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A Survivor’s Guide To Living In Ireland - The Honest Report On Moving To Ireland - Don't move to Ireland without reading this report.   What are the real facts about moving to Ireland and living in Ireland? Will you be looking out the window of your own thatched-roof cottage enjoying the view of rolling green hills, quiet country lanes, and neatly trimmed hedgerows?  Or is that just a overly poetic rose colored fantasy? Will you be buying a cottage in the country side for $15,000, or are those prices long gone?  If you've been thinking about moving to Ireland then you should know the facts and this report has the real facts, not poetic nonsense.  Written by an American who has lived in Ireland for over twenty years this report will provide you with the proper information so you will know exactly what to expect. He is not in real estate, he has nothing to sell you. But he can tell you about real estate and the reality of the $15,000 thatched roof cottage. (He did buy a house for around that price...)  Can you buy one for that price today?  The author, Tom Richards wouldn't leave Ireland on a bet.  ...and you can be sure that when you read this report that you'll learn the real facts that you are going to need before moving to Ireland. Written without any punches pulled. If you've everthought about moving to Ireland, this is the report to read.

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. 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.

Lori Alexander's first article appeared in the pages of Escape from America Magazine in October 2001. This is the third in her series of articles about moving-to, settling-in, getting-accustomed-to, living abroad in the not-so-magical, but down-to-earth country of Ire. In this article, Lori surfaces the apparent, but real contrasts between americanisms and worldlyisms, or, let's be specific: Irelandisms. It's different. Every country is different. It's a beautiful world... Additional Resources Living Overseas  Unique Lifestyles  Working Overseas  International Real Estate  Lori's First  Lori's Second  Travel Within Ireland  Contact Lori  .

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. 

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. 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. 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.  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.
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Additional Resources Living Overseas  Unique Lifestyles  Working Overseas  International Real Estate  Lori's First  Lori's Second  Travel Within Ireland  Contact Lori