A new cast

Update on the broken arm:

With his arm freshly cast, I was to get a certificate from the pediatric outpatient clinic to allow Marcus to fly to Germany for Christmas. A quick call to the clinic, and I could come by and pick one up the afternoon before our departure. Ah, but you and I know that things cannot go as planned. That would be Too Easy.

When the phone rang, I picked up, and my favorite bone-setter, Conor, told me we would have to split the cast to be able to fly. Could we come in and do that the self-same afternoon? Of course we could. Thirty minutes' drive for thirty seconds with a cast saw and the deed was done.

On doctor's orders, our first task on landing in Germany was to get Marcus to an outpatient clinic to get a new cast, as we had had to split his fresh cast for flying. It turns out that cutting it open was an excellent idea, as his arm did swell during the flight, and we did end up loosening it, and rewrapping it--in the parking garage at the supermarket.

My mother-in-law had called ahead to the 14 Nothelfer clinic, which means 14 emergency helpers, which we think is a funny name for a clinic, but what do we know? At any rate, we found our way to the outpatient clinic, where we were told to come back in an hour as the doctor was in surgery. We headed into town, and bummed around the Christmas market, and then headed back.

The doctor, a fast-talking young woman ( you know you're getting older when the doctors are younger than you), asked if we had the doctor's report form Dublin: we did, and I handed the CD to her. She laughed and handed it back to me--we have no computers here, she says. She then looks at the cast, and shakes her head--we don’t make these anymore, they're old-fashioned. She orders up an x-ray, which turns out to be a real x-ray machine, not fluouroscopy (digital, no computer). As we wait for the x-ray technician, we hear a noise. Yup, she's typing up a form on an IBM Selectric. If you don’t know what that is, you're probably too young to be reading this.

The film we walked back down the hall to the doc had an uncanny resemblance to the first picture of his broken arm. She said essentially the same thing as the Irish doctor, but with less Latin, and then looked at the cast again. No, she says, this is plenty stable, she doesn't recommend doing anything more to it. Come back in a week, says she.

We scratched our heads, not sure what to make of it all. I am reminded of my freshman Western Civ prof, spouting, "what is modernity?" Since it was a long weekend, we couldn't do anything about it (or anything else) so we just sat tight. We briefly considered heading to the hardware store and buying a few strips of fiberglass and doing the deed ourselves (watching Alfred try to talk me out of it had a certain entertainment quality). But by Monday, Marcus was hurting mush less, and a call to the old family doctor put our worries to rest.

We can't wait to see what the Irish doctor says when we return with the same cast as last year...

Tagesausflugsmehrzugfahrt

After a week of grandparents and new Christmas toys, the kids were understandably bored. Poor Omama and Opapa are so used to a quiet retiree's house that our two boys wear her out, not to mention the mayhem we bring to their sense of order. It is at this point in every visit that we must fabricate a way to get out of each other's way.

So what do we do for fun around here?

A few years back, Ravensburger Spieleland opened up: the people who bring us those great jigsaw puzzles decided to try the whole Disneyland model applied to the blue-corner brand. The result is a German version of fun park, with a commensurately high ticket price. The first time we were here after its opening, Danny was still in diapers, and the maiden aunts wanted to take our kids there. We said no, earning the title Biggest Party Poopers Ever. But our toddler had been eaten alive by mosquitoes the night before, and it was hot and muggy: an asphalt crush of people was not going to help him stay cool and not scratch. We decided instead to head to the local swimming hole with friends. It had terrific shady spots and muddy banks. We got him wet, covered him in delicious itch-stopping mud, and then sent the men folk to the closest supermarket to get ice cream, which we slurped down greedily because it was melting so quickly.

Two years ago, we hit pay dirt: there was snow on the ground every day for three weeks. We sledded in blizzards, we sledded down the longest hill known to man, the maiden aunts and soon-to-be-uncle-with-the-big-dog took the kids sledding. We built snowmen, and then we sledded some more and had a snowball fight or two. It was perfect fun, and nearly always followed by hot chocolate. No one called us party poopers.

Danny picked up a German train schedule, and said, let's look in here. From the mouths of babes: What could be more fun than spending a cold day riding around trains? We looked at the schedules and saw we could go to Switzerland around Lake Constance (via Austria), or over the lake itself (ferry boat), or both! We figured out the schedule: Sunday morning, departing at 9:07. We had a plan.After breaking our fast to a bright orange sunrise, we arrived at the train station in time to purchase our tickets, only to have the ticket dispenser tell us to buy our ticket at the counter--which didn't open until 9:30. Hmm. And we didn't have a plan B. Alfred knocked on the door of the Fahrdienstleiter (the closest thing to traffic control in the train station), who told us to get on board the 9:07, jump off in Friedrichshafen and grab a regional day ticket (€53 less than the price we found online), then jump back on--we had seven minutes between the time the train would arrive and depart. Once we got there, we found out he had called ahead, so the ticket was ready and waiting for us. We managed with 2 minutes to spare. Our trip ended up taking us via Lindau and Bregenz (talked to some Americans from Dubai who came to escape the warm weather) to St. Gallen, where we bummed around (the library is a UNESCO heritage site and the city is still wearing its Christmas finery) and have a nice lunch (lovely risotto, and a garlic soup I will have to try to replicate), then back via Romanshorn, ferry to Friedrichshafen (we have promised ourselves another trip there for the Zeppelin museum), and returning to Ravensburg in time for supper.

