11 October, 2010

Solving the unsolvable.

I'm caught in an eddy, a trap of sorts.

Milo and I married in February 2008, before I retired, and we moved to Ireland in June of that year.  We were here for four months, blissfully happy but unemployed, before he took the job in Virginia and we had to move.  Since he deploys frequently, and for extended periods of time, and since we're all three unhappy living in the States, Caoilte and I come back to Ireland when he's deployed so we can at least have the consolation of life in the place we call home while Milo is away earning the money to build us a permanent home here.

In the meantime, we have moved no fewer than nine times in the past two years (Doenrade NL to Brunssum NL to Ireland to Charlottesville to another place in Charlottesville to Ireland to yet another place in Ireland to Michigan to Charlottesville and now back again to Ireland), and, frankly, I'm exhausted and so is Caoilte.  Our furniture has been in storage in Dublin since last December, and I will finally be able to sleep in my own bed again on the 20th, when it is scheduled to be delivered to the new house.  My bed, yes...but I'll be sleeping in it alone for nearly the next two years.

I cannot help but reflect repeatedly on the four months we had together in Ireland, before October 2008.  They were the happiest, most golden days of our lives and we desperately want to create more of them.  The question is how.  When Milo is in Afghanistan we don't see each other for six months at a time, over a period of a year to 18 months.  The Army limits him to two weeks of leave every six months, which, given the fact that he has zero days off in theatre, is woefully (I think criminally) inadequate.  So he works 180 days in a row, 14-17 hours a day (often more), and is allowed two weeks to recuperate and be with his family before returning to work another 180.  Wash, rinse, repeat.

What bothers me about the whole thing is the cycle we find ourselves in.  I know we're working toward a goal, our dream to build a home in Ireland mortgage-free, but I worry about the emotional and spiritual toll the whole thing takes.

When he's in Afghanistan and I'm here in Ireland, we must deal with the constant, nagging ache of separation.  We've been in love for six years, together for three, and married for two and a half, and of the 32 months we've been married, we have spent 14 months apart.  He deployed for 13 months last year and returned on 21 May, which was, ironically, the anniversary of the date I first enlisted in the US Air Force.  In August he was told he'd be deploying again, in September.  All told we had just four months together before he left again, and that's not easy for anyone.

And so I find myself circling a drain, of sorts.  I can have my Milo, the man I love more than anything, the man with whom life and love are magical and the universe is a bubble of bliss we create and inhabit, but only at the expense of having to live in a place we both dislike (Virginia).  On the flip side, I can have the home we chose in the most beautiful place on earth, with all of our friends just yards from our door and a warm, happy day to day existance, but only at the expense of having it all without my love.

I ponder it daily, live and breathe it, wonder how to remedy it, imagine how we might overcome it.  Why is it that I can have home, but not my man to hold me close at night, or I can have my man but only in a place we refer to as the Ninth Circle of Hell?

Tell me, anyone -- how do you solve the unsolvable?

First Day of School

Monday has arrived and we're still in a hotel, waiting for the house we've rented to become vacant so we can move in.  That could happen as early as Thursday, or as late as next Monday--in any case, the end is in sight. 

Today also marks a new beginning, as it's Caoilte's first day at his new primary school.  We bought his uniforms and school supplies on Saturday before we headed over to Giant's Causeway for the afternoon, and last night we even managed to get to bed early, which, for us, means before 2300.  This morning Caoilte didn't tarry long in bed - he got up, took a shower, and got all dolled up ready for his first day.  He looked lovely!  

Yes, he has to wear a tie!!!


Preparing for the school day while you're living in a hotel presents some special challenges, and for me the main one is packing a healthy lunch when I've no refrigerator or kitchen in which to prepare one.  I booked a bed and breakfast rate, so breakfast is taken care of, but lunch will have to be accomplished each morning on the way to school.  This morning we stopped by Costcutter in Ballybofey, as they have a deli that prepares sandwiches.  Caoilte got a ham and cheese, and also bought an apple, a Ribena juice box, and a cheese and breadsticks dip packet.  The school has a school milk programme, so he'll also get a carton of milk each day at snack time.  His school has a healthy eating policy that says sweets and other less healthy snacks may only be brought on Fridays, and the other children (all ten of them!) are apparently militant about monitoring each other's lunches for contraband, so we'll see if his lunch today passes muster.  He's been really excited to meet some new friends and get back into the social swing of things.  I'm grateful he has the opportunity to have friends again, as we haven't lived in a neighbourhood with children since we left Cavan Upper last August.  

