one of our big clients too, (and, might I say, one of our most demanding) so if I can handle them on my own (not yet, but it will happen) I'll know I can do anything.
Of course, learning a new job is always tough. I've been putting in a lot of long hours over the last week and a half but loving every second. We had a temp in to do my old job before Irene came back finally (thank God for Irene) so I had to hold her hand (figuratively, thank goodness) while trying to learn my new job at W5. Now that Irene is back I can trust her to take care of it all and can concentrate on my new job, which is making things a lot easier. But the people at work are fabulous as always, stimulating, motivated, intelligent, funny, kind-hearted and generous - so for the moment, my working life, while long, is fulfilling and entertaining. What more can a girl ask for?
She can ask for some friends to fill up some of the time while she's not at work. Three months ago, I was in a social rut. The same old friends, same old places. Old friends are golden, but sometimes you need something new - new stimulus, so you know you're alive and not trapped in some kind of Nietzchean eternal circular universe. How am I going to make new friends though? I asked myself. When you're five, you can make friends with someone simply on the basis that they live across the street from you. You can bond over a shared love of cherry flavoured Hubba Bubba. Twenty years later, things are slightly more difficult. Everyone already has their own set of friends, they don't have any openings, they're not taking any applications, they're not interviewing for any positions. Plus, being in the same geographical position as someone else often isn't enough to base a friendship on, even for a summer. So, how to achieve my goal? The answer turned out to be surprisingly simple.
Attitude.
That's it. Just attitude. I changed nothing about myself or my life other than the fact that I had made an internal decision to be more open about meeting new people. I went to no extra effort, hatched no crazy schemes, had no Hollywood teen movie makeover. And it worked like a charm. In fact, it worked so well that I'm almost longing for the days of yore when I used to have time to crack a book once in a while, lie on the couch and daydream a time, or even cook, do laundry and go grocery shopping! A good lot of people have passed into my life in the last 90 days or so. Some of them have come and gone (the downside of living in a global community is half the time you get close to someone, they go home to France or Germany or Poland or Spain or Italy or China or whatever) but thankfully lots are here to stay. There's Tania, the little Russian doll from Moscow with whom I've seen more of Ireland in the last three months than in my whole first year in Ireland, Dan, the gorgeous San Franciscan/Korean with a heart of gold, Melinda, the Swiss with the perfect Argentine accent when she speaks Spanish (thanks to her Porteño ex-boyfriend), Eimear, the crazy Aussie I picked up in Clarks that time, Denise, her mad-as-a-cut-snake Irish housemate, Nadia, the Aussie/Chinese/Russian that loves doof-doof music and wants to live in Rathmines, Pascal, the Franco-German gentleman of a bygone era who plays the guitar like a dream, Nicolas, the party guy with one eye on every girl in the place, Peter, the relaxed Belgian who's full of surprises, all Marie's friends I met at her party in Lyon...need I go on? Suddenly a night on the couch in front of a crappy romantic comedy is a fast-fading memory. But life is for living, so I'm not wasting a moment of it.
When I'm not with my friends, I'm at class. Monday nights is Adult Literacy Tutor training. I've been looking for something to volunteer for for ages, and this is perfect for me. I think I'd be a fairly good tutor (I'm a good listener and a competent-ish teacher) and literacy is something I'm passionate about. Unfortunately the delivery of the training course leaves a lot to be desired. It is lacklustre and snail-paced, dissipating my enthusiasm for the subject into a pool of boring handouts and ceaseless waffle only tangentially related to the matter at hand. One simultaneous highlight and lowlight of the course is one of the tutors giving the course. His name is John but give him a hand puppet and he is (note, not resembles, but actually becomes) Mr. Garrison from the immensely popular adult cartoon, “South Park”. He has the personality of a cold trout, he's completely effeminate, and he says things like “If we would all learn to listen to each other the world would be a better place”. But the dead giveaway is the fact that he ends most of his sentences with “mmmkay?”. I swear I am not making this up.