We came back all a bit tired, a bit hungry (sausages and fried potatoes took care of that quickly enough), but tired in a happy way. Supper and jammies, and fall into bed. Not bad for party poopers.

Obstacle course

We realized early on that living in Ireland would make it a relatively simple thing to jet off to see the in-laws for Christmas. Book the flights, reserve a car and a bed on the other end, figure out how to get to the airport. Easy-peasy. And yet, and yet…

Obstacles keep popping up. First, it was the whole visa application. Part of the relocation package from Microsoft was assistance in procuring a long stay visa for me. It certainly sounded useful, a whole lawyer's office taking care of all that bureaucracy. And yet…

The whole European visa section of the Irish Immigration department is in a muddle, as the European courts made a landmark decision pertaining to non-EU spouses (that's me) this summer. Previously denied residency in Ireland unless they (me) were already residing in an EU country, the ruling opened it up. Instant backlog in the visa section, and I just happened along at the right or wrong moment. They gave me a three month visa to complete my application, but since I was traveling in between, I was concerned they would hold my passport, making said travel impossible. No problem, says the lawyer: we'll make certified copies so you'll never be without it. So that's just what I did. And yet…

The lawyers dragged their feet, and dragged their feet, and finally got around to sending the application two weeks ago. A week later, a registered letter arrives (the postman cheerfully says, "I'm sure it's the lottery!") from a bureaucrat who shall remain nameless, requesting a stack of original documents (including letters from the boys' schools that I somehow needed to procure this instant), mailed within 10 days.

We take stock: It's Friday afternoon. Too late to mail it and expect it mailed back before we leave the following Saturday. What's more, I'm due to renew my soon-to-expire registration with the Garda the following Thursday evening, the only day the GNIB fellow in Baltinglass works. Clearly, we need to go to Burg Quay, the hellhole of Irish Immigration, in person.

We have the weekend to steel ourselves (a trip over the hill to Glendalough is perfect--it's really close, still lovely, and we easily find the woolen mill and take care of a present for my mother-in-law that should please her). We plan to drop Danny at Natasha's at the crack of dawn, drop Marcus at school in Dublin, park the car at Microsoft, and take the Luas up to downtown (there's no way we can expect to park there during the Christmas season). The Immigration office opens at 9 am, we aim for 8:30. It's a good plan. And yet…

We forget the axiom that if you do something different to your morning routine, you should add at least 15 minutes. A later start than we would like, the roads are a bit icier than we would like, and so on. We arrive at Burg Quay a bit before nine. There are no lines outside, simply because they opened at 8:30! We finally find the window for us, fooled because it had no line whatsoever (there are 50 people waiting in another line for a number). The fellow behind the glass cheerfully instructs us to drop the documents in the box, and says we'll get them back in two days. When pressed, he says he can't guarantee their return that quickly.

Alfred gives him a Paddington-like hard stare, and the fellow takes our stack of papers and disappears, presumably upstairs, for 20 minutes. He returns, papers randomly shuffled, and tells us we're sorted. We're pleasantly surprised at how easy this was, and buy ourselves a congratulatory hot chocolate at Butler's, and I hope on the bus back to Blessington. Plenty of time to get ready for our trip. And yet…

It seems that every class in spitting distance of Dublin spends an hour or two at the RDS skating rink in the weeks leading up to Christmas, coming away with a free bottle of diet 7up and a fuzzy green Santa hat. Danny brought his home a couple of weeks ago (yes, we chucked the soda); all three eighth grades from Marcus' school were up this Tuesday.

In one of those parenting moments where everything seemed to fall into place, Alfred was to pick up Marcus directly from the RDS skating rink in Dublin at five in the evening, and head down to a communal supper with our neighbors in Baltyboys. There was just no other evening between now and our departure for Germany, so Tuesday it was, even if Alfred and Marcus might be a bit late. And yet...

Alfred has always been a creative parker, but as he gets older, he's more nervous about it. So, parked illegally in front of the skating rink for fifteen minutes, he was shifting from ticked off to actually worried when Marcus failed to appear and didn't pick up his phone. He did the only logical thing, which was to call me so I could be worried too. My mind did the whole worst-case scenario well-known to every mother. I reached Marcus in the first aid room of the skating rink, and his first words were, "Hi Mom, I think I broke my wrist."

