My Books and Clothes Need a Closet. Please Help.

Have you ever considered what your home would be like without . . . medicine cabinets? Think about it a moment. What do you have in your medicine cabinet? Floss? Aspirin? Tweezers? The Muppets rinse cup you've had since you were five? Now where would put it if you had no medicine cabinet? And don't presume you would put it in the bathroom cabinets and/or drawers, because most likely, you have none. Maybe you have a small space under the sink about the size of a Triscuit box.

When you see the first apartment, and you think, ok, modern design. We've pared down space in the US as well. Naturally, in Europe where the apartments and homes have always been a bit smaller, they would pare down more. However, then you see the apartment built in '95, the one with the fraying couch above the owners' upholstery shop, and then the 1985 apartment that has a bedroom the size of a twin bed, literally, the size of a twin bed. You know they've never replaced that mattress because a wall would come down before the mattress came out of the room. Then you see William Butler Yeats's apartment, 96 St. Stephen's Green, a conglomeration of Victorian chandeliers and 1960s James Bond glam, and it has a bar fridge. Yeats did not have a refrigerator or maybe even an icebox, but I bet he would have agreed that renovation is a glorious idea and that mold, or damp as the estate agent said, is not.

The biggest apartment I saw had a fair amount of storage, one of the biggest kitchens I've ever seen in any private residence (full fridge with freezer, a bar fridge, a bar freezer, and cupboard and floor spaces bigger than the kitchens in full-sized houses), and royal purple glass lamps on lace doilies. The owner seems to have started collecting furniture in the fifties and satisfied the compulsion in the early eighties.

Our new apartment, renovated 2007, has medicine cabinets, two of them, an American fridge, freezer on one side, fridge on the other with water and ice dispensers, separate washer and dryer (a dryer, mind you, that uses conventional American dry heat rather than Irish steam heat), green insulation, and a master shower that comes with an instruction manual. Something about a radio and rain shower feature and steam feature and side jets and a foot massage. And a fan. In the shower itself. The bathroom has a separate fan. Two bedrooms, two baths, heated floors, and it's pretty. The owners, Michelle and William, have moved to the States with their three young children for at least the next year. They offered, as the five and half and two and a half year olds chased each other from room to room over a cookie, to throw in a child as a bonus. We regretfully and gleefully declined.

But, yeah, we're settled with one set of sheets, one set of towels, three flat screen TVs, and two orchids. We'll see how long they last. We're a fifteen minute walk to Scott's work, five to ten to the Irish classes we'll start in a few weeks, and we're having our vegetables delivered. And they drink tea here, lots and lots of lovely tea. As I drink my tea, lovely, lovely tea, I'm across from International Books, Trinity College, down the street from Modern Languages Books, and a skip from The Pen Corner. According to those who know, it is the only pen shop in Dublin, and we live near it. Scott is SO pleased.

Another Friend

Here is another friend of mine. He lives about half a block from my work. His name is Admiral William Brown, and he founded the Argentine navy, and died in 1857.

That's how many bronze statues there are here: in 2006, when they felt they needed to put up another statue, they had to reach back 150 years (not to mention ~6700 miles) to find someone they hadn't yet cast in metal.

Since they clearly need more statue fodder, I'm going to let them know I'm available still.

Scott LaPlante. Born in 1977. He found many statues in Dublin.

Our First Star

19.08.2009 was a special date for us - it was the third anniversary of our wedding, and as such, a night to celebrate and remember. Neither Michelle nor I had ever, to our knowledge, eaten at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Dublin has a number of one star and a couple two star restaurants. We decided to treat ourselves to a night to remember.

That said, it's been several months since I've gotten a regular paycheck, and we just up and moved continents, so we weren't going to go all crazy and wild on this one. Still, a one-star restauran is quite a thrill, and we decided on L'Ecrivain. Yes, for the astute out there, this means writer, and perhaps with just a little too much glee, we set out.

