Adventures in Progress

     First off, apologies to all those who have taken the time to notice that I haven't written in a while. I am amazed at how hard it is to find the time to sit down and write these letters when I've been sitting stationary in this small town for so long.
     I'm still here. Or "there," as some of you may refer to it depending on where you are. Still in Ireland, and that small town where houses are "brilliant, like," food is "gorgeous, like," and the Aussies still call everyone "Mate." That tiny town where, in spite of the fact that I've been sitting relatively still, so many things have happened which I feel are worth mentioning that I've divided this month's letter into chapters. I'm sorry for the length, but after so much time, there's just too much to tell.

--Barman Extrodinaire--

      Last time I wrote, I was allegedly working as a barman in a pub. I now admit to that as the truth (because I've actually left the country by now, in spite of what this letter may say, and they didn't quite catch me). Shortly after that letter, school let out for the summer, and we suddenly had a full staff. I was no longer the new fish. I'm not saying I was a manager or anything, just that I had a handle on what I was doing enough to show the 1 or 2 new new fish how things worked. How to change a keg without getting beer sprayed in your face and all over the front of your shirt, how to pull a perfect pint of Guiness, and of course, how to chat up the women customers. I soon learned, however, that some things simply cannot be taught.
     About this same time, one of our young staff got married. All of her friends were naturally invited to the Saturday wedding. Some of her friends being a good portion of the bar staff. To cut a long story short (for now), I was left in charge of the pub and two new fish during their first week on a Saturday night. There I was, 6 weeks into the job, and I was in charge. Sure, there was no music that night, and there was a DJ at one of the other pubs up the street, and yeah, most of the town was at the wedding, but there was standing room only at the Waterside Inn, where I was in charge. Things were going well in Ireland.

--Degrees of Separation--

     A week earlier (or two weeks later, who can remember?) I had a day off with another barman, Alan. His sister and her friend were in town for a visit, and the four of us drove out to the absolute southwesternmost point in Ireland, the Mizen Head Penninsula. A spot from which, on a clear day, you can actually see the Statue of Liberty (if you squint your eyes, use your imagination, and are extremely gullible). Allright, I'm lying. You can only make out the torch.
     As the conversation progressed on the drive out, I asked the girls what they did for work.
     "Oh, we're in a band," they said, casually. I had visions of every other hack cover band I had seen in every other pub over the past months.
     "So, do you play your own songs, or just do covers?" I asked, not realizing the naiveté of my question at the time.
     "We used to do covers, but now we mostly play our own stuff."
     Alan, like a good PR man, convinced his big sister to put in the demo of their new album to listen to on the drive. This was no hack cover band. This was a band on its way to big things. A month later, they were the opening band for Tom Jones at the Killarney Music Festival. A week after that, they supported Sir Elton John. How's that?! I am now only two degrees separated from Elton John and Tom Jones! Ladies, throw your knickers my way!
     If you're looking for a decent album to add to your music collection, check out "In'Shallah," the latest album from SWITCH, Irelands hottest up and coming band. Just give it a listen. And Joanne, Catherine, and Denise, I'm asking you now if you would be so kind as to think of me when you need an escort to the Grammy's when you get there. Best of luck, Ladies.

--The Winds of Change--

     As we now had a full (legal) staff, and it was coming on to the height of summer when working illegally was a bit more risky (as you'll read later), my hours slowly became less and less, and I began to realize that I was less of a leading knight, and more of a flexible pawn in the sense that I was used when needed, and not so much when someone else could fill in. (In fairness, I was only meant to be there for 3 weeks, because of this exact situation.)
     I was working only four days a week when I looked at the schedule and noticed that next to my name was writtten "resto kitchen." In the interest of editing, I'll just tell you that I started work in the kitchen of the restaurant next door (under the same ownership, but different management) as an assisstant chef four days later. But not before giving myself the worst case of food poisoning that I've ever had by trying to cook myself sweet & sour chicken and pork for dinner one night. That bitter taste of irony kept me out of sorts for at least two days.
     Before the head chef could teach me how to properly cook meat (which, after my little poisoning episode was clearly something I needed further instruction in), I had to learn how to properly wash, steam, cut, butter, and season various vegetables and potatoes (or "spuds" as the Irih call them). Then I learned how to burn everything I touched. Well, actually I taught that to myself, but it's something I really excelled at for a week or two, until I realized that I was sending out food in a posh restaurant that I wouldn't even eat myself. Once Chef and I got that sorted out, the yelling sesions got less frequent, and I began to actually learn stuff. How to not overcook a piece of fish, and how to act sarcastically pissed off when orders would come in for a "very well done steak." ("They want me to cook all the flavor out of my beautiful Sirloins!" Chef would say.); How to burn myself (as opposed to the veg) at least once or twice a day (for the craic); And of course, the immense ammount of difference that an appropriately placed garnish can make to any dish (not to mention the ability to say garnish with a straight face!). All things I hope to hold on to for a good many years to come.