Back at the hotel I find myself a bit lonely.  I've a lot to do today, some things I've been avoiding and absolutely must take care of, but I'll leave all that for another update.  



03 October, 2010

The Irish Cat Fiasco

Bringing a pet into Ireland from outside the UK is a balancing act between the insane and the impossible.  It isn't for the faint of heart, and requires walking a tightrope of rules, regulations, and general bullshit unlike anything you've experienced before (unless you've previously worked with the Army).

Last Thursday I sent both of my cats ahead a day on the afternoon Aer Lingus flight that arrived at Dublin on Friday morning.  I arrived in a rental car at John F. Kennedy's Aer Lingus cargo terminal to hand them over to an agent of Pet Express, a pet travel specialist based in California.

Now, I went through this process last year with Niamh, before I acquired Colonel, and one must have all of one's ducks lined up in perfect order and quacking in perfect synchrony from start to finish in order to complete the process with the least amount of pain possible.  I'm retired Air Force, so I know all about lining up ducks, and I usually do it fairly well.

My oldest cat, Niamh, has a Dutch pet passport, has had her rabies shot, her titre test, and more shots than most children.  My kitten, Colonel, was acquired last October in Ireland and has a UK pet passport, his rabies shot, and his titre test as well as the same shots and treatments as Niamh.  What he didn't have, however, was the required six months between the titre test and the date of importation into Ireland.  He was three weeks shy.

Ireland has an extensive list of rules for bringing in a pet, unless you're coming from the UK, in which case you can get on the bloody boat with your five dogs, eight cats and a ferret and they don't even look at you sideways as you drive your little ark off the boat in Dun Laoghaire.  But bring a small cat in from the US and it's vets drawn at nine o'clock.

The requirements for importing a pet go like this, and must be done in this exact order or it's no good and you have to start all over:
1. microchip implanted
2. rabies vaccination
3. three weeks after the rabies vaccination, conduct a rabies titre test (at an approved national laboratory)
4. wait for the titre test to come back and then annotate that it is positive within a certain range.  The titre is proof that the pet is immune to rabies, and can not become infected with it.
5. Have a USDA vet-approved vet sign a health certificate within 30 days of travel.
6. Tick and tapeworm treatment within 24-48 hours of landing in Dublin.

But there is one teeny, tiny step that absolutely can not be overlooked if you wish to be united with your pet on the other side...after a positive and acceptable titre is annotated, you must wait six months before the pet can enter the UK or Ireland without being subject to quarantine.  I thought I had this system down until I faxed my cats' pet passport and other paperwork to Pet Express and discovered that Colonel was going to be three weeks shy of the quarantine period and would need to spend those three weeks in quarantine at Lissenhall veterinary surgery in Swords, Dublin.

Well, it's not the end of the world, right?  Six months in quarantine will run you about 2,000 euros, plus vet fees and a whole new round of the same vaccinations your pet just had.  Three weeks in quarantine is a whole lot cheaper, and Colonel is worth it, so it's all good.

So on Thursday afternoon I met the Pet Express agent at JFK's Aer Lingus cargo terminal and handed over both cats, both of their pet passports, their health certificates, Colonel's Irish vaccination record, and two airline-approved travel carriers.  The lady, who was very nice, put both cats in her car and I signed all the necessary paperwork before we said goodbye and drove to our hotel for the evening.  Sorted.

Or not.

On Saturday morning I arrived in Dublin and endured the great Irish Rental Car Fiasco (see previous blog entry), after which I made my way to Lissenhall to pay the fees and collect Niamh, who is eligible to bypass quarantine.  I walked in, as I did last year, and sat in the chilly little reception room to wait for the vet, who, in keeping with Irish cultural norms, was fashionably late arriving.  Well, it was a Saturday.

I read all the posters, checked out the scale in the corner (it was there last year, too), counted the spiders on the ceiling, and tried to stay awake.  Eventually I was called into the anteroom where I picked Niamh up last year.  Niamh was conspicuously absent.  I looked at the vet.  He looked at me.

"Have you got Colonel's pet passport?" he asked.

I blinked.

"Shouldn't you have that?" I said.

"Mmm." he murmured.

