An American in Ireland

When I first moved into Mountaineering Man’s apartment, he was very forthcoming about the unfortunate realities of his neighborhood. He insisted I never go out on my own after dark – even to the corner shop – and be very aware of my surroundings when walking around during the day.

The area, known as The Coombe, does have its dodgy aspects. But lately I’ve really warmed to the neighborhood and its surrounding districts and have even discovered a few gems. About a month ago I started walking to my gym, which exposed me to a little nook in the area full of bustling shops and street vendors I’d never seen up close before. Now, instead of noticing the abandoned buildings and strung-out junkies I see the beautiful cakes in bakery windows and the sweet old Polish ladies who warm the shop stoops sharing gossip over tea.

Walking down Meath Street is always a sensory delight; there are aproned butchers hauling whole carcasses on their shoulders, smells of fresh-baked bread wafting down the street and the sing-song sales calls of the ladies hawking a variety of cheap accessories at tables along the footpaths. Get your Flossies here, now half-price! they call out, referencing the colorful cotton shoes that are a hot item among the local street vendors right now. On the same table there is an odd variety of items including chocolates, candles, toothpaste and greeting cards – all at bargain prices.

The businesses here are all small mom-and-pop type places. There’s the Chinese hair salon, which is always packed with petite, lavender-haired grannies. There’s a Polish food shop that has a million types of pickled cucumbers and dry-cured sausages, and there are a few quirky clothing stores that specialise in cheap, frilly frocks – especially over-the-top sequined numbers. It’s fun to window shop and there’s always lots to see.

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Oh man, this place is soooo J.

This is something my sister would say if we walked into a particular type of place. What does “soooo J” mean? Sooooo Japanese. This comment would be appropriate is if my sister and I walked into a shopping centre that reminded us of one in Tokyo, maybe because of the items it sells or the general vibe of the place. Or if we walked past a sushi restaurant in Los Angeles full of Japanese people, we might say This place must be good, look at all the J’s in there!

Living here in Ireland, I rarely see Japanese people but the odd time I do I tend to make a verbal note of it – probably because it’s so unusual. Of course now Mountaineering Man has picked up on my use of J to refer to Japanese people; as he has a mischievous sense of humour, he’ll abuse the reference. Pretty much any Asian person we see will elicit a Look, there’s some J’s! He’s just being cheeky of course but I will admit I do find it quite funny. Moreover it’s interesting to observe his growing knowledge of Japanese food and culture, which he’s picking up in bits and pieces from me.

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While still in college I worked as a newsroom clerk at the Santa Cruz Sentinel, the only daily newspaper for the northern California coastal town of – you guessed it – Santa Cruz. I made a whopping $8.88 per hour (big money back then!) and got to work alongside my best friend Cat, who worked as the assistant to the Editor in Chief, Tom.

One of Cat’s responsibilities was to read over all the letters to the Editor and select a few for Tom to review, comment on and publish in the paper. Tom would write his reply on a Post-It note, stick it on the original letter and leave it on Cat’s desk so she could type it into the system for publication.

I remember one letter in particular; it was was written in response to a photo we ran on a local Little League baseball team. The letter was from Kenny, the 8-year-old pitcher of the squad and apparently the paper ran a misspelling of his name. I just wanted to point it out but thank you for printing the photo, I am excited! Sincerely, Kenny. It was pretty adorable that the kid took time to write us the letter and Cat felt the same. She deemed it special enough to leave on Tom’s desk for a review.

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  It only took 15 months but I think my body has finally adjusted to the climate here in Ireland. It recently occurred to me that I haven’t had a cold or flu or major aches and pains for a while now; considering I was sick about once every month for the first year of living here, I’m overjoyed!

Irish people say the damp air here is what makes you sick. Whatever it is, my body went into rejection mode the moment I landed. My lungs were used to the comforting warm and dry air of Los Angeles, which was only very occasionally punctuated by a rain shower or cooler temperatures. So when my organs were introduced to the cold, wet breezes of the north east seaboard of this island, they were determined to show their misery by inflicting pain in the form of one bizarre illness or another.

First there was the monthly cold with the coughing and slightly-above-normal body temperature. Then came the crazy, head-rattling sneezing and runny nose/eyes from hay fever (thanks, rapeseed plants!). By December of last year, I had contracted some viral infection that left me with painful, swollen glands in my neck and a low-grade fever and headache that lasted over 30 days. So exhausted and weepy was I during our New Year’s holiday in Athlone that Mountaineering Man had to ring a local doctor for an emergency appointment. The doctor told me the same thing my own doc told me, which was that my body was fighting some viral infection and I would just have to wait until it passed. He happily pocked 50 quid for his 5 minutes and I left knowing I’d chosen the wrong career field.