--Fun With Immigration--

     As I said, I was only meant to be in Schull for three weeks. That was before I proved myself as competent (at least, I hope I did). The chef needed someone to stay through the high season of summer. That being the second weekend of September, and this was July. So off I went, hitch hiking my way to into Cork City to bluff my way into an extension for the tourist VISA stamp in my passport.
     After waiting patiently for over an hour in the Cork City Passport Office, I was told that I was in the wrong place, and that I actually needed to be in the Office of Immigration, conviently located in the Cork City Guarda (Police) Station. I felt like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive as I walked boldly into the hornet's nest. After being stopped by Immigration officers at least three times in the last year of travelling, I hoped I finally knew what to do. Combining my apparently innocent, trustworthy face with saying what they wanted to hear, I somehow had the clerk on my side, even as his supervisor stood over him telling us that the fax copy of my American bank statement wasn't good enough, and that I needed to open a local Irish bank account if I wanted to stay the extra month that I had requested.
     It didn't make sense to me, as I was going with the "I'm just the typical American looking for my Irish roots" story. "I just need a little more time! Please, I'm so close." I don't think the clerk understood or agreed with the reasoning behind it either, because as soon as his supervisor's back was turned, he began pecking away at the computer, and then quickly stamped my passport with the cryptic, open-to-interpretaion stamp that read "Permitted to remain in Ireland on condition that the holder does not enter employment, does not engage in any business or profession and does not remain later than 18th Sept. 2002." I decided to spend some time later trrying to find some loopholes in the wording that would let me stay even longer in the land of Eire if I decided that I wanted to when 18 September finally came around.
     All that done, I managed to restrain myself until I was safely outside of the police station before my body erupted into an unsolited dance of joy. I was safe and sudo-legal for now.

--How I became a Roadie for a Day--

     When I made the move from barman to assisstant chef (read: when I was moved from cool frontline Barman to backstage Kitchen Bitch), I wasn't quite happy with my new position at first (but just at first). But that was before I realized that with my nights free, I had the chance to check out the other 8 pubs on this small one street town, and join them for drinks, music, and yes, Craic.
     During one of these nights at the pub with the best looking female barstaff in town (where did you expect me to go?) I listened to a guitar concert by a man from Belfast named Maurice Dickson. After the show, I turned to my guitar playing Aussie friend Mitchell. "And I thought you were good" I said with a smirk.
     We both hung out to talk to Maurice (Mitchell, the guitar player, had more to talk about with him then I did) after the show. He was headed out of town a few days later on his way to another gig and wouldn't you know it, he had strained his back and "If you guys wouldn't mind helping me move some of the heavier equipment, I'll be happy to give you a lift up there. I can probably get you a few tickets to the show too, as I'm only the opening act. The headliner is a guy named Tommy Emmanuel. From Australia." I tell you, those Aussies are everywhere!
     The setup was easy enough. 20 minutes to unload the van, an hour of watching Maurice plug things into other things, and a half hour of walking around the concert hall listening to him play and saying things like "Yeah, that sounds OK to me!" "It's a little quiet here in the back, maybe give it a little more volume!" and "WhoA! A little heavy on the bass there!" as if I'd been doing this sort of thing for years and knew exactly what I was up to. Then it was just a lot of hanging around until the show started. This Roadie stuff isn't so hard afterall.
     When Tommy Emmanuel got about halfway through his set, I turned to Mitchell. "Damn," I said, "I thought Maurice was good!"
     If I hadn't been there to see it with my own eyes, I could have sworn that there were at least two other musicians up there on stage with him. It was as if his guitar was off playing on its own and Tommy just sort of added in a bit of backup and a few vocals now and again. Turns out Tommy Emmanuel is known as possibly the best guitar player in Australia. As if I needed to be told that after hearing his concert.
     After the show, we stayed up all night drinking and chatting. After all, tonight we were roadies, right? And that's what roadies do. Besides, we didn't have a room to sleep in, the bar stayed open all night (because we were "with the band"), and we had to begin packing the van at 6 AM the next morning.
     When everyone but the barmen had left the bar for the night (or morning, as it were), Mitchell and I each found a table to crawl under on the floor of an empty ballroom in the hotel. And as I quickly drifted off to sleep, I heard the double *beep-beep* of my watch chime the top of the hour. 5 AM.
     Exactly 37 minutes later, we were awake eating breakfast (heavy on the coffee), and heading back to our quaint town to sleep the rest of the day away. My career as a roadie was over as quickly as it had begun.

