| And Now:
15 Months in Ireland |
| the third
in the series |
| by Lori Alexander, MW |
| After fifteen
months in Ireland, I still marvel at the flurry of activity it took to
get us here. I marvel even more at the unnecessary effort I put into the
process. I tackled our move with a gusto I can only now describe as...American.
Saying I was
extremely organized is putting it gently. Meanwhile, my Dublin born husband
floated through our moving preparations unconcerned, packing nothing, making
no inquiries. I think he intended to grab his toothbrush on the way out
of town.
I now giggle
at the memory of that last frantic summer. It was a blur of portable phones
permanently attached to my head, and endless lists of estimates. |
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| My life became
a hunt for moving firms, child friendly airlines, and empty cardboard boxes.
I was in a state of continual over-drive: swilling gallons of tea, and
wrapping china in baby clothes. I was demented in my attempt to utilize
every cubic inch of packing space.
I kept my Irish
inlaws apprised of our progress by email . Tick, tick, tick came the
lists cluttering their inbox. How much more neurotically American could
I have seemed? I detailed my hunt for plastic pet shipping crates. I had
my mother in law meet the Lissenhall manager and inspect their facility,
as though we had a choice in whether, or where, we were quarantining my
beloved old cat and dog. Off she went to my son’s new school, in order
to report back to her melodramatic daughter in law.
Before we left,
my Californian house was so clean that my landlords returned my last month’s
rent. I considered myself the creme of the multi-tasking crop.
We left for
Dublin with eight suitcases, a video camera, a diaper bag, and our immigration
paperwork. We were the last to receive the brief residency permit lecture,
the last to collect the luggage we could relocate, the last to fill out
lost luggage reports, and the last to breeze through airport customs. |
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| Welcome to
Ireland. And so, my introduction into the fundamental differences between
Irish and American society began.
Married to
an Irish national, I knew getting a visa wouldn't present any great challenge,
and that I’d circumvent much of the red tape. I couldn’t have predicted
how painless, rather, how relaxed, the visa process would be. After a scenic
drive to our adjacent seaside village, we presented my passport, our marriage
certificate, and a couple of kids to the immigration officer.
Maybe the
guarda employed some secret Irish police intuition that we weren’t aware
of, but after an exchange of niceties, I was granted the right of legal
residence and permission to work in Ireland for the next five years.
No huge stack of forms, no questions, no oaths, no raising of the right
hand. The guarda was genial to a fault. Coming from a nation, or maybe
a generation, that fears most police, I was a little put off by just how
nice he was. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| Within a week,
the guarda personally hand delivered my documents, with my passport’s freshly
stamped visa. I probably could have induced him to stay for a cup of tea,
had he not had more deliveries to make. Hand deliveries from a government
official? Incredible! I’d had far more trouble merely getting my American
passport re-issued. I’d had more trouble getting our lost suitcase out
of Aer Lingus! I’d had to fill out more forms, and had to wait longer for
that delivery.
Of course,
an American friend in the more chaotic Dublin City told me a very different
story. She’d waited several days in long, miserable lines, trying to
get her work permit. She’d had her share of forms and questions.
I’d had advance
warning that Ireland had changed tremendously in the past five years, as
a result of its tremendous boom and growth.
Still, I was
stunned at the congestion, foot and motor, in the cities. Our own village
was a smaller version of Dublin, and the line between the two, geographically
and culturally, was finally beginning to blur. |
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| It took no
time to realize that looking for parking was more inconvenient than simply
walking down the street and picking up the milk and bread, as is the custom.
I got used to seeing primary school kids with cell phones, and teenagers
sending text messages on trains.
I thanked my
lucky stars I lived in the relative placidity of the Dublin outskirts,
out of reach of the crushing traffic, overcrowding, and thoroughly urban
atmosphere. My seaside village, despite its increasing amenities, still
felt like the Ireland I had hoped to find. Our postman rode a bicycle.
I could get my groceries delivered. My son was taught at a school with
less than 50 students. It still lives.
I’d heard
there was no such thing as time in Ireland. As someone who could calculate
the exact passing of a minute without the crutch of a wrist watch, that
aspect of Ireland society presented a challenge. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| In my village,
most stores don't post hours of operation. Some are closed on Mondays.
Enough are kept open to keep you guessing before risking setting out on
foot, in the rain. It took me months to catch-on that certain first Mondays
of the month are "bank holidays," and seem to exist for no other reason
than to provide workers with a three-day weekend. Some shops, like the
chipper so many of us in town are addicted to, will toy with customers
and close early, or open late, for no apparent reason.