Tuesday nights is Creative Writing. Well, Tuesday nights should be creative writing. It was due to start this Tuesday gone, and I had it down to start at half seven. As Irene was starting back on Wednesday morning, I was late leaving the office as I was preparing everything for the handover the following morning. I got out of the office at ten to seven but figured I could still make it if I caught the bus. I walked briskly to the stop, and then realised I had left my wallet at the office and had no change for the bus. Reluctant to make the trip to fetch my wallet and back, I took a deep breath and started jogging for home (the class is round the corner from my house). Luckily I had changed into my new sneakers (I asked the sales guy for ones with loads of cushioning, so I feel like I'm walking/running on balloons!) but I was still in my work pants and skivvy. I was only planning to jog a little way, maybe up until the canal, but I found when I got there I was hardly puffed, so on I went - up Camden Street, Wexford Street, Aungier Street, George's Street, dodging people, prams, street lights, bus stops, the occasional bike. I made it to the Liffey in less than 20 minutes. I was halfway up Capel Street when I finally packed it in, but considering two years ago I bet I couldn't have run 3 minutes without getting puffed, I'm pretty proud of myself. I made it to the college by 7.25, amazed that I had gotten there not only on time but early. On the door of the college was a sign. “Creative Writing: Tuesdays, 6:15 pm to 7:45 pm”.
Holy Mother of God.
“You're too late to go in now, better come back next week”.
I won't share with you the steady stream of curses running though my brain and exploding from my mouth at this juncture, for fear my mother will revert to her usual refrain, “We spent all of that money on private schooling to have you talk like you live in a gutter”. I'm sure your imaginations will do justice to the situation. Next week then!
Last night I met up with an old friend I hadn't seen in a few months. We went to the Porterhouse for a pint and chatted non-stop for hours. It was great - good beer, a pub crooner mangling all the most interesting Beatles songs, dim lighting and animated, wide-ranging and captivating conversation. I had missed that a lot - though I've met a lot of fun people lately, it's different when you just “click” with someone, or with a group of people. That inexplicable feeling that descends when you're with them - an almost tangible sense of well-being, of contentedness. You can relax, be free. Who needs Valium or Prozac when you have good friends around you?
Tomorrow another exciting day - my parents are coming! They'll be in Dublin a week checking up on my lifestyle, making sure I'm eating enough fruit and vegetables, fussing over me and ordering me around (you know, normal parent stuff). Next Thursday we'll be heading off for Barcelona, and then touring the north of Spain. To pile more fun and coolness on top of all that, one of my coolest bestest friends from back home, Julia, will be meeting me in Bilbao and we'll be heading down towards Madrid together! Wicked partying, here we come! Then to Rome, where I will be doing nothing but drinking coffee, eating pizza, revelling in ancient ruins and checking out all the hot Italian boys (for whom I have a strong weakness). After three weeks of fun in the (hopefully) sun - back to Dublin and Jurys, Microsoft and piles of statistics!
By the way - I finally got paid the money I was owed from ACS. Here's hoping that's an end to that. I'm still having awesome fun at salsa class, no longer the worst in the class, yay! I'm in the middle of "To Kill a Mockingbird" - now that I'm reading it I can't believe I've never read it before now - it's brilliant! Anyway, it's late and I have to get some sleep as I'm getting headshots done tomorrow for the W5 website and I need my beauty sleep! Good night world...