Dinner was later than late, though delicious and thoroughly enjoyable (chicken pot pie, parsnip and turnip puree, lemon tart and pumpkin pie for dessert). Conversation was punctuated by both American families speculating how the urgent medical system might work in Ireland. In the end, we called an Irish friend, who told us to go directly up to Tallaght to the A&E (Accident and Emergency) there. And yet…

A quick look online revealed that the Tallaght hospital has one of the worst waiting times in the country, with a good 30% of arrivals waiting over 24 hours to be seen. We decided to seek advice closer to home and looked online to find the closest GP. Yes, there are three doctors in Blessington. Two share an office and were quick to respond. Could we be there in 15 minutes? I said yes, dropped Danny at the neighbors (are you noticing a pattern?) to hitch a ride to school, and raced into town. Well, tried to race, but the roads were a bit icy, so we were ten minutes late.

The kindly doctor looked at it, said what we already knew ("we should take a x-ray") and wrote a magic letter. His fee was €50, but the letter meant we would save the €100 entry fee to the A&E, plus we would move to the front of the line. What's more, he explained, you should go to the pediatric A&E, where there is little or no wait.

We were incredibly fortunate (or we are using a huge amount of karma) to be in and out in just over an hour, with an x-ray (fractured left radius), a temporary plaster cast (red), and an appointment to get a full cast the next day. And yet…


The doctor in the pediatric fracture clinic looks at the x-ray (come to think of it, is this the first doc to look at his x-ray?), says it's borderline for surgery--but if we do a molded cast we can avoid resetting the bone. I ask about flying in two days, since the nurse had mentioned a split cast for flying. Oh, says he, if we do that, we'll have to perform surgery. Molded cast it is (Marcus chose white, the better to show the autographs). As he molds the cast onto a brave Marcus' wrist (hey, broken bones hurt), the tech mentions that we should check with the airline to see what they require.

The Ryanair website reveals that we need a medical certificate. A call back to the clinic reveals that they leave for the day at 3. Call back tomorrow.

My appointment with the Garda in Baltinglass goes without a hitch: instead of a six-month visa pending approval of my application, the fellow, with whom I share a surname, stamps my passport for five years. I'm set! And yet...

With less than 24 hours before we are to depart, I place a call to the fracture clinic: they can generate a medical certificate, if we can pick it up before 5. A call to Alfred confirms he can get it on his way home. It's down to the wire, but we can see the finish line.

Adventures in foreign plumbing

For many Americans, their first trip overseas is an adventure in plumbing. Trying to figure out how to flush the toilet (or even if that hole is supposed to be used as one), how to turn on the shower, and how to get hot water running are all part and parcel of the experience.

My first night in Germany, I can remember tiptoeing off to the bathroom, and trying to find the light switch. Nope, not that side of the door (dance, dance); maybe over here? Nope (dance, dance, dance). They wouldn't put it on the hinge side, would they? Nope. (DANCE, DANCE). Oh, hell with it, I'll just pee in the dark (thank heavens I'm a girl). Now, where's the handle to flush…?

The next morning, I discovered the light switch--OUTSIDE the bathroom door (silly me, I was INSIDE the bathroom, with the door closed). And about ten inches lower than I was accustomed to. (I should add that the light switch in my French dorm was inside, but on a timer. Take too long, and you were in the dark. But this is about plumbing, not electrical.)

Our first mini-adventure in Ireland introduced us to the power shower. Yup, that's what they called it, and the estate agent who was showing us our self-catering accommodation seemed quite proud of it. When we asked how it worked, she explained that you pulled the string hanging from the ceiling (it looked like it should turn on a light, but didn't) when you wanted to take a shower. Hmm. We tried it, and had a disappointing trickly warmish shower. As an experiment, we tried taking one without and didn't notice much difference. To this day, we're not sure what they do.

Except make noise. The power shower made horrendous noise. It sounded disturbingly like the pump on my mother's Maytag dishwasher right before it died. And then the fan would kick in, and we'd have humming and grinding. We laugh, chalk it up to experience, and take solace that there's a wonderful shower at home.

In the years that followed, with each successive visit, we have endured variations on the power shower, until a few years back, when it seems to have disappeared. Fancy German fixtures were all the rage, and there was no more pull chain from the ceiling. In its place however, there was something we have learned is called the Immersion. It's a hot water tank that lives in a huge closet (about the size of the average Irish bedroom), with all sorts of gizmos on it, one of which looks startlingly like a detonator from a 'B' movie. That was Marcus' take on it, anyway.

Next to the behemoth tank is a pump. There are three stories to this house (two plus the ground floor if you count like a European), and the water has to be pumped to the upstairs. But Irish plumbing being what it is (leaky. Hey, the water is free.), it kicks in any time any faucet/toilet/shower is operated.

(I should add that besides being horribly noisy, the @#$! thing takes up an incredible amount of space. Try fitting a vacuum, broom and drying racks in that closet. Not that we get to put the drying racks away very often. But that's about appliances or lack thereof, and not plumbing.)

