Emigration etc.

Over two hours of chatting about everything and nothing - Ireland, Lithuania, girls, blokes, jobs, drinks, etc. - and he asked me if I would like to go to see a movie with him someday.

"Maybe", I said and he pointed out he doesn't like maybes.

Before that he asked me if I was engaged. I said I am married happily with two kids. And despite the fact I keep bugging my best friend in Ireland about her inability to lie, after a few seconds I admitted it was a joke - no kids and no marriage. No boyfriend either. Honesty is my merit and my shortcoming.

I took his phone number (he said he'd prefer me to have his). I deleted it after I got on the Dart.

It was Dun Laoghaire Festival of World Cultures wrap-up party. It looks like participants of all parties aim for the same... or perhaps I am getting old... Next time I'll try to be more pretentious. I'm happily married with two kids. A boy and girl. My husband is named Brian. He's 30. And we're deeply in love. It all looks very easy when on the screen...

My two favorite posts in Jussi's blog Everything is Mossible are here and here. Outsider stories I call them.

Outsiders are apt to compare new homes to their previous ones. Comparison is inevitable. They look for drawbacks and assets. They scrutinize people, quality of life, prices, food, cultural scene, weather, etc.

When I started writing the blog I thought I would do more of it, yet I came to realize that constant comparison can start look like whining. I have to admit that complaining is possibly one of the side-effects of Post-Soviet Eastern European behavior. Yet I pledge I am trying my best to fight this bug (quite often without any success whatsoever). However this time I would like to mention something I would miss if I was to leave Dublin tomorrow.

As I have revealed before, this weekend I volunteered in the Festival of World Cultures in Dun Laoghaire. We were sitting in Kingston Hotel on Sunday night with Grace and I found out that she came from Galway to volunteer. Aside from giving up her time to whatever might be in need of doing during the festival she was staying in a hotel and paying 85 Euro for every night. Bless her! Grace explained she's doing a course in hospitality and she thought this experience might be useful.

I don't think I've heard about anybody else like Grace, but there were about 300 volunteers of all ages and nationalities in total. Naturally the organizers did save quite a bit of cash. It is easy to make a basic calculation. Let's say every volunteer is working for about 4 hours on average (altough some worked for 10, i.e. I worked for about 8). If they were paid (let's say the minimum wage), it would turn out to be

300 x 4 x 8.65 = 10 380 Euro

Although we did get T-shirts, goodie bags, drink tokens and very generous free lunch (of which actually quite a few volunteers were not aware), organizers obviously have saved quite a bit. But despite this fact I was stunned by the amount of people who offer their spare time for carrying chairs, disassembling tables, hoovering carpets, etc. People of my and my granny's age. Girls and guys too. We're having a wrap up party on Wednesday and more free treats. What could be better?!

Volunteering is still uncommon in my country and this is one of the things we could learn from Irish. I promise to mention more! The sky is the limit.

Working in a wine shop sometimes turns out to become a rather intimate experience. Simply by observing the amount or the kind of booze Mr X or Mrs Y are purchasing I can tell if they are having rough time. Or if they wear sunglasses on a muggy afternoon. Or if they are in a terrible rush and tuck a naggin of "Smirnoff" in a pocket asap.

For instance.

Ann Marie is not doing great. As a matter of fact, she is perpetually grumpy, even on a sunny day. On Thursday she is going to a hospital to have an eye surgery. I keep trying to cheer her up, yet she is already superstitious and wary of doctors.

Naggin of "Powers" man is better now. On most days he is our first customer. "Keeps the old heart going", says he and gives a smile. Almost on a daily basis. The heart is old indeed - about 70.

There is also a woman living next door to a shop. Her boyfriend pays her regular visits (although I haven't seen him for a good while) and whenever around he pops in to our shop. Anyway, the woman always seemed to be smarter than the guy (I know I sound like a bitch). A few weeks ago she was cooking something in a sherry sauce. For him, I suppose. She came looking for a bottle of sherry - that's how I found it out. It was peculiar when he entered the shop asking if I could suggest a nice bottle for him. "You'll have something in a sherry sauce", I muttered and added "damn you Lina" inaudibly to myself since I realized it is not an appropriate thing to say.

Oh, and obviously there is a Hot guy. Whom I don't consider hot anymore... Although after he dropped by all sweaty after playing tennis I started thinking of changing my mind.

And then the curly "Super Bock" fella who had shifted to "Tyskie" for a while. He is one of those customers I really like. Needless to say, mainly because he likes the music I play. Unlike that ancient self-loving fossil who sarcastically exclaimed "Is this radio? Do you like THIS? Who's this?" to Joanna Newsom.

It's Joanna Newsom.

Where are you from?

Lithuania.

Is she also from Lithuania?!

She's American, you moron.

