Slowing down

I should mention that until a week ago, we were also living on the cash we had brought back from Germany this summer: while we had an Irish account, and had successfully transferred many Euros from Germany, we did not have any way to access said money: the mail system at the apartment was such that they held mail a random number of days before delivery, and the bank managed to issue a PIN, but had no record of it, so had to resend it; Alfred managed to get his card in hand, but no PIN was forthcoming. So we used cash. Very carefully.

The landlady had an antenna installed for pulling in a broadband signal within a record-breaking three days. We moved two days later, and immediately noticed that the place, while shiny on the surface, was quite grubby. The previous tenants had smoked, and every cupboard was stuffed with their things. Stacks of unpaid bills in the drawers and mailbox told the story, and the neighbor confirmed it: they had left overnight, one step ahead of the Garda. I pulled things out, wiped things down, threw the windows open, and called in a carpet cleaner.

We’ve also had the electrician in to do various things like actually attach a heater to the wires hanging out of Marcus’ wall and anchor the dishwasher in place so it doesn’t tip over when you open the door. Life works at a different speed here: we emailed the landlady on Monday, called on Tuesday when she didn’t respond, she replied that she’d send someone out on Friday. Friday, the handyman called to say he was running behind, would Monday do? Which meant that he made it Tuesday.

And the list goes on: I ordered stuff online two weeks ago, but it hasn’t shipped yet, the gal promises she’ll call me back once she’s tracked it down. That was two days ago. I note with chagrin that my order number is 57. I guess they’re new to this online stuff.

But in spite of this, and perhaps because of this, I have to say I like it here. There is, of course, the picture postcard views of the Wicklow Mountains out our back window, but there are also amazing moments when we turn a bend in the road and the view literally takes our breath away. Then there are the moments when we turn a bend and find ourselves staring at the grill of a rather large truck. You can’t have one without the other. Yesterday, I had to choose between hitting someone’s garbage can and taking on a tractor. My left mirror (that’s the passenger side) lost the battle.

About the only thing I would change would be to make the internet connection a little more reliable (our line-of-site reception is entirely capricious, and does not necessarily coincide with my wanting to use it.). But the people give new meaning to the term laid back. Could you imagine an insurance agent telling you they’ll have to call you back on Monday, since her underwriter is going home for the weekend? No question of staying late: the world won’t end if they go home to their family. Indeed, that’s what I should be doing too. We’ll deal with it next week.

Daily grind

We are settling into a routine: Alfred and Marcus rise too early for me to want to know what time it is, grunt at each other, shower and pile into the Clio. They drive down the one-lane road a short stretch and pick up our neighbour Paul, and they all ride in to Dublin together. They drop Paul at the Luás (light rail) station, drop Marcus at school, and Alfred actually gets to the office later. They reverse the process in the evenings. As it turns out, their trek over the mountains on two-lane roads takes about the same amount of time as Alfred’s freeway-based commute to the apartment that was closer in.

Danny & I get up an hour later, and have a leisurely breakfast, get dressed, and I drive him to school. Surprisingly, the left-hand-side-of-the-road thing is a non-issue. What is an issue is the condition of the roads. Variable is a word that sums it up nicely. It can take me anywhere from 10 minutes to 25 minutes to make the drive, depending on how many trucks and tractors I encounter. The width of the road—any road—is variable; the condition of the road, variable; whether or not there’s a line down the middle, or a fog line or any line at all, variable. Signage? You got, it, variable. I am reminded how my father used to think it was great fun to change signs around, and I realize it’s a national pastime, since signage tends to reflect changes on Sunday mornings (after Saturday night). There are some misguided souls who maintain it’s the wind that moves them around.

Thursday is my long day, with both boys in school until 3 (Danny is out at 1:30 most other days); Friday is short for both, with them out at one. So I took the train in on one Thursday to register with the Garda, the first step in the immigration process. After standing in line for 45 minutes, I received a number to tell me where I was in the line; yup, there were 249 people in front of me, and each one takes 25 minutes on average. The fellow behind the glass told me that my number wouldn’t be called until after four, and that I needed to bring my husband and children with. The only problem was that I needed to be at Tulfarris at 4:30 to sign the lease and setup the broadband. I abandoned all hope, and went shopping instead, bought some lunch (crisps) and some yarn and some sushi nori at the oriental market.

Tulfarris Village

With both boys in school, we could set a date with a realtor, to see the Tulfarris house and a couple of others. There are no lock boxes here, so realtors have to set up appointments with each other, and apparently miss each other all the time. In our case, three of four properties were a miss; and the fourth was the kind of place that left us gasping for air, literally, as every room had at least one air freshener in it.

Our date in Tulfarris revealed just what we needed: open floor plan, bright and airy, still small. The landlady and her husband owned and rented out three of the houses, and we even looked at another one, but our choice has the best light, and a view of the Wicklow Mountains from almost every window. We decided to take the upstairs room tucked under the eaves for ourselves.

We told her we would take it, with the proviso that she get broadband in. (We were absolutely not wanting to deal with setting up broadband, after having spent hours wrestling with Verizon the week before we left.) The realtor was left standing dumbfounded that we could do this all by ourselves.

The relo people at this point were feeling like a bit of a fifth wheel. When we asked them for things we really needed, like a second car and help with immigration for me and the boys, they were no help whatsoever; but they gave us maps and shopping bags and wanted to help negotiate the lease. We let them do this, but they got my name wrong on it, so I can’t even get a library card. At least they bought us lunch!