Let me take advantage of this momentary diversion from my narrative (yes, this is going somewhere) to take the opportunity to show off our kitchen faucet. It's a beautiful thing, pretty to look at, but it's about as practical as Paris Hilton in an operating room. Here's a video of this beautiful thing in action:

Well, a couple of weeks ago, something disturbing happened. The toilet, all the way upstairs under the eaves in our bedroom started running. Y'know, not shutting off after a flush. No problem, you say, just jiggle the handle. Ah, but it has no handle. Think beautiful German fixture. It has a vertical button. We can't even take the lid off the tank, because the tank is mounted behind the toilet in the wall. Behind the tile. The only way to access it is by taking the button off the wall and reaching your hand in. Oh well, we think, water is free. Ah, but electricity isn't, and neither is sleep. You see, if the toilet runs, the tank has to refill, which means the pump has to kick in. Every ten minutes or so. Day and night. Spinning the meter, and driving my adorable husband and me absolutely round the bend.

So we took to shutting off the pump at night, but found it mildly inconvenient to have no running water upstairs when Marcus had the stomach flu. It's also a real pain to have to trek all the way downstairs when you want a drink of water in the middle of the night.

I try to be Pollyanna about it--we are after all renting, which means we don't have to deal with this stuff. A call to the friendly and increasingly patient landlady (German expectations and Irish execution, especially when it comes to plumbing, are quite disparate), has her putting in a call to Eddie the plumber. We've met Eddie before, when we couldn't figure out which switches to turn on to get the immersion to actually heat the water.

So it was Eddie who knocked on our door at 9 o'clock one evening last week. He jiggled the handle (by reaching in the hole in the wall--look, someone left the spare parts for the toilet in here, still in their baggie), and wiggled this and that and put the cover back on. It was fine until the first post-Eddie flush. The thing continues to run, and we have popped the cover off so we can jiggle the handle in the wall ourselves.

I know the electric bill is coming, and I know it will be horrendous. Yup, it's time to put in another call to the plumber. Wish us luck.

I did mention that the broadband is working, didn't I?

Christmas parties

It happens every December, the overscheduled weekend. You would think that being far from home would mean we would be invited to fewer parties, and indeed we were. It's just that both of them were on the same weekend.

The Irish Translators and Interpreters Association, a congenial bunch, hosted a wine and mince pie reception in the elegantly Georgian Irish Writer's Centre on Parnell Square in Dublin on Friday evening. Since Alfred and Marcus were already in Dublin, Danny and I took an afternoon bus up to Dublin to meet up for supper before the ITIA gathering. We arrived downtown just as the sun was setting, the blue sky turning a deep blue that set off the Christmas lights perfectly. (We also learned that Happy Christmas in Irish is "Nollaig shona duit.")


After meeting up at St Stepehen's Green, we walked up to a little restaurant called the Farm (across the street from the bookstore of Ulysses fame, Hodges Figgis), where we indulged in some very yummy local cider and organic hamburgers (Alfred had the shepherd's pie). From there, we ducked into said dangerous palace of words for sale, and mozied our way up Grafton and O'Connell streets, to Parnell Square.

Halfway up O'Connell Street, right before the GPO, is Butler's Chocolate Café. There's a reason we join the line that snakes out the door. Mmm, yummy, thick, soy cocoa. Neighbor's son Joshua assures me that their chocolate milkshakes bring the same level of chocolate goodness to the Irish summer. The lights outside their door had little chaser lights that rained down on you, as well as dazzling wreaths:


The wine reception was almost a let down, a quick glass of Spanish red and a few mince pies went into Marcus, a short chat with a few faces I recognized. Then we headed down to the tram and Alfred's car, and zipped down over the hills to tuck into nice warm beds.

Saturday dawned clear and even colder, with everything a bit slippery-icy. We did the morning run; Danny to investigate accordeon lessons in Hollywood, Marcus over to Dunlavin for cello lessons--this time with an older fellow with whom he really clicked. I think we may have found a teacher for him!


After lunch, we piled into the Scénic and tootled into Blessington to do our recycling. Yup, a purple garbage truck is in Blessington for two hours every other week. And that's how we recycle. Kind of embarrasing how many pizza boxes we had accumulated in four weeks (we missed one Saturday).


We took our books back to the library, and took a walk in the chill to find St. Patrick's well. It was featured in the town's walking tour brochure, but it's hard to believe it was the source of water for the whole town at some point. Someone has wadded up a crisp bag in the hole, but I don't think that's the reason it was a mere trickle.

A stop by the video store (called Gogglebox, for some unknown reason), and the supermarket, and we had all we needed for a great evening out: noodles, ice cream, and a DVD (Polar Express). We got the boys fed and jammied, parked them in front of the screen, put on our nice duds, and headed up to Croake Park in Dublin for the Microsoft Ireland Christmas party.

After following cryptic directions to a car park and not finding it, we found a parking spot on the street a block from the front door. We slipped our way (cement is much more slippery than mud or even gravel) to the party, where we did our best to mingle with people we didn't know.

Dinner was a sit-down affair, with some of the most inept catering we've ever witnessed ("It's not undercooked, madame, risotto is supposed to be served al dente..."), but entertainment consisted of a band with dancing girls--flown in from Scotland, that hotbed of campy entertainment. We also got to blow through 40,000 euros of play money. Alfred picked up the table decoration dice as party favors for the boys.