--More Fun with Immigration--
or
--How I Didn't Get Deported...Yet Again--

     For once in my life, staying up all night drinking and then sleeping the next day away did me more good than harm. In fact, you might even say it damn near saved my life! All right, I suppose it wasn't all that dramatic, but how about a little poetic justice?
     The day I returned from my brief stint as a roadie, I slept from 10 AM until almost 5 PM. When I finally stuck my head outside the door, I was immediately greeted by the sound of the accountant knocking on her office window that looks out onto the staircase leading to my flat. She waved me up to her office.
     "Chris," she said, "Thanks be to God that you didn't show your face around today! We had a surprise visit from a Government official who went through every one of our records looking for any discrepancies, or any sign of illegal workers. Thankfully, everyone that we have on record checked out, but if he had found out about you, we all would have been in heaps of trouble. At the very least you would have been sent home straight away."
      Needless to say, it was sort of a shock to my just-out-of-bed system. To think that I avoided legal prosecution and immediate deportation simply because I was completely exhausted from partying the night before. For no other reason then I was having a snooze. A wee kip. A bit of a lie down. Ya see that, Web Master Steve? They ARE watching!
     "So you see now why we had to move you to the kitchen" she said. "It's just far too risky having you out front in the bar."
     After that, I didn't mind working in the kitchen at all.

--Some Things are, well, Only in Ireland--

     I work with two guys a few years yonger then myself from Latvia. Pavel has been working as a chef in the pub for about a year, and Alex arrived two days after I did, speaking very little English. One night at the start of the summer, the three of us were bored, so we went for a walk down to the harbor pier trying to find something to do. As there turned out to be nothing to do there either, we sat on the wall and stared out into the still black Atlantic water. Alex, always one for wanting to improve his English, pointed at something in the water and asked me
     "How do you call these in English?"
     "Those are Swans" I told him, as I noticed the two birds swimming in the harbor.
     "Have you ever seen these Swan in the sea?" he asked.
     I actually had to stop and think about it for a few seconds before admitting that, no, in fact I had never seen Swans in sea water before.
     "You see?" he said, matter of factly, "It's Ireland."
     That became a running joke among the three of us as we continually encountered things that we had never seen before. Or things that didn't quite make sense if you sat down to actually think about it. As different as our American and Latvian cultures were from each other, we found ourselves united in a bond that could only be described by a shoulder shrug and a look that said dismissively "Well, that's Ireland."
     <editor's note: now let me just remind you all that I am from Southern California, and while there may in fact be Salt Water Swans somewhere, I've never seen them. When I think of salt water, I think of crashing waves on the Pacific Coast. A place where no Swan would be happy. So all you bird enthusiasts take that into consideration before you give me any flak.>
     Ireland. The only country I've been to that would dare have the nerve to piss down rain all day...on the 4th of July! But hey, that's Ireland.
     Ireland. Where I met an 18 year old kid one night who, when he learned where I was from, excitedly told me that he was half American.
     "Half American?" I asked. "How the hell are you half American?"
     "Well, my mother's American, and my Dad's German. That makes me half American."
     I started to tell him that it just doesn't work that way. Either you're American, or you're not. I'm American, but I'm Irish/German/Scotish/etc., but he just wasn't gonna let it go. He was half American, and that was that. But the more I think about, maybe it does work that way. Or if it doesn't yet, it will someday. Afterall, how many generations does it take before being American is not just an identity, or a citizenship, but a race on it's own? How long before people from other countries come to the US to search for their ancestral roots?
     Ireland, where my boss asked me offhandedly one day if I knew who Billy Idol is. Of course I do. "His mother was born in this building back when it was still an Inn." Billy Idol's mother born in the building that houses the pub where I work! Only in Ireland.
     Ireland. Where in spite of all the times I shrug my shoulders and say to myself "well, that's Ireland," the craic lives on, and embeds itself ever deeper into my sub-conscience where I will never forget it. Ireland. Where even after all the troubles I went through to get my tourist VISA extended, no one even looked at my passport when I left. What's more, when I offered it to the uniformed officer at the customs gate, he got offended and waved me through as if THAT was doing something wrong.
     Ireland.

