Tuesday meanderings

It's a bit ironic, that in a country where so many things just don't work well, that some things work amazingly well. There are days when we are ready to pull our hair out over the inability or lack of motivation make things work. We have developed a few working theories:

1. Just because it's working now doesn't mean that it will keep working. In practical terms, that means not throwing away the customer service number, and buttering up any technician who comes out to your house with a cup of tea. You'd better be nice to them, because you'll probably be seeing them or talking to them again. And again.
2. There is a code for time estimates. If someone apologizes and tells you it will take a few days or even a week to do something, it will be done much earlier, maybe even within hours. However, if they say it will be sorted (that's Irish for "taken care of") by the end of the day or even next week, you are in for the long haul.
3. Time isn't money. Time is time and most deadlines are patently false. The world won't end if you don't meet them and go home instead. You only need money enough to pay for a round every now and then.
4. It's about human connections. This is a corallary to #3. Your friends will buy you a round even if you can't pay today. Talking--that is speaking about subjects of human interest and listening to them as well--to people is how things get done. Plan to chat about the weather a bit before you ask them to shut off the water that's spewing into the crawl space or move their cow from the road.

Yes, this is on my mind, as I watch the golf course groundskeepers plow the road around the estate. I'm scratching my head, trying to figure out why they are bothering now, when the sun is shining and the snow is clearly melting, and where they were last week, when the road was nearly impassable. My guess is that they couldn't get out here to do it, and that someone important (maybe a banker or the owner) is coming out to have a look today (they can't play golf in the snow). Or maybe not, since they gave up halfway through the parking lot that no one uses anyway. Of course, in the process, they've spread ground ice over formerly bare macadam. See #1.

It's also on my mind as I rush through tasks to take advantage of a fairly good connection speed on my mobile dialup. The broadband has been out since last Tuesday, and with bad roads, no one could get out to work on the problem until last Friday, when they promised they would have it sorted out before the weekend. See theories #1 & #2. (I'll stop adding numbers now, you get the point, and this is, after all, a meandering, not a well-crafted essay.)

One thing about having snow on the ground is that you can tell who has come and gone by the tracks to the doors in our small village. And it means I now know for certain that the postman really only does come out once or twice a week, and then only if there's a enough post in his bag to make it worth his while. The good news is that one of the days last week he brought my passport back with its extra pages, so the Moroccans will have a place to stamp it next week. Now if the connection will just come back so I can reserve a lovely romantic riad in Marrakech, we'll be set.

Thoughts of a vacation (which will be without laptop and children, by design), immediately cheer me up. It puts me in quite a charitable mood (unless you are a representative of the broadband "provider," a misnomer if ever I heard one). There are quite a few things about this country that work well, and still manage to be charming in spite of it.

Roads: I know that people make a great deal of noise about the state and width of the roads, but I see them as an example of things that work--well enough. Think about it: if you only lay down a narrow band of pavement, there's much less impact to the surrounding area in terms of runoff, fewer taxpayer Euros spent on contracts, and fewer construction delays for commuters; easements, which only serve to keep solicitors busy anyway, are hardly needed. There's enough room to squeeze by if you meet a tractor, and if it means you have to actually have to hang up and pay attention to your driving, that's a good thing. I recall reading that Irish roads are actually safer than many other European countries, which tells me something is right. Potholes are also a good thing, in measure: they slow you down (see safety, above, and add in fuel savings). The county does work at it, but it's like taking care of an older house, it's virtually impossible to catch up, but you do keep at it. Every now and then, the pothole truck meanders through our 'neighbourhood', and the lads chuck a few shovels full of cold asphalt into the worst offenders. There's no hotline to call, no database and no controller determining which holes to fill on which date: the lads can figure that out for themselves when they're on the road.

Customer service numbers: If a number begins with 1-800 in the States, I immediately set aside a half hour and steel myself to make the call. I know I will enter voice jail, and resign myself to having to call at least twice to get the right menu options in the right order. I despise companies who put the same song on a loop, because I will have it stuck in my head for days after listening to it nonstop for 20 minutes on speakerphone. My kids taunt me with the Verizon theme. But when I see 1 850 in front of a number here, I'm learning to relax. Not only is it a free call, but most often, I get an Irishman or woman with a lilting accent and a great sense of humour, and I rarely have to push any keys to get them--they actually answer the phone! What's more, they usually take care of things in a matter of a few minutes. I've never needed more than 5 minutes on a customer service call here. And no Muzak. Really.

The library: At first glance, it seems a nightmare, being limited to five books and two CDs, especially because I see something interesting there every time I turn around (I've rarely met a book I didn’t like). But in this case, it turns out that unpredictable computers work to our advantage. The first thing I learned was that the library's connection to the county system is about as relaible as our internet connection (and for all I know, they may be the same). If the system is down, they just write down the bar code number for the books you are checking out (the youngest librarian has figured out you can write it on the computer so you only have to copy them in instead of typing them in when the system comes back up). Since they can't see if you already are at your limit, you can easily go over it. And when I pointed this out, she smiled over her glasses and said, "no worries, we know where you live!"

There are four librarians at the Blessington Library, and I get the impression that they are good friends who meet up for a drink often. Together they dream up all sorts of things, bringing in recitals (traditional music) and exibitions (vernacular architecture of Wicklow county is the current one). Emboldened by their success, they decided to launch a knitting and crochet café, creating a space for chat and getting a few rows done. The first group met yesterday, and I was thrilled at the multi-generational aspect: everything from a mom with two very young children (whom the elder librarian delighted in entertainng for an hour so the mum could chat and teach crochet to her neighbor), a couple of grandmothers, one working on a very traditional Aran, another who wanted to finally learn how to knit, since her granddaughter is learning. On our way out, we notice that the librarians have set up a Valentine's display of brown-paper wrapped books with heart tags. "Are they naughty books?" asks one knitter. "No," says the librarian who is struggling with her first chain of crochet, "they're blind date books--though some have naughty bits!" Laughter all around. And I think we all left with a plain brown wrapper tucked in our bags with a ball of wool.