Our cabbie had a bit of a hard time finding the place, but charged us fairly, and provided one of the most interesting summaries of the Irish to date. According to him, the Irish are lovers of complication. And proceeded to talk about various reasons why he believed that, but I don't remember any of them.

On arrival we were, as one would expect, treated like royalty. At the end of the day, star or no star it was an excellent restaurant, and we were lucky to be seated up in the sort of attic area, where we could overlook the restaurant, and had the whole area to ourselves.

We had some amazing service, even so far as one of the water boys came up to check on us, saw that we had a few utensils to be cleared, and instead of taking it and walking away, he instead retired away to a nearby table, where he snatched a bread plate to use as a tray. Coming back to us so armed, he proceeded to clear what needed to be cleared.

My mains was a pithivier of sweet potato and feta cheese, with spinach and ratatouille. Michelle had the monkfish with samphire and aubergine puree. For starter I had something awesome and she had ... tuna tartare with avocado. Apparently it was amazing, and it sounds like it. The food was all quite tasty, and between the muse up front, some seriously tasty Irish bread, and the meals themselves we had what amounted to a feast.

The only bad part, and frankly it was minor but annoying, is that after we decided not to have dessert we were all but left alone. This would have been fine had we been in a more trafficked area of the restaurant, but being up a flight of stairs with no other excuses to ascend meant that we were essentially ignored. In Ireland, as in much of Europe, you receive the check when you ask for it, and not sooner. The combinations of everything meant that eventually I had to tread downstairs for the sole purpose of asking for the check. Ultimately, a mark, albeit an understandable and small one, against.

All in all, though, it was an excellent annivesary dinner, and I would not be surprised in the least if Michelle and I hit each and every star in Dublin over the course of the next few years. Here's to hoping!

Dublin Weather

[Conversation between two Dublin women]

-The weather is so nice today!

[Please note, this was said with no signs of irony or sarcasm. The wind blew not, the rain fell not,the sun shone not, but the air was warm and gray]

*The Strand at the end of our neighborhood run*

Statues of Dublin

Dublin is known for being a city of bronze statues. Wait, let me try that again. Dublin is becoming known for being a city of bronze statues by me. There's a ton. I'm going to start collecting them, or rather images of them, for your enjoyment.

This little horseman is fiercely protecting an ATM on the outskirts of Grafton St. He's doing a good job, because I got my money that day. More to come, there's some cool ones outside my work.

Bray To Greystones

Ireland has this fascinating fascination with walks. There are cliff walks, and loop walks, and walks to lighthouses, and of the maybe three books we own about Ireland, one is a book of the 24 greatest walks in Dublin.

One is essentially a historical pub crawl, but I'm happy calling it a walk, because then I'm being cultural, you see, and plus there's the whole pint thing. Anyway, it's an awesome fascination that they have, and frankly, it works quite well for getting to know an area. (insert quip about walking a mile in Dublin's shoes here).

The first walk that Michelle and I went on was due to a rather emphatic and super helpful suggestion by our friends Rob and Katie. Rob also qualifies as a co-worker, and part boss, but the suggestion was made during a social time, so there you have it, from friend Rob. The Bray to Greystones walk is an excellent cliff walk along a rather peaceful 6 miles. You can start at Bray and walk to Greystones, or you can do what we did and start at Greystones and walk to Bray.

It doesn't really matter one way or the other- both Bray and Greystones are stops on the DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit), and you're essentially walking between stops. One way, the Irish Sea is on your left and the other way it's on your right.

The walk itself is about 6 miles, not much in terms of hills, and the path is well maintained. If you start at Bray, get off the DART, head to the beach and start walking south. You can't really miss it. If you start at Greystones, walk north, and either just ask people, or follow the trail of people who have clearly just walked 6 miles, or stop and buy a seedy cookie at The Happy Pear in Greystones and ask for directions. Plus, the seedy cookie is fantabulously tasty and super awesome halfway through the walk. There are other reasons to start at Greystones: the trains run less frequently, so you can plan which train to take from home; the sun, if you're so lucky, is at your back; you end the walk in Bray, which has many more gastral choices... but really, either way is fine.

