Ways in Which I Fail at Ireland: Part Two

Grocery shopping

In an effort to help the environment, there is a tax on plastic bags in Ireland. To which I say, "great." Because of the tax, most people bring re-usable bags grocery shopping with them. To this I say, "awesome." Or, I would, if I had the attention span of a human being instead of a hamster. You already know where this is going don't you? The first time I went grocery shopping, I forgot the hearty re-usable bags. No big deal at first. I just shelled out the extra 88 cents for four plastic bags.

It wasn't until I was halfway through my ten minute journey home that I found out that the pansy bags I was carrying weren't worth the plastic they were made out of. The disintegration of three of my bags must have only taken two or three minutes, tops, but it felt like a half an hour in slow motion. First, a handle snapped. Then, a bottle of olive oil began to make a break for freedom. Next, the baked beans and the eggs decided they weren't going to suffer in silence any more! They were following the way paved for them by the olive oil, that great liberator. I did my best to keep all my groceries in check, but nearing Western road, I began to have visions of all my groceries sprawled across the pavement, sad and abandoned. A desperate plan to prevent this scene from happening involved me leaving my food on some dingy street corner with a scruffy but trustworthy looking guitar player and sprinting home to find sturdier bags while calling over my shoulder, "Don't go anywhere! I'm going to get help!"

Luckily it didn't quite come to that. I managed to gather my strength and my groceries close to my fold and collapse in my kitchen with groceries intact except for one battered yogurt. Its injuries were severe. There was nothing I could do. But, every time I eat another "forest fruits" yogurt, I think ofr its fallen comrade. Remember the Tesco-mo!

Baking

I wanted to make myself a chocolate cake for my birthday with a few friends. I went to the grocery store thinking I could just walk in with an American recipe and walk out with the ingredients it called for. No such luck. If the grocery store had been able to talk, we would have had the following conversation:

Me: Got any Corn syrup?
Super-Valu: Syrup made out of corn? That's gross, you weird American. Try "golden syrup" instead and cross your fingers.
Me: Powdered sugar?
Store: Well, stare at that wall of sugar all you want, but you won't find any "powdered sugar." Sweet 'n low is probably as close as you're gonna get. Ha! You suck at this. I'm totally winning.
Me: Shut up. Cocoa powder?
Store: Hmm...well, it's here somewhere. But I'm not gonna tell you where. Me: How about baking chocolate? Well, I have "baking" and I have "chocolate"... Ooh! and look! I have a non dairy product for baking that's "Chocolate flavored" [evil laughter]
Me: [growing desperate] What about chocolate chips? You have to have chocolate chips! You people have to make things chocolaty somehow!
Store: Sure, no problem...if you want to pay over two euro for less than a cup...
Me. NOOOOO!

When I discovered the price tag on those chocolate chips, righteous anger mounted inside of me, because I believe in a world where cheap giant bags of chocolate chips are accessible to all! I mean, I did buy the overpriced chocolate chips, but only because I had no other choice. I wandered out of the store, wondering how I could relate to a people who didn't value Nestle Tollhouse the way I did.

Outside, the grass looked a little less green.

Ways in Which I Fail at Ireland: Part One

It's the small things, really. I had been prepared for the more obvious differences while abroad in Ireland: different currency, different word for "soccer," different drinking age...etc. What I wasn't prepared for were the smaller surprises in my daily life. Experiences I thought were universal, and rights I took to be God given -- like industrial sized bags of chocolate chips and one-dollar double cheeseburgers -- shocked me greatly when they turned out to be courtesy of Uncle Sam. So: Travel to England and back again? check. Live on the contents of a single suitcase for five months in a row? No problemo! Yet, I try to do laundry and all hell breaks loose. Yes, going abroad is hard, but not for the reasons I expected. What follows are a few lessons I wish I'd had learned January. These are the ways in which I fail at Ireland:

Doing Laundry

So, you guys know how, at Kenyon, everyone complains about having to shell out six quarters for one load of laundry? Well, to you I say, "whatever." Yeah, that's right. I'm worldly now. I've experienced the hard knocks of doing European laundry. I think you should know that there are innocent college children in Ireland who pay twelve euro just to do laundry once. My friends, I have been one of those children. My views have been expanded in a way yours never can.

Anyway, the steep price of clean clothing is bad enough on its own, but when you mix it with the non-metric system and washers and driers that appear to have been purchased circa 1927, you have a meltdown docktail. The first time I attempted to do laundry I just stood, staring at all the nonsensical numbers on the washing-machine dial for about five minutes before some guy wandered in and asked me if I needed help with anything. "Oh no," I laughed, "It's totally fine!" as I just started shoving clothes into some holes and soap and coins into others, trying to look self assured. I left hoping I wouldn't end up with any shrunken sweaters or sudsy laundry tokens when I came back.

Luckily, Everything seemed fine when I transferred my wet clothes into the drier. Upon returning again after an hour to see if they were done, however, I discovered that the drier had stopped, but my clothes were still sopping wet. In the states, this would have been a major annoyance. In Ireland, however, where this broken drier had eaten three precious euro and I had to be on a bus in a half an hour, I considered it grounds for a rock star scale temper tantrum. I mean, I don't remember exactly what happened, because I blacked out in a blind rage at that point, but I'm pretty sure I kicked a washing machine and/or punched a wall. I yelled a lot too. I delivered a monologue that was nothing short of Shakespearean:


"I...I...argh. AAAAAARGH! What the!? damn it. DAMN IT! What am I supposed to do now? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW DEAN'S HALL??? Dean's DUMB Hall. AAAAAARGH! Stupid Ireland."

Since, as I mentioned earlier, I was supposed to be getting on a bus in half an hour to leave for the weekend, I didn't have time to run the drier again. So, I took my clothes back to my flat, and just sort of spread them out on the floor of my room hoping they wouldn't get moldy. Since that first incident, I have attempted to do laundry a few more times, and I run an approximate 45 percent success rate with those driers. Because I just did laundry a few days ago, I currently have a wet pair of jeans draped over my curtain rod, and my room smells like mildew. Or failure.

Turning my heater on

Seriously. I still don't know how to turn that thing on and I've been here for over two months. Sometimes, it turns itself on, and then I can't figure out how to turn it off. People have to stop assuming that college students are just born knowing how to do things like turn on heaters and use mops.

...Stay tuned in a couple of days for more ways in which I fail at Ireland. For real! I've written about them already, but they were so epic -- or long winded...Potato, potahto -- that they wouldn't all fit in one post!