"Mmm" is never good in Ireland, nor in England.  It's like the Turkish tongue click, which is usually followed by "Inshallah" (god willing) and a trip to the shop for cigarettes with which to bribe the officials.  In Ireland, however, it's a bit more complicated and a lot less straightforward.  I explained that I'd handed Colonel's pet passport to Pet Express and, if it had been lost along the way, then they were going to be responsible.  He suggested I call Pet Express and Aer Lingus to track it down.  Now, the whole reason the cats had to go ahead of us a day is because Aer Lingus cargo people do not work on weekends, nor does the one and only authorised pet courier who takes the cats from the plane and delivers them to Lissenhall.  Nor does Pet Express.  In fact, in what I can only determine is a concerted effort to dissuade people from bringing their pets here, Ireland has mandated only one authorised agent (Pet Express), only one authorised airline (Aer Lingus), and only four authorised US-Dublin routes by which a pet can enter Ireland, and only on business days.  And before you ask, yes, it does cost a small fortune.

I decided to leave Niamh at Lissenhall, too, and board her while I waited for Monday to start making phone calls.  Maybe Einstein could function on two hours of sleep, but I couldn't.  I left Lissenhall with my son, my luggage, my rental car, the single Valium I have left, and no cats.

On Monday I started the rounds of email and phone calls.  The pet passport had still not turned up, Pet Express said they handed it to Aer Lingus, Aer Lingus said they hadn't seen it, and Lissenhall said they would "put the skids on" to Aer Lingus to see if they could look a bit harder for it.  By Wednesday the situation hadn't changed, but I heard from Lissenhall that Pet Express was having the USDA send a certificate that would verify Colonel's rabies titre and allow him to be released on schedule.  Lissenhall also said that Pet Express has offered to pay for it and a new pet passport.

I'm going to leave Niamh in boarding so she can be close to Colonel, whom she abhors.  I'm going to consider it penance.

Photos of Kerry and Bunratty Castle

McGillicuddy Reeks, County Kerry

Looking back toward Kenmare, County Kerry

Strawberry Fields Dutch Pancake House, just outside Kenmare, County Kerry

Wood stove at Strawberry Fields Pancake House

Caoilte at Strawberry Fields

Caoilte at Strawberry Fields

Nom nom nom!

My pancake - met ham, kaas, tomaten en prei.  Lekker!

Caoilte's pancake, met appels, suiker en kaneel

My favourite tree (Killarney National Park)

Tree in Killarney National Park



My favourite tree

My favourite tree

Yes, I really love trees

Killarney National Park


Killarney National park

Caoilte at Bunratty's drawbridge

The bar in Bunratty Castle (Shannon)

The great room in Bunratty Castle (Shannon)

One of the rooms in Bunratty Castle

View of the river Shannon from a turret of Bunratty Castle


View of the Shannon from a turret of Bunratty Castle



One of the rooms of Bunratty Castle
Strawberry Fields, the Dutch pancake house in Kenmare

A tree in Killarney National Forest

Killarney National Park

On the road between Kenmare and Killarney

Caoilte at Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

Torc Waterfall at Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park



Caoilte at Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park

The Gap of Dunloe

Killarney National Park

The Gap of Dunloe

The Gap of Dunloe

The Gap of Dunloe

The Gap of Dunloe

The Gap of Dunloe

The Gap of Dunloe

I'm in love with a violinist.

I decided last night to stay in Limerick for the weekend.  We can't do any house hunting until Monday anyway, and I really didn't fancy a five hour drive to Leitrim, so despite knowing Limerick by it's more common name, 'stab city,' I made a reservation at Patrick Punch's Hotel, just outside the town centre.  Well, why not!

We arrived in Limerick around 1430, and when I realised how close it is to Bunratty, I simply had to make a detour to see Bunratty Castle.

Bunratty Castle rises from the verdant county Clare countryside as imposing as any keep I've seen, tall and light-bricked and perfectly square, crisp corners stretching to blocked  towers on all four sides.  Very impressive.  The castle also puts on medieval banquets, one of which was scheduled for 1730, so I bought tickets.  Touring the castle just after 1500 we could smell dinner cooking, so we walked around with rumbling tummies and watering mouths until 1715, when it was time to show up at the drawbridge.  Those of you who know me will be shocked to know I wasn't late, no siree!  The whole thing kicked off with a reception in the grand hall replete with Bunratty honey mead, and after finishing my cup I was really looking forward to having some more at dinner.  In the centre of the grand hall was a harpist, a really exceptional harpist, and I was mesmerised by the gentle, quick movements of her fingers on the strings, the rapid adjustments she made to the tuning pins between string plucks, and the perfectly serene look on her face as she played.  I was also fascinated by the playing position of the harp - she pulled it between her legs and rested it against her breast and I couldn't help but see it as both instrument and lover.  It sang to her and through her.