The Irish summer, as it turns out, is either beautiful or blustery, and sometimes both if you appreciate that sort of thing (which thankfully, I do, three weeks in. Check back in three months or more, though).

Let's be honest, there are great things about Ireland and there are shitty things about Ireland. We're still in the honeymoon phase, so more of the things err on the side of amazing. Frankly, I think a lot of life is based around how you choose to deal with it. It's like going to Disneyland: if you go to Disneyland and you walk in and you say to yourself, "Self, we're going to have a great day today and it will be fun"... then chances are, you'll have fun. But you walk in and you put on your cynical hat and say "Self, we're going to be critical about things and not get swept up in the ultra-commercial, in-your-face, loud and obnoxious, annoying crowds bit of Disneyland"... well, then you're pretty well set up to have a rotten time, unless you like that sort of thing.

Ireland is like that. Actually, I think life is like that. For instance, can you honestly look at the picture on the left and (if you turn off the cynical part of your brain) tell me that it's NOT pulled straight out of some awesome toy train set?

And yet, I promise you, that idyllic tiny smidgen of a scene is all over Ireland, all the time. It sort of rocks (unlike the radio stations, I might add).

Why is it called The Slow Flit?

Welcome to our blog!

M and I spent a considerable amount of time one night trying to come up with a name for our blog. We came up with lots of options (some good and some not so much, but more on that later!). Ultimately, we crafted The Slow Flit and we both loved it and thought it fit perfectly. It probably deserves a bit of an explanation, though.

When we met in Los Angeles, she had lived in Seattle, Portland, Paris, and for a short time, San Diego. I had lived in Syracuse, Albany, San Francisco, Munich, and for a short time, London. Three years into our relationship found us moving to New York for her grad school, and two years after that sent us back to LA for my new position at FIM.

When I joined Shopflick a year ago, we together agreed that post-Shopflick (however long that was), we would try to move somewhere... exotic.

Seven days ago, we moved to Dublin.

Recently, people have been asking me a lot if M is homesick. That's a complicated answer, and I wouldn't try to answer it on her behalf. But to illustrate her mindset, let me set the scene...

We'd been living in Beverly Hills for about two and a half years. We were fully settled into life in LA. Our apartment building sold and we knew we would have to move soon (new owner wants to gut it and renovate). She had been volunteering for over a year at 826 LA. She had been taking German classes with Meg for over six months. An old friend and colleague of mine approached me about the company he joined, and said that they had two positions open in LA and one position open in Dublin.

M said to me "Well, of course we would take the Dublin position", and the next day she told me that she had dreamt about Dublin.

People have often asked... how long will we be living in Dublin?

For better or for worse, all I can say right now is that the question itself can only be answered in the past tense.

The Departure

Supervisor: Here, let me explain it to you. I was born in Ghana. I grew up in Ghana. I am an American passport holder. Because I am an American passport holder, even though I was born in Ghana and grew up in Ghana, I cannot go to Ghana without a return ticket. You must have a return ticket.

Scott: Sir, I am not the problem passenger here.

Supervisor: You must have a return ticket!

Scott: Sir, I have a green card! I have a work visa!

Supervisor: You must have a return ticket!

Scott: Excuse me, sir? This is not the problem.

And so it continued all because we didn't have any piece of paper with my name on it stating that spousal visas for Ireland are issued in Ireland.