--Ma Hears a Glorified Jam Session--

     Ma came to visit. I was a bit confused by that concept at first. Aren't I the one travelling? Shouldn't I be the one doing the visiting? Nonetheless, Ma took advantage of my being in one place for the longest stretch of time for almost two years to come and pay me a visit.
     For a week, we drove (yes, I got to drive on the other side of the road) around the countryside discovering more DWAN headstones, and meeting more cousins during the day, and taking in the craic by night.
     Luckily, Ma was in our little town to catch a session by a group of musicians who call themselves Glorified Jam. Musicians so talented that if you were to scrape the sweat from between their toes and sprinkle it onto a guitar, it could probably play itself.
     They play everything from Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, and Pink Floyd to Traditional Irish Folk Ballads and -- you probably won't understand it without hearing it yourself, but -- Gospel Britney Spears (believe it!), and make every note they play their own. Just ask Ma. It's one of the memories that will stay with me the longest. Friday nights at the Courtyard Pub.

--In Search of Fireflies--

     Finally, I've left Ireland. Saying Good-Bye to the Leprochauns, the Rain, and the Irish Stout, but knowing I will never be able to forget the music, the atmosphere, or the Craic. And not without learning a few things to boot. Like how to pronounce names like Maeve, Siòbhan, Brìd, and Niamh. And the fact that if it is sunny one day, it will almost always rain the next day. And why Irish lawns don't need sprinklers.
     With all this in mind, I got on a plane (breezing through customs without a second glance) to Brussels where, at the time that I purchased the ticket, I was expecting to have a ride to Holland. But, as we all know, things change. People change. Timing changes. And thus, plans change. When I arrived in Brussels, instead of being met by a sweet little Dutch girl with dark hair and captivating blue eyes, I was met by...no one (don't read that the wrong way. We had already agreed that she wouldn't be there to meet me, so it wasn't really as big of a shock as it may sound).
     Surrounded by a French speaking society, and unsure which way to look as I crossed the road (I am now thoroughly confused by crosswalks like I haven't been since I was 6 years old!), I made my way to the train station where I was soon on a train to Switzerland.
     24 1/2 hours after boarding a plane in Shannon, Ireland, I walked in the door of the Gimmelwald Mountain Hostel. The place where, one year ago, I found myself saying time and time again "It doesn't get any better then this." Where every day brought another firefly to the back of the head.
     I stayed there for 10 nights in the tiny clifftop town where watching the sunset means watching the snow covered mountain tops in the east turn pink as the sun setteles below the peaks behind our heads. Alpen Glow. The Swiss answer to the Mediteranian Sunset. 10 nights, hoping to find that same sensation again that I found here last year, finally deciding that it must not be firefly season.
     So I redirected my search down the cliffs in the valley of Stechelberg 400 meters below, where I put in an hour of work a day in exchange for my room and board in this peaceful hostel hidden from the Rick Steves backpacker route. At the top of the Valley of Waterfalls beneath Glacier carved cliffs trying in vain to recover from the chizeling that gave them their form millions of years ago. And here I sit, having a well deserved vacation.

--Just like a Rolling Stone--

     So here I go again. Back in continental Europe, trying to figure out where to go next, how to get there, which way to look when crossing the street, where does the perfect woman live, and what's the cheapest way to get to there? And where is there, exactly? How is it different from here? How do I know I'm not there yet, being here? What has there got to offer that here doesn't want? If there were here, would I still want to go there? And would it really matter? I say who cares. I'm going anyway. Anywhere. Be it here or there, or neither nor.
     How does it feel
     How does it feel
     To be on your own
     With no direction home
     Like a complete unknown
     Just like a Rolling Stone.
     --Bob Dylan

Props to my Peeps, and Peace on the Mothership,

Chris