So I was all caught up in the harpist when the violinist appeared, a mop of dark hair, broad smile and shoulders, and tantalisingly muscular thighs wrapped in 80-denier or so black tights.  For the next 20 minutes I don't think I moved.  The music continued through all four removes of the banquet, where to my disappointment the mead on offer at the reception was replaced by white and red wine, but I was fairly delighted to find the violinist playing at the head of the table at which Caoilte and I were sat.  When the banquet was over we left through the gift shop, where we bought a couple of bottles of mead and a CD of the evening's music.  I listened to it all the way to the hotel.
                          Well, mostly just to the violin.

02 October, 2010

The Irish Rental Car Fiasco





The thing about the Irish that I've discovered is the most difficult to deal with is the fact that so many of them can lie to you with a perfectly sincere and innocent smile.  I realise that there are certain things that put me at a disadvantage; for example, my American accent, the fact that I clearly don't come to Ireland the way my grandfather left it (poor), but that ability to distract you with a wink and a smile while digging into your pocket with all the stealth of a half-starved mosquito is shocking.  It's like they can smell an opportunity as soon as it lands in Dublin.

I arrived in Ireland on Saturday with a rental car already booked.  €108 a week was the rate, and I'd declined the extra (it said optional) insurance to keep the rate as low as possible.  I knew they would hit me with CDW (collision damage waiver), but it's not as if this was the first time I'd rented a car in Dublin and I was prepared to wind up paying a bit more.  "A bit" in Ireland, when you're an American on the paying side of a transaction, is a quantity that is never fixed, but fluctuates depending on how much money the person on the beneficiary side of the transaction thinks is in your wallet and how easily they think you can be parted with it.  It's one of the only things about living here that really irritates me, and I've come to think the Irish view it as a game. 

So I arrived at the rental desk with my Irish debit card in hand and, as the counter agent rang up the charges (14 days to be paid in advance, of course), I nearly had a stroke when she pronounced the total to be €982.  It's not easy to render me speechless, but I was quite literally at a loss for words.  I was exhausted and still coming down from the in-flight valium, and I had sent my two cats ahead on Thursday's Aer Lingus flight and I needed to get to the quarantine facility at Lissenhall to get them, so I was scraping the bottom of the barrel for motivation to argue...and she knew it.  My limp protests fell on deaf ears.  The Irish can, indeed, see us coming, my friends. 

I stuck it back to Europcar the only way I knew how.  On day four I went to Dublin, bought a 2000 Saab 9-3 convertible, returned the car to the airport rental counter and couldn't help smiling as the agent refunded me €672. 

It would have been much more pleasurable (for me) if she'd been Irish.







01 October, 2010

Out and about in Wexford and Waterford

I spent quite a lot of time researching whether there were parts of Ireland outside County Donegal that might be better to live in, and I came to the conclusion that perhaps County Wexford might offer more job prospects, or at least commuting access to Dublin, Wexford town, and New Ross, where there might be further job prospects.  The idea was that if I could get a job in Ireland, then Milo could eventually stop these deployments and we could spend a happy existence together in Ireland with at least one of us employed.

Caoilte and I spent a few days in Wexford when we arrived on Saturday.  We stayed in the small village of Curracloe, a beautiful little place on the coast.  The holiday cottage was not so nice, it was old and kind of dirty, but we spent much of our time out exploring the area so we really only used is as a place to sleep.  During our forays we discovered that Wexford, while sunny and pretty, is really not a terribly interesting spot, and probably not somewhere we'd particularly want to settle.

The gems of the region were Wexford town and New Ross, both on the water, both beautiful and interesting, both nice places.  A bit further west, however, we discovered Waterford, with its bustling city centre, interesting shops, and beautiful waterfront.  It reminded us of Roermond, or Heerlen (Netherlands) with its central shopping plaza and selection of shops, cafes and restaurants, and we were mightily impressed.  Caoilte and I had dinner in the Munster Bar, which served excellent (but quite pricey) food.  It's just up a small alley by the waterfront, down from the clock tower towards the Tower Hotel.



I bought some Clarins powder at Debenhams because I was nearly out.  The cost: 38 euro.  I never said Waterford was cheap - hence, it has been crossed off our list of potential settlement places.  Nice place to visit, though, if you've got some spare cash.