Along about 12:30, we decided we had milked it for all it was worth, but then we managed to run into the woman whose maternity leave is making this entire adventure possible, so we didn't get home until 2:30. It felt good to be where there were stars and peace, especially after loud music and staggering drunks (both at the party and in the streets).

Of the next days' headache I shall write nothing, you've been there before. We made a quick outing to Russborough House ("The Loveliest House in Ireland"), which just happens to be a couple of miles away (closer as the crow flies, but there's the matter of the lake between us). Yes, that's my muddy car parked in the front yard.


They were hosting an art fest and farmer's market there: I'm not sure which one this booth belonged to, but the orange chocolate fudge ("Man of Aran Fudge" is a commanding name, don't you agree?) was a lovely cap to a lovely weekend.

“Well, at least you’ll have plenty to blog about”

“Well, at least you’ll have plenty to blog about,” notes my dear husband. I know he’s just trying to cheer me up.
“I can’t very well blog about the stomach flu, though, can I? And most people aren’t interested in a flat tire. I really would rather write about the great weekend excursions we had.”
“Yes, but the flat tire at least points up how some things actually do work here. I mean, the rescue guy showed up in record time—less than an hour from Dublin.” He’s got a point there. And it proves my theory: if someone apologizes and says it’ll take a long time, they’ll get to it right away; if they say they’ll take care of it straight away, you’re in for a wait
“True, even the broadband is finally working! Are you going to go in or work from home, since Marcus doesn’t need a ride to school today? ”
“I can’t, I have a meeting that I have to go to this afternoon. And I don’t think I can reschedule.” Great, I have to figure out whether to leave Marcus by himself or schlep him with to the tyre centre.
“No. Oh, wait a sec, Ferdi’s stuck in Thailand.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope, he’ll be home in two days, via Kuala Lumpur and South Africa. He has to reschedule!”

Which means I can head into town to get a new tyre, knowing that Alfred will be here if Marcus needs him. I know the tyre centre well, and the fellows have already sold me new tyres for the front to get me thru the NCT (car safety test). At this rate, I’ll have a matching set by the thaw. And their proximity to downtown means I could take care of the Post Office and shopping.

*****

So much for the news. But what I really wanted to write about was the great weekend we had. The turkey had trimmings, and Alfred and Marcus cut out early to be home for an early supper. Butternut squash stood in for pumpkin, and today I saw sweet potatoes in the market, but otherwise it tasted just like it should. And after supper we stepped out our back door for some Space Shuttle gazing, with Danny spotting the bright body arcing overhead. We waved, and wished them a happy Thanksgiving.


With Thanksgiving came a change in the weather: clear and bitterly cold, loads of fog. When we headed out to do some exploring, chunks of ice would fall on the car from overhead: not hail, but ice falling off the canopy of trees.


We opted on Saturday afternoon to take a drive around the Blessington Lakes, and discovered a lovely castle (think small) just around the corner, a couple of overgrown fairy rings and a gorse-covered passage tomb. Reminders that people have been here much longer than we might think.



As we passed through Blessington on the way home, the town was all dressed up for Christmas, and the fog and cold added to the mood.

Sunday, we headed out after a breakfast of pumpkin (well, butternut squash) scones. South to Baltinglass, where the ruins of an abbey stand proudly by the river. Little treasures of a pillar that defies physics to remain standing, and Romanesque carved capitals, with frosty ferns poking out from between the stones.



Emboldened by the ease of finding the place, we then managed to drive in circles, and finally resorted the GPS to find a place called Castledermot—yup, Diarmait Mac Murchadh (or Dermot McMurraugh, if you prefer the modern spelling), King of Leinster, built a castle there, but there’s none of that left. Instead, there are ruins of an abbey dating to about 900, a pair of high crosses and another church/abbey, with no information posted other than we could get the key next door if we needed.



Thoroughly chilled, we tucked into shepard’s pie at a pub, and headed north to Kilcullen and one of my favorite events of the year. (At the back of the pub's car park, we found the signpost that was clearly missing when we needed it.)


The winter, or advent, spiral is a contemplative walk in an evergreen spiral, to light a candle in the growing darkness of winter. Together our light fills the room with a warm glow. Our school back home will celebrate the spiral later this week, and I shall miss watching the children that are still four years old in my heart walk tall as young adults, knowing that this is the last time they will walk this path as students of this school. For the first time, I have a pang of missing someone, and realizing it is “my” other children. Good thing they are all on Facebook!


And my visa application arrived this morning, which means I can stay another six months. Good thing Alfred was here to sign for it!

Give thanks

Well, the day is nearly upon us, and it appears I was too far afield. Monday, I trekked over to Newbridge, where there is a huge Tesco and an upscale shopping mall (called Whitewater, though Danny said it really should be called muddy water given the amount of precipitation we've had to deal with). I stocked up on everything I needed for Thanksgiving--except the turkey and a pumpkin--as well as supplies to decorate two Christmas cakes for Danny's school raffle.