(Second) first day of school

Our first full week was full of driving: from Saggart, it took the better part of an hour to get Little One to his school, then more than an hour to get to Dublin, a half-hour to go to the bank, another half-hour to get Alfred to work, and then turned around and drove another hour to go pick up Little One—and we were late. The first day, Jr Firefighter and I were in the car for four hours! The next day, Alfred hitched a ride in with a colleague, so that saved me over two hours right there. Trying to figure out how to get Jr Firefighter to school in the same time window as Little One was simply not possible. We needed a second car, and we needed one fast. We asked for a second rental car, but the relo people refused to budge, even as we pointed out that we were going to save them a bundle in apartment rent by moving out early—nope, they said, no second car.

Luckily, Alfred had located a car via the Microsoft internal network, a little diesel Renault Clio. Originally, we were thinking of it for me, but my torn hamstring meant I simply couldn’t clutch it. So Alfred bargained, lined up insurance in record time, and got it for himself. In hindsight it makes sense for him to have the car that gets 55 miles to the gallon, since he’s driving the longest distances. Remember, gas is about $8 a gallon here (€1.24/litre).

We got Jr Firefighter started into school on that Wednesday. It’s a very big change for him; a large school, with bells and schedules and loads of homework. We spent hours shopping, chipping away at the long list (three pages!) of books and supplies, which had to be bought at a dozen different stores. The logistics of figuring out which books he needed to have in his backpack every morning were overwhelming him, and teachers kept adding things that weren’t on the list, which made me crazy. It took a few days of loading and reloading before we realized he was better off leaving things at school and just bringing home what he needed for homework. I’m still working on the last bits of the book list four weeks later, but he’s adjusting well to the early morning drive in with his dad, and says the kids are fine, especially the French girls.

Blessington

We had a date at the school and we had been combing the Internet for properties for a couple of months, and had a few ideas of the general area, so we climbed in the car (a Toyota Avensis for those who want to know) and headed south to the school, via Blessington. At the boundary of town, we immediately took a side street into the “suburbs” and spent a half hour wending our way through every back street in town (it’s a small town!), until we came back to the main street at the other end of town. From there, we headed on to the school for our appointment.

A note on navigation: at this point, we were relying on two maps and a GPS unit. And even then we were getting lost. This is perfectly normal for Ireland, but can be frustrating if you’re in a hurry. The moral of the story, we are learning, is to not be in a hurry.

No matter. The teacher, Svantje, is delightful, and she and Danny had a nice little time together while we filled out a miniscule amount of paperwork. After a nice chat, including a lead for a violin teacher for me, we piled back into the car, set the GPS to Blessington, and headed back north. As we arrived in Blessington, we looked at each other—we had been here before! Last spring, when we decided to go visit the Steiner School, it was late, the boys were cranky, and so we stopped here for supper. We even had gone to the Centra (a 7-11 type store) for cookies for dessert, and window shopped at the real estate window.

On Sunday, after another early-morning concert (a fitting bookend to the late-night TV habits of the downstairs neighbor), we piled in the car again, this time to try and find the elusive Tulfarris Village. We had heard it might have rentals, and was lovely, by the lakes, but we had been unable to find it: every map showed the golf course, but no map showed a road leading there. And yet we knew it had to be there. So we drove, and managed to find a tiny sign—we found the place, had a look around, and decided it was a lovely setting, but the houses looked a bit run down. Alfred, however, found someone pulling in, chatted her up, and pretty soon she had invited us in to see their place. Quaint and snug (another way to say tiny), but a usable layout. Still, the place was a bit worn. Her husband peeked in, and what with this and that, let it be known that that one unit on the end had been completely renovated, with an open floor plan, dormer windows and a bright conservatory. He made a call, and got us a name. We made an appointment to see the place on Thursday morning.

Citywest

It is hard to believe that we have only been here just over three weeks. On the other hand, nearly a month has flown by! And we’ve been busy trying to get settled so we can get on to more fun things.

The day we landed, we picked up a rental car at the airport and drove in a convoy (me and the boys in a taxi van) to our temporary digs. Alfred started in on the paperwork, going down and applying for a PPS number, the Irish equivalent of a Social Security number and opening a bank account. My first task was to have a look at the apartment, get the maintenance men in to move furniture around, and make a shopping list.

The apartment they provided was in a complex on a luxury golf course on the outskirts of Dublin. We had asked for this area because it was roughly equidistant between the boys’ two schools and near the freeway that led in both directions. Our only other request was broadband, since we knew we were going to be researching just about everything. The apartment was small but new, shoddy construction, and only two bedrooms and two beds: one double, one “king” (about the size of a queen in the US). They provided a rollaway for Danny, but it only fit in the room with the king, so Marcus scored the big bed and we squished.

The Internet connection did work, but there was only one cable, and we have three computers. We had brought our wireless router, but foolishly didn’t have a 220V power adapter for it, so we had to share the cable between us until we found the equivalent of a Radio Shack. Waiting for us was an email from Danny’s teacher; anxious to have Danny join the class, on Monday if possible, though she wanted to meet him first. We set a date for Saturday afternoon, and planned to start him Monday, assuming he was relatively recovered from jetlag.

The first morning, I awoke very groggy to find Alfred had decamped during the night. A common occurrence, as he often has trouble dealing with jetlag. What woke me though, was a thumping music-y sound. Yup, 6:30 a.m., and the neighbor was listening to music, and we discovered just how paper thin the walls are.

In addition, the constant chirping of the motion detector also drove Alfred up the wall, and woke me a couple of times, though I didn’t know what it was. When we called maintenance, they sent someone who managed to set off the alarm, and we had to leave in a hurry. After two days of complaining, maintenance finally just clipped the offending wire and disabled the bloody thing. Clearly we needed to get out of this place.