Archive for November, 2009
Thankful
Posted by: | CommentsAs I’m writing this the last guests are mingling at Irish Thanksgiving, an event my roommate flatmate and I organized. I was the only American, so our Irish, German, Spanish, French and English guests were there to humor me on my American holiday and eat delicious food we prepared. They all got a kick out of the idea of celebrating this American holiday, and even insisted I make a toast – American style and that we go around the room to say what we’re thankful for. Then they asked me if we really had prom, lockers in the hallways of high school, and homecoming queens (apparently everything non-Americans know about American culture stems from She’s All That).
When the meal was finished people pulled out their instruments and we had an impromptu jam session.
As we jumped from song to song, I thought about just how thankful I am to be where I am right now. When I was in 10th grade, I was on the speech team. I wasn’t very good at the start of the season. In fact, the previous year I didn’t place at a single tournament. In between 9th and 10th grade I fantasized about qualifying for the state tournament. Making it to the state tournament was a rarity for sophomores, but I did lots of research and attended practice everyday. Sure enough, at the end of the season not only did I qualify for the state tournament, I made it all the way to finals. A lot of my teammates were