Somehow it made perfect sense to give a traditional job to someone fresh off the boat, and someone was even kind enough to loan me a pastry tube before I could point this out. The first one, decorated last night while I was working out the correct proportions of eggnog to brandy, came out whimsical: egged on by a non-brandied Marcus, it features two sugar snowmen having a sugar snowball fight. I drew the line at splattered snowballs on snowmen's faces and dismembered snowmen a la Calvin and Hobbes. The second cake will definitely need a more elegant tone, and I have an idea, if I can only find a snowflake cookie cutter.


But back to being too far from home base. On Tuesday, I headed into Blessington town: the internet and phone weren't getting me anywhere, so I clearly needed to talk to people. After checking every market (health food store, Dunnes and Kenny's SuperValu) for a pumpkin, my eye fell on a butternut squash (the label says it is an exotic vegetable. Whatever.) I recall that it makes a decent substitute, so bag it.

Then across the street to the butcher. I've only ventured in there once before, when Marcus needed a kidney ("Can you get one with the ureter still attached, Mom?") for biology class. And there, in the case, a lovely free range turkey. It was all I could do to now elbow my way past the little old lady who couldn't decide if she should buy one sausage or two, but when it was my turn, the fellow apologetically let me know it was spoken for just a few hours ago. You see, he explains, we only put one out to show people what they'd be ordering for Christmas, we don't expect anyone to buy it. But, he says, as he sees my bottom lip begin to tremble, I have a crown. Yup, it's the top part of the turkey (I don't want to know who got the drumsticks and wings). And it's in my fridge. The stuffing will just have to go underneath the bird instead of in it.

As for the cookie cutter, Helen, who grew up around here, says, oh, you'll be wanting to go to House of James in Naas for that. Which is, of course, closer to home.

Hunkering down

Jack Frost came last night, painting random surfaces (mostly windshields) a chilly white. There's a dusting of snow on one of the Wicklow hills, and Met Eireann warns of "showers turning wintry" on Thursday. Which is all just a way of saying that it's cold.

I nipped up to Dublin City on Saturday, ostensibly to attend a workshop on taxation (which I did attend and almost understood), but also because I wanted a decent knife. I have tried to make it work with the supermarket-grade knives that came with the house, but have cite irreconcilable differencse. I was hoping that proximity to the continent would make it easier to find a good knife, but there appear to be only two kitchen shops around, both within a block of each other in Dublin. Lucky for me, the first one I hit had a lovely display of Sabatier, which fit the bill perfectly. A solid-looking garlic press also jumped into my shopping bag and I didn't say no.

Without Thanksgiving to act as a buffer, Ireland launched itself into Christmas season--the day after Halloween. The fun size candy was dumped unceremonously into the half-off bins (hooray, fun-sized caramel bars!), and those same shelves filled overnight with Cadbury and Bassett's and Mars and Smarties and After Eights and all sorts of Christmas-sized packages and advent calendars and holiday crackers and goodness, you could put on so much weight and put holes in your teeth just thinking about eating it all.

Downtown, and even in our own small village, lights deck the storefronts, and the heaving masses and buskers cram the pavement. Lighted signs tell me that all the downtown parking lots were full, full, full, making me feel even more virtuous for having taken the bus. The bus runs from the center of Blessington to right into the heart of Dublin, takes about the same amount of time as driving myself, and costs only Eur 3.30. I'm sold.



An extended holiday season means that there are more weekends to schedule holiday parties and such, but that doesn't mean that they manage to spread themselves out so we can pace ourselves. No, this is the week that one school has its coffee morning (invite people in for a cuppa, get them to put some cash in the pot and maybe buy a few handmade gifts and a raffle ticket); and the other school has its Christmas Bazaar (with raffle and tombola, please provide a donation from your family ASAP). Next week is fallow, then we get hit with three holiday parties in quick succession, from Friday evening to Saturday night.

We're planning to pull the kids from school a few days early and head down to Germany for Christmas, where it is already snowing. Good thing we brought the woolies!