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When I woke up last Friday morning, I nearly forgot where I was. The sun was blazing, the sky was an endless stretch of clear blue and Dubliners, who typically sport an ensemble of a raincoat and boots, were wearing T-shirts and shorts. For a second I thought I was back in Los Angeles!

The summery sun couldn’t have come at a better time as it was the kick-off for Bloom in the Park 2011, an annual festival of flowers, plants and food sponsored by Bord Bia. Mountaineering Man and I made our way up to Phoenix Park for a look-see and we got an eyeful: tents full of colourful, gorgeous floral arrangements, gardens packed with an array of beautiful produce and a food village fit for, well, a foodie!

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It’s no big secret: I love to cook. And lately I’ve found my passion for cooking again, thanks in part to having someone else to cook for (co-habitating with Mountaineering Man). I’ve been having a great time making our weeknight meals and have been inspired by a variety of factors like our weekly veg/fruit bags delivered by Home Organics and the local butchers and fishmongers in my new neighborhood.

As I whipped up another weeknight dinner the other day, I started lamenting over the fact that my visa here in Ireland only allows me to work as a freelance journalist because I would absolutely love to cook somewhere. Don’t get me wrong; I love journalism and I’ll always be a writer no matter what. While I don’t necessarily want to be a restaurant chef (plus I have no formal training) in an ideal world I could see myself cooking at a small breakfast/lunchy cafe type place, one that specialises in fresh and locally-sourced ingredients.

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My friends Janet, Veronica and Giselle at Bottega Louie – one of our favorite restaurants in LA – sharing a pizza and some starters for dinner.

I’ll always remember the first time I went to a tapas restaurant in Ireland with my new-found Irish friends. It was a little place in Drogheda (which is sadly now out of business) and as soon as I opened the menu and saw favorites like garlic mushrooms, chili prawns and spicy potatoes I knew I was in for a treat.

Or so I thought.

“I’m getting the prawns and the salad,” said one friend. “What are you going to get?”

What do you mean what am I going to get? Tapas is all about sharing, I told her. It’s the Spanish culinary tradition of snacks or little bites served on small plates, and the idea is to get a bunch of dishes to share with friends.

“OK, well you can have a bite of my prawns. So what are you going to order?” she deadpanned.

Through further explanation of the beauty of tapas (That way we can all try a lot of dishes on the menu, I reasoned), my friends seemed to grasp the concept and we each chose two dishes on the menu to order. But when the plates were set on the table, each friend quickly grabbed her two orders and tucked right in and offered me a bite of her food before promptly finishing off the rest.

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When I told friends a few months back that I would be attending the wedding of Mountaineering Man’s sister, they all asked me the same question.

Have you ever been to an Irish wedding?

As soon as I’d informed them that I had not, the warnings came fast and furious.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint!

Drink loads of water throughout the day and pace yourself with the drinking!

Grab a sandwich between the church and the reception!

Take a few breaks up in your hotel room if you can!

Apparently Irish weddings can go on for hours and some even go for days. And while the wedding of Nessa and Cathal was perhaps quite mild by Irish standards, it certainly didn’t disappoint by any standard. The church service began at 1 p.m. and MM and I left the reception at about 2:45 a.m. – a total of nearly 14 hours. I heard a handful of guests partied until 5:30 a.m., so suffice it to say it was a proper Irish wedding!

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Nearly two weeks into being a Dublin resident, I’m still trying to get the hang of things around here. I remember going through a similar adjustment when I moved from Los Angeles to Drogheda in 2010, though back then I was utterly clueless about anything Irish whereas now I’m just trying to learn my way around a new city.

Of course I happened to move here right in the thick of the craziest week Dublin has ever seen. There’s Queen Elizabeth’s visit, her first EVER to Ireland, which is currently going on. Tonight is the UEFA final (football) and Saturday is the Leinster Cup final (rugby), and both are huge sporting events (so I’m told) and both in Dublin. On Monday, President Obama comes to visit for two days. All these events have Dublin on major lock-down: streets are closed off, public transportation is limited and there are literally 10,000 cops patrolling the streets.

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When I moved to Drogheda from Los Angeles just over 14 months ago, I was looking for a break from big-city life. I spent the first part of my childhood in Tokyo, my formative years in Los Angeles and my college days in San Francisco so living in a small town (well, small for me) was something out of my comfort zone.

It was an adjustment but that year in Drogheda was a good one. I learned to navigate narrow country roads with ease; I got used to seeing people I knew around town; I found ways to deal with the lack of variety when it came to restaurants and food shops. But even though I’m now back in a big city, it’s still a world away from where I originally came. 

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