In our own
little village, the lunch hour is taken particularly seriously. When it
is taken isn't uniform, and many of the shops are too small to rotate staff
and keep businesses open through midday. Coupled with the lack of posted
operating hours, if you find a shop closed, you’ve no way of knowing if
or when it may reopen.
My next
hurdle with Irish methodology was clearing Customs and Excise. The
fact that our ship steamed into the Port of Dublin on Friday the 13th did
little to settle my nerves.
Our run in
with Customs proved nothing more than a formality. My American shippers
had prepared me, flawlessly. Our four pallets of belongings were fully
inventoried, with each box’s contents clearly marked. I tagged each and
every box, per orders, with a strip of masking tape proclaiming: " For
personal use only. All items used. . . . ." I had all the proof
required in the importation guidelines to establish our previous United
States residency. I was armed with bank statements, pay stubs, water, and
electric bills. I had brought our medical records, social security cards,
library cards, insurance records, letters of recommendation, you name it,
I had it. It was truly embarrassing, but it was there.
In the end,
we met with a guy who was either too cool or too reasonable to allow us
to call him by anything but his first name. He shoved the papers back at
me as fast as I could slide them across his desk, saying, "No, no, I don't
need this". He had us in and out of his office in less than fifteen minutes,
in plenty of time for lunch at Bischoff's. As we munched our deep fried
mushrooms, we could scarcely believe that all that was left to do was to
find a truck, hand over our approved import form, and drive our boxes home.
He hadn’t even
asked for my special silver importation forms. Not an issue.
Over lunch,
I insisted I had heard Irish custom's horror stories, of boxes being opened,
contents strewn across the docks. I’d heard about people held up at the
last moment, unable to produce some obscure item of documentation. My husband
nodded kindly and agreed with me in an infuriatingly patronizing tone.
He’s Irish. He’d tried to tell me we wouldn’t need all that stuff.
When it came
time to consider braving the Irish roads, I was delighted to learn no official
written or practical driving test was required to earn the big "Red
L” sticker. However, my husband’s habit of driving forward while taking
in the passing scenery by means of the side window suddenly made sense.
So did my brother-in-law’s fantasy driving career. He seemed to secretly
star as an Indy Driver while hurtling his little Citroen down the M-50.
School proved
another slap in the face of bureaucracy, and another example of the more
easy going attitude I would have to make peace with. I was disappointed,
as still American as I was, with the single form I needed to complete my
son’s enrollment. Where was the pomp, the gratuitous ceremony, the stacks
of forms in beautratic triplicate? I clutched his immunization records,
uncopied, I furrowed my brow when they didn’t seem concerned that he hadn’t
attended pre-school, or know the entire alphabet forward and backwards,
and in Greek. I signed up for the school’s towel washing rota and skulked
off home. Isn't there more?
I had expected
a parochial degree of sexism, but I have also discovered a level of endearing
consideration. A gent of seventy, dressed to the nines and on his way
to church, helped me angle an oak desk through my front door. When I can’t
manage to turn the key in my stubborn front lock, some strong-fingered
dog-walker is bound to pass by and rescue me. No one will allow me to wrestle
my son’s stroller down a flight of stairs unassisted, or attempt to get
it through a doorway alone. Any dropped mitten is placed on the nearest
window sill, and our street sweepers guard us vigilantly. They will not
allow a mischievous toddler, no matter how harried or distracted the parent
may be, to ditch either boot or cap. Not on their street, not on their
watch. The outpouring of concern following the tragedy of 11 September,
when my Irish friends rallied around me, showed the depths of their kindness.
I realized how much we have in common, despite our countries of birth or
our methods.
Despite the
novelty of this country that holds so many shades of green, and its distinct
lack of rigid formality, this isn’t a land of leprechauns, mysticism, or
the “magicals” that litter so many guide books. Nor is it a country
frozen in time, waiting for visitors to find their perfect Kodak moment.
Ireland is struggling with its growing pains, and to keep pace with the
increasingly modernized world. Ireland is entering the year 2002 along
with the rest of the European community.
Also:
Additional
Resources
Living
Overseas
Unique
Lifestyles
Working
Overseas
International
Real Estate
Lori's
First
Lori's
Second
Travel
Within Ireland
Contact
Lori |
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