Cold turkey

My first year abroad, I was in France for Thanksgiving. I was the only American in the entire town (the other one arrived after the new year), and I couldn't afford to fly home. It was my first holiday out of the nest, so to speak, and I hadn't realized just how American I was, at least in this aspect. More than the turkey, I realized I missed the cold sandwiches (lots of mayo and cranberry sauce) and pumpkin pie the next week.
The next Thanksgiving I was back in the States, and gleefully joined the insanity of flying to my parents, a pie on my lap. I firmly believe that the TSA should make a specific exception for pumpkin pies in carryon for this week. Anything less would be Unamerican.
My years in Germany were a challenge, but I was still young and energetic. Not wanting a repeat of my French turkey fast, I set out, determined to find a turkey in November. A chat with a French butcher (just across the border from Freiburg had the fellow shaking his head--he would have to order a minimum of six fresh turkeys, would I purchase them all? I was a student, with no fridge of my own, just a cubby in a communal dorm fridge. This wasn't going to happen. I finally located a butcher in the basement of a supermarket in Freiburg who procured a frozen turkey for me. I headed into town on the tram (I couldn't ask Alfred to carry it on his bike's handlebars), and returned home with a frozen lap. The bird rested on my friend Ute's balcony for two days, where I don’t think it thawed at all since we had a cold snap. Frozen fingers stuffing the thing, another family tradition.
My mother, worried about me, sent a box with a can of cranberry jelly, a bag of stuffing, a can of pumpkin and a can of succotash. I love corn, I hate lima beans. She knew this, but that's a subject for many years of therapy. Given the size of the bird, we had a few starving-student friends over, and demolished everything, even the succotash (without my help).
So here we are, once again faced with the turkey-in-November-in-a-country-that-eats-their-turkeys-in-December dilemma. And of course, my liberal-jerking knee really wants a free-range bird, for both health and moral reasons. I've been at this a week now, and T-day is approaching.
One of the most useful things I have learned over the years professionally is how to estimate how much time a job is going to take me. My clients love that I deliver on time or a little early; I love that I don't have to sweat getting it done under the wire. But this is Ireland, and it takes a half-hour of conversation to ascertain that they don't have a turkey. Since I'm still quite new to the Irish Way, it means I have cleared my calendar to allot the rest of the week to procuring The Bird. Wish me luck!

Black and pink

After supper last night, Alfred took the boys over to the hotel to watch part of a big rugby match. (He maintains that this helps him advance professionally, so he can talk with his co-workers more intelligently.) Apparently, the rules of the game don't matter as much as the showmanship, which consists of grown men trying to intimidate the other team in a ritual called the Haka.



I should note that what's funny is that the All Blacks (who won, 18-16) are a national team who were playing against a regional team. By the way, this is what they call a friendly game.

From the ridiculous to the sublime: I woke this morning to pink light, and when I looked out the window (the Wicklow mountains are to my left) the sky was ablaze in a glorious sunrise. With the moon still up and the birds going crazy, Disney couldn't have painted a prettier picture.


I wonder which will be the subject of conversation around the water cooler?

A desk!

When we started to think in earnest about this adventure, we realized that much of it would be an exercise is prioritizing: just what is important enough to pack and bring with or pursue once we got here? Conversely, it was an opportunity to shed the excess: if we do without it for a year, can we do without it altogether?

Well, after a month of moving my laptop (a must have, given my line of work) back and forth from side board to kitchen table and back again each day, I learned a few things:

• Optical mice don't work on glass tables
• Food and keyboards don't mix
• Reshuffling piles of paper every day is extremely inefficient

The painfully obvious answer is a desk. If this were Seattle, or any other large city, I would head to IKEA. But it's not open in Dublin yet (long story, buy me a cider and I'll tell it to you), so we decided to trek to Bristol, combining a good visit with a lightning shop at the big blue box.

The other hurdle is that this tiny house has four sofas in it (no, I'm not kidding), and there was no way to get even a token desktop in. Our very cool landlady graciously gave us the key to the other house in the village (number 36) so we could swap out furniture. We figured out that by removing one large coffee table and turning one sofa 90 degrees, we could sneak in my tiny desk.

Of course, I also had the trek to Florida and back last week, so assembling the desk was one of the things that just didn't Get Done. But with a calm moment during the week last week, and patience with a screwdriver (I miss my drill, but not enough to buy a new one), I have a desk!


Astute viewers will also note the laundry rack. Yes, we have no dryer, which is something I sorely miss, as the amount of laundry produced by four people in a muddy place can be prodigious, and we're only barely keeping up. One load a day is the maximum, since that fills the two racks, which need at least a day to dry. We have discovered we can speed drying marginally by turning the rack in front of the radiator.

Eagle eyes will notice a white thingy poking out one side of the computer--the Omnitel guys assure me that it will be just a few more days or so until they can get the broadband working. In the meantime, I invested in a USB dongle that gives me a mobile broadband connection to the tower on the hill. The pipeline is smaller, but has been very reliable, and can even carry a voice call without a hiccup. Which means you can call our Redmond number, and if we're not asleep, we'll pick up and talk to you. While sitting at the desk, no less!

On the road

I drove into town yesterday to knock off one of the last two administrative tasks, applying for a PPS number (the equivalent of a Social Security number) for the two boys. I has tried to do it last month, but the capricious clerk requested a letter from each school proving the boys were attending class. Alternatively, I could have brought the boys with, but I still haven't figured out how that would prove they were in school.

At any rate, I set out early, and planned to drive over the hill at Bohernabreena (gotta love that name) thinking I would arrive shortly after they opened and lessen my wait time. I did manage to get there and be first in line, but wasn't as early as I had hoped since I ran into traffic issues. When I told Alfred I had met horses on the road, he assumed I meant I had met lads training racehorses with buggies, a fairly common occurrence around these parts. But no, I meant I met horses, not buggies. It was one of those quintescentially Irish moments, and reminds me why we are here. These were stocky draught horses, working stiffs who had left the office without permission.