Firstly my new job. While I loved my old job, it really was time for a change. Challenging and interesting as admin is, I like to keep learning all the time, and after a while in the same job you tend to get stuck in a bit of a rut. Last thing I need is to be bored at my job - nothing could be worse for motivation. Anyway, as my contract was up end of this month, W5 (Genesis's wholly owned subsidiary) decided to employ me. I'm up to my eyeballs in market research - customer satisfaction, focus groups, surveys, clients and respondents. At the moment I'm learning the practical side of the job - survey implementation, reporting, the mechanics of SurveyWriter (the online software we use to deliver our online research). This can be a little tedious at times but of course you have to learn the slightly more boring part of the job before you can move on to the more interesting part - questionnaire design, presenting to clients, project co-ordination. Basically I've no experience, study or training in Marketing at all and am slightly bemused at the idea that they trust me to do this job. But learn it I will. And they've already got me proofing all the proposals, tenders and presentations - and you know I always relish any opportunity to hunt down and kill grammatical errors! My main projects to start off with will be Jurys and Microsoft. Both these projects are in the process of growing from smallish little reports into larger, more important projects so I've come in at a dynamic, fascinating time for these projects, and they're great for me to learn on. Jurys is one of our big clients too, (and, might I say, one of our most demanding) so if I can handle them on my own (not yet, but it will happen) I'll know I can do anything.
Of course, learning a new job is always tough. I've been putting in a lot of long hours over the last week and a half but loving every second. We had a temp in to do my old job before Irene came back finally (thank God for Irene) so I had to hold her hand (figuratively, thank goodness) while trying to learn my new job at W5. Now that Irene is back I can trust her to take care of it all and can concentrate on my new job, which is making things a lot easier. But the people at work are fabulous as always, stimulating, motivated, intelligent, funny, kind-hearted and generous - so for the moment, my working life, while long, is fulfilling and entertaining. What more can a girl ask for?
She can ask for some friends to fill up some of the time while she's not at work. Three months ago, I was in a social rut. The same old friends, same old places. Old friends are golden, but sometimes you need something new - new stimulus, so you know you're alive and not trapped in some kind of Nietzchean eternal circular universe. How am I going to make new friends though? I asked myself. When you're five, you can make friends with someone simply on the basis that they live across the street from you. You can bond over a shared love of cherry flavoured Hubba Bubba. Twenty years later, things are slightly more difficult. Everyone already has their own set of friends, they don't have any openings, they're not taking any applications, they're not interviewing for any positions. Plus, being in the same geographical position as someone else often isn't enough to base a friendship on, even for a summer. So, how to achieve my goal? The answer turned out to be surprisingly simple.
Attitude.
That's it. Just attitude. I changed nothing about myself or my life other than the fact that I had made an internal decision to be more open about meeting new people. I went to no extra effort, hatched no crazy schemes, had no Hollywood teen movie makeover. And it worked like a charm. In fact, it worked so well that I'm almost longing for the days of yore when I used to have time to crack a book once in a while, lie on the couch and daydream a time, or even cook, do laundry and go grocery shopping! A good lot of people have passed into my life in the last 90 days or so. Some of them have come and gone (the downside of living in a global community is half the time you get close to someone, they go home to France or Germany or Poland or Spain or Italy or China or whatever) but thankfully lots are here to stay. There's Tania, the little Russian doll from Moscow with whom I've seen more of Ireland in the last three months than in my whole first year in Ireland, Dan, the gorgeous San Franciscan/Korean with a heart of gold, Melinda, the Swiss with the perfect Argentine accent when she speaks Spanish (thanks to her Porteño ex-boyfriend), Eimear, the crazy Aussie I picked up in Clarks that time, Denise, her mad-as-a-cut-snake Irish housemate, Nadia, the Aussie/Chinese/Russian that loves doof-doof music and wants to live in Rathmines, Pascal, the Franco-German gentleman of a bygone era who plays the guitar like a dream, Nicolas, the party guy with one eye on every girl in the place, Peter, the relaxed Belgian who's full of surprises, all Marie's friends I met at her party in Lyon...need I go on? Suddenly a night on the couch in front of a crappy romantic comedy is a fast-fading memory. But life is for living, so I'm not wasting a moment of it.
