Hello!
All is well here, like I said.
So I got off the plane and got both suitcases, which was victory number one. Then I had to go through customs. Ha ha. Well . . . I had a bit of a hard time proving to what essentially is Boarder Patrol that I am not getting paid to student teach, which would have been a whole different pile of paperwork and visas that I don't have. He had me go to the back of the queue so he could verify my story with Blackrock College. It was 8:45am at the time, so nobody was there when he called (which I thought was strange, but whatever). Like I said, "All is well," so he let me pass through after stamping a lot of stuff onto my passport. Then I dragged my two large suitcases through the terminal (think George Carlin reference). Automatically I become self-conscious of my accent. I need to ask questions, but I don't want to sound like a stupid American who has never heard of the AirCoach (which sounds like Michael Jordan's ride to the prince's ball) or seen a Vodaphone (Gail, if it were a Jim Voda phone, it would come on a motorcycle and make conversations twice as long as necessary). I get to an ATM and find out where to catch the AirCoach through Greystones. At one point I sat down, had a Clif Bar, and emailed you the first "I'm still alive" (Jonathon Coulton reference) message. I also find out that there actually isn't a place to purchase a cell phone . . . I'm sorry, "mobile" phone (pronounced "moh-buy'-ill"). In my infinite optimism, I figure that this will work itself out somehow. (It does. Remember: all is well.)
So I get to the AirCoach, stow my luggage, and pay the driver. I sit halfway back clutching my map and Marjorie's email, hoping that something will say Cabinteely Cross - my stop. Luckily the driver calls out the stops as he finds them. I ask a bloke (see, I'm learning!) on the bus if I can borrow his phone (with all the appropriate fresh-off-the-plane details). His is out of batteries. Okay. No worries. I get off at Cabinteely Cross. I look down the road. Nothing but highway, an unlikely place to find a phone. Up the road is a residential area. More importantly, above the road is a pedestrian walkway with a father and young daughter. This was a good sign, because little girls don't like to walk very far and are an excellent signifier of civilization. I go to the walkway. To the right are houses, but to the left are some shops. Good crack! (Which I swear means "good fun" and not quality cocaine. [Dammit, this email will probably now be tracked by the government because of the phrase "quality cocaine."])
At home I read about Saint Brigid and Saint Brigid's cross. It's kind of cool. Look it up. I mention this because as soon as I cross the bridge I see Saint Brigid's Church. Hooray! They'll help a poor Catholic American boy in need of a phone! Oh it's raining a bit too. God sought it fit to make sure my blue coat holds off Irish drizzle too. The lovely lady behind the church desk helps me call Marjorie. I say thank you and tell myself that I will buy one of those Brigid crosses before I leave. I wait outside the church for Marjorie.
She comes soon. Marjorie is Irish Susan Hanely. She takes me to her house via the left side of the road. Not that she's a bad driver of course, but the roads are backwards here. Either that or Ireland has it correct and everyone else is confused. We arrive at her house and she shows me around and to my room. I'll send pictures soon. She leaves to go back to work. I planned to set up my room and take a quick nap. Instead I hang two shirts and fall asleep for four hours. Mind you I slept maybe two hours on the plane. I wake up, shower, and set up my room some more.
Soon after Marjorie and her husband Paul come home and they invite me out to the pub they patronize on Fridays. My first Irish meal was Guinness, Jameson, and then stew back at the house followed by football (soccer). I went upstairs and fell asleep after that.
I wake up, well, about now, and have a bit of energy, so I'm composing this email. I hope all is well at home too!
Love you!
-Joe
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