The soggy weather confirms that it is late autumn, one of my favorite seasons. It always seems to get short shrift with the precipitous attitude merchants have toward the holiday season, but I like falling leaves, and have never figured out why people think upstate New York should corner the market on fall colors (yes, I have been there in autumn).


I did not capture the event on film, but when I stopped to take this next picture, a pair of black and white terriers (one salt, one pepper) came out of a neighboring house to investigate me. When I proved to be uninteresting, they squoze under the fence into the field where cattle were grazing and proceeded to chase them. The funny part is that the cows actually ran away.


The Irish authorities tell me to drop by after Monday and they'll write down the boys' numbers for me: apparently they don't bother mailing such things for children. I wonder what happens if I don't stop by because the roads are clogged with livestock?

Flamingo in the pansies

I have been away for nearly a week, on my annual translation pilgrimage. This year's conference was held in a resort in Walt Disney World, and the organizers went to great lengths to keep the cartoon characters at bay (One colleague relates the story of trying to have a difficult conversation with an employee, only to be interrupted by Goofy at an inopportune moment.). But Florida is still Florida, and Disney is still Disney: our mascot was a relatively innocuous flamingo, flaming pink and sporting tennis shoes and glasses--no, not the intellectual kind, these were purple with rhinestones. A dozen plastic lawn flamingos were purchased to decorate the poolside planters lest we take ourselves too seriously.
My travel day was a bit unreal, from the fresh code orange alert for election day, to the perennially false resort environment, to the early election returns. The juxtaposition between the fall color on the Wicklow hills and the perfectly groomed grass and palm trees was jarring, not to mention the sheer scale of things. I don't think the motorway around Dublin is as wide as the hotel driveway (and people go around the roundabout the wrong way!).
The warm weather, incredible fresh orange juice, and historical election results helped me adjust, and soon I was wearing sandals every day, though I still needed a sweater indoors because of the air conditioning. Sessions were attended, business cards were exchanged, meals were shared poolside. When it came time to leave, ,the traditional drawing was held for free registration for next year's conference, and another dozen names were pulled out of the bowl for--you guessed it--a lawn flamingo.


Which explains how something so pink ended up somewhere so green.

Wheels

You asked, here they are, the new Hellstern fleet. The good news is that the blue beast passed its NCT (National Car Test) on the first try, though our neighbor told us that never happens.

The minivan (a Renault Scénic) looks pretty big next to the little Clio, but it's actually a wee bit smaller than a Mazda 5. It's completely gutless, but the dual sunroofs are pretty cool.

All hallows eve

It's a big deal here!

We didn't get to the store in time to get a pumpkin, so we, or should I say a determined Marcus, carved a turnip! Really.


Danny dressed up as a Garda (Irish police).

Marcus doesn't do dress-up anymore. But he still manages to score candy. Hmm.

From cold to warm

During our stay in England, the weather turned cold. Frost on the windshields, dusting of snow on the hills kind of cold. Needless to say, it was lovely being on vacation and not having to scrape windshields (windscreens).

After two days of sightseeing, our third day at the Goswells was given over to pressing apples into cider. Armed with a book and plans for a press from the Web, Karen supervised, while we put Cripsin's fabrication to the test. We picked, chopped, scratted (that's a fancy-apple term for the coarse grinding that the fruit undergoes before pressing), searched for more containers for apples and their by-products (future compost), and managed to break the press. With a halt put to the preparations, the men-folk retrenched to the workshop and figured out how to rebuild the press to apply enough pressure to get the precious juice without breaking apart. After much kibitzing and fortified with a fine out-of-the-freezer feast, the first pressing was finished by bedtime for the wee ones. A large bottle of juice was set to ferment (Karen has promised a full report), and the rest pasteurized and bottled and labeled. We tucked our bottle into the special bottle compartment in the back of the car (it is a French car, after all), and it is now safely ensconced in our kitchen.





Our crossing home was not as rough as coming over, but high winds kept us circling for three hours before we could dock. The Irish Coast Guard took advantage of the opportunity to do some helicopter rescue training, which provided at least an hour of entertainment. We got home and fell into bed quite late; poor Alfred had to rise the next morning, but we did no such thing.




The trees outside our windows appeared a little more bare, and the microwave said it needed its clock reset. I figured I'd need to set the timers on the radiators as well (each one has a separate control), but we scratched our head for a day until the neighbor said they had only been without power for an hour. Indeed, it appears that readjusting clocks off of daylight savings time was taken care of for us by the electric company. I wonder how they'll move things forward in the spring...

The tallest of the Wicklow hills had a sprinkling of white (we think that's why it's called the Sugaloaf), but that has since melted. The weather turned back to just quite cool. I finally capitulated and bought a wireless modem dongle for my laptop, since the Internet connection was completely gone upon our return, and a visit from the tech today yielded absolutely no improvement.

I am off to Florida tomorrow, for a professional conference. It will be odd to be warm (though I may freeze with the air conditioning) and around Americans.