I obviously omitted the last words. Next time I will play U2, sorry. Hope this makes you happier. Customer friendly music, you know.

Observations from behind a counter are doomed to be continued since they are innumerable and they make the time go by quicker.

"Why do Irish people drink? Because sober people write whiny letters while they're on holidays. And skinny people never get their round in. And Hans Christian Andersen wrote rubbish stories. And Carlsberg tastes like donkey wee. And mind the saloon doors don't smack you on your skinny little bottom as you leave."

Al C O'Holic

Despite the fact that Dublin's daily "Metro" (distributed for free) encourages readers to include their full name in the emails sent to the editor, the author of the above email is anonymous.

The outrage is an answer to a Danish guy Christian who after arriving to Ireland after 10 years came to conclusion that the only difference he notices is the fact that there are more men with beer bellies and women with spare tires. This slapping of a Celtic tiger did not stay unnoticed.

"One must be blind not to notice the level of binge drinking in this
country: girls crawling from pubs on their knees and men taking a leak
wherever possible. Have you ever tried to walk in Temple Bar on a
Sunday morning? The place stinks of every excrement possible."

This was part of my response to Al C O'Holic which I had emailed to "Metro". In case he/she doesn't know that every fifth person in this country is obese (and these are the figures of 2000). Or in case he/she is not aware of the fact that Ireland has the highest level in EU in terms of binge drinking. It is not shamrocks or leprechauns in Ireland anymore. It is broken pint glasses on Grafton street and the smell of puke and piss in the city centre 24/7. Celtic tiger is getting wasted. Slainte.

By the way, for the likes of Al C O'Holic I highly suggest visiting Denmark. For pure educational purpose.

A soon-to-be-deported Israeli vice girl - whose forthcoming novel ‘Confessions of a Celtic Tiger Call Girl’ will be published anonymously by Opportunity Press spills the beans on her many high-profile Irish clients.

As confessed to Lorcan Roche of "Mongrel":

***

What does it matter to you, my name? You have all called me so many names in your accents, and whining voices. Horrible, Irish names (Seoige! Ni Bheolain!), Jewish ones too (Sharon!). You called me names as studio sweat and make-up and liquid guilt ran down your candy-striped arses, arses you paid me to whip and insert objects into. Like a torn-up contract for a better Ireland, while you pulled down your Lycra cycling shorts, halfway, and pumped the air.

You called me ‘Glenda’. You made me arch one eyebrow, like Dr. Spock. You made me scrub your pink skin raw, then rub Wintergreen ointment on your member while you babbled about ‘controlled passion’. You made me dress in an English rugby jersey, then you beat me with a copy of LIFE magazine. When you came, without warning, you screamed ‘Stringer! Stringer!’... What does this mean? Should I have tied you with cheap string, the kind my mother wrapped around my battered suitcase the day I left my homeland?

You came to me in the morning, sweating from the studio lights at RTÉ and you made me eat linguine and clams, three bowls, and you wanted me to confess in minute detail what other RTÉ presenters had requested, and it thrilled you (especially what Derek had asked for) and your greedy eyes grew wide and you wanted to see me with olive oil drizzling on my chin, like you often have on TV, except of course you have several chins. My God, I will never forget your lips, so big, and rubbery. They moved this way, and that, on my body, and your tongue was visible, always, like a ferret trying to escape from a ball of silly putty.

You came to me from RTÉ in the afternoon, and you crawled on the floor below me and looked up with real fear in your eyes, and you moaned ‘Grainne, Grainne’ and you asked me to dress in leather and to humiliate you, and to speak with a sexy lisp. Humiliating a grown man, even a redhead, and speaking in a sexy lisp at the same time is hard. But, after watching the show I mastered it. It’s about attitude, heels, and self-belief.

You came straight from the law library, wearing a pinstripe suit. You made me jump up and down for hours to Michael Flatley’s music, wearing a blonde wig and white stilettos. You invited me to a party in Killiney, but I had been there before - to Vico Road, where I was forced to dress in red and have deviant sex with a nanny and a dwarf. Vico Road. Where a famous film director paid me to beat him while he sat in a wheelchair, where a famous singer – dressed in PVC and big stupid glasses – paid me to chase him round the room with a can of fly-killer.

You told me your name was Eamon. You sniffed cocaine off my nipples and you said after that I was a good whore, but not a great whore, that the best whores worked in TV, then you scribbled all over the walls of my apartment, screaming about a homosexual farmer called Giles.

You said your name was George. You seemed kind, but then you took too much Viagra and you held me captive for days while you beat off and talked about yourself, endlessly. You said your name was Michael. I stroked your bald head. I let you play with my stormtrooper costumes. You cried. You opened up to me. But then I saw the guilt in your eyes – and knew it was you who would ring immigration.

***
Was trying to google the book, but couldn't find it. Hopefully will manage to get hold of it.