We arrived at LAX, its palm trees friendly and waving underneath California blue sky, two hours before our United flight to San Francisco where we would catch an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin, Ireland. Finally, after weeks of interviews (for Scott, at least), paperwork (both of us), packing and shedding of items (mainly me, but Scott did what he could), and more paperwork (Dear Lord! Who else needs a copy of our marriage certificate and passports?), we were both exhausted but ready, tugging at bags, and waiting for that glorious moment when we were through security. However, by the time we talked to the above supervisor, we had stood, crouched, leaned and drummed fingers for maybe four hours. Our flight had not only left but landed while the supervisor explained that Scott needed a return ticket.

Scott did not need a return ticket. I needed a return ticket because I didn't have a visa. However, the very lovely and helpful Maria had made a number of phone calls, talked to a number of people, and found a way to put me on the flight. Five minutes after check-in closed. Then she tried to find us a new flight. When that went awry, she enlisted Oumy, but we booked our flight in June. It was cheap, ridiculous cheap, so cheap that it would cost $800/ticket to rebook us on an Aer Lingus flight. Oh, and the flight wasn't until Friday because Aer Lingus doesn't fly out of San Francisco every day.

Me: Excuse me? That is not the problem. The problem is not the two people who have been helping us. They've been fantastic. The problem is that we were at a kiosk by 11 am, and it took forty minutes to clear me to fly. Because of that, we missed our flight. We were here in time. This system took too long. THAT is the problem.

Supervisor: Our contract is with Aer Lingus to get you to San Francisco. We will fulfill our contract. What happens to you there is not our responsibility.

Except the contract wasn't to fly us just to San Francisco, was it? It was to fly us to San Francisco in time for a particular flight to Dublin, and no, they did not fulfill their contract.

However, after he stormed with little steps into the sunset, Scott called Aer Lingus who waived the $1600 price increase, and Oumy booked us on a flight to San Francisco, and it just so happens our friend Chris flew to SF that day on business, and we bunked with him for a night and then booked a hotel downtown, did a little shopping, had a lovely dinner with friends beside the lovely, lovely San Francisco Bay. I bought a hat. Scott bought a jacket. Yeah! San Francisco, partly cloudy, partly foggy, cool and beautiful.

I, a former customer server, believe that only 10% of the customers are rude and obnoxious, though who knows if that 10% will space themselves or come in droves. I suspect the number might be higher at the airport as fewer flights and fewer staff service more and more people, many of whom are more and more nervous and anxious, clutching bags and small children who in turn clutch balls and teddy bears, all squeezing through mazes of roped corridors a little too symbolic of the red-taped bureaucracy. Your friendly neighborhood customer service rep at the ticket counter has probably just explained again, for the tenth time that hour, that when your bag goes over the weight limit, you have to pay extra. When you check more than the allowed bags, you have to pay extra. No, they don't set the prices; they just work here. Very sorry.

But while Scott called Aer Lingus, I talked to a woman waiting for her mother from Pakistan and giving a baby girl a bottle while the stroller tipped as she tried to understand why they were still at the airport after five hours of sorting through United's regulations, and an older Chinese gentlemen next to us, struggling with English, repeated over and over, “I don't understand!” Hand to forehead. “Will someone please help me? Will someone tell me what I should do?” And the two girls next to us, from a Spanish speaking country, trying to speak to someone, anyone, because they didn't understand what the machine wanted. The rep who finally paused spoke quietly and quickly and moved away before they could ask a follow up question, and impassive faces pass passengers from one service rep to another, no one really taking responsibility as the palm trees ever present and ever friendly wave through the windows.

-I've already stood in that line. They told me to come here.

-Sir, line six, please.

-But I was just there!

-Sir, this line is only for people buying a ticket. You have to stand in that line. The back is over there.

-I stood in that line for an hour! They told me to come here!

-Sir, there is nothing I can do for you. You have to wait in that line.

The palm trees are dying, sterility, disease, and old age, I believe.

However, for all that went wrong, for all the delays, and for all that made me question whether the Fates were testing our fortitude and desire to move to Ireland or were actually just fucking with us, we conquered, we flew, and we arrived.