When I'm not with my friends, I'm at class. Monday nights is Adult Literacy Tutor training. I've been looking for something to volunteer for for ages, and this is perfect for me. I think I'd be a fairly good tutor (I'm a good listener and a competent-ish teacher) and literacy is something I'm passionate about. Unfortunately the delivery of the training course leaves a lot to be desired. It is lacklustre and snail-paced, dissipating my enthusiasm for the subject into a pool of boring handouts and ceaseless waffle only tangentially related to the matter at hand. One simultaneous highlight and lowlight of the course is one of the tutors giving the course. His name is John but give him a hand puppet and he is (note, not resembles, but actually becomes) Mr. Garrison from the immensely popular adult cartoon, “South Park”. He has the personality of a cold trout, he's completely effeminate, and he says things like “If we would all learn to listen to each other the world would be a better place”. But the dead giveaway is the fact that he ends most of his sentences with “mmmkay?”. I swear I am not making this up.
Tuesday nights is Creative Writing. Well, Tuesday nights should be creative writing. It was due to start this Tuesday gone, and I had it down to start at half seven. As Irene was starting back on Wednesday morning, I was late leaving the office as I was preparing everything for the handover the following morning. I got out of the office at ten to seven but figured I could still make it if I caught the bus. I walked briskly to the stop, and then realised I had left my wallet at the office and had no change for the bus. Reluctant to make the trip to fetch my wallet and back, I took a deep breath and started jogging for home (the class is round the corner from my house). Luckily I had changed into my new sneakers (I asked the sales guy for ones with loads of cushioning, so I feel like I'm walking/running on balloons!) but I was still in my work pants and skivvy. I was only planning to jog a little way, maybe up until the canal, but I found when I got there I was hardly puffed, so on I went - up Camden Street, Wexford Street, Aungier Street, George's Street, dodging people, prams, street lights, bus stops, the occasional bike. I made it to the Liffey in less than 20 minutes. I was halfway up Capel Street when I finally packed it in, but considering two years ago I bet I couldn't have run 3 minutes without getting puffed, I'm pretty proud of myself. I made it to the college by 7.25, amazed that I had gotten there not only on time but early. On the door of the college was a sign. “Creative Writing: Tuesdays, 6:15 pm to 7:45 pm”.
Holy Mother of God.
“You're too late to go in now, better come back next week”.
I won't share with you the steady stream of curses running though my brain and exploding from my mouth at this juncture, for fear my mother will revert to her usual refrain, “We spent all of that money on private schooling to have you talk like you live in a gutter”. I'm sure your imaginations will do justice to the situation. Next week then!
Last night I met up with an old friend I hadn't seen in a few months. We went to the Porterhouse for a pint and chatted non-stop for hours. It was great - good beer, a pub crooner mangling all the most interesting Beatles songs, dim lighting and animated, wide-ranging and captivating conversation. I had missed that a lot - though I've met a lot of fun people lately, it's different when you just “click” with someone, or with a group of people. That inexplicable feeling that descends when you're with them - an almost tangible sense of well-being, of contentedness. You can relax, be free. Who needs Valium or Prozac when you have good friends around you?
Tomorrow another exciting day - my parents are coming! They'll be in Dublin a week checking up on my lifestyle, making sure I'm eating enough fruit and vegetables, fussing over me and ordering me around (you know, normal parent stuff). Next Thursday we'll be heading off for Barcelona, and then touring the north of Spain. To pile more fun and coolness on top of all that, one of my coolest bestest friends from back home, Julia, will be meeting me in Bilbao and we'll be heading down towards Madrid together! Wicked partying, here we come! Then to Rome, where I will be doing nothing but drinking coffee, eating pizza, revelling in ancient ruins and checking out all the hot Italian boys (for whom I have a strong weakness). After three weeks of fun in the (hopefully) sun - back to Dublin and Jurys, Microsoft and piles of statistics!
By the way - I finally got paid the money I was owed from ACS. Here's hoping that's an end to that. I'm still having awesome fun at salsa class, no longer the worst in the class, yay! I'm in the middle of "To Kill a Mockingbird" - now that I'm reading it I can't believe I've never read it before now - it's brilliant! Anyway, it's late and I have to get some sleep as I'm getting headshots done tomorrow for the W5 website and I need my beauty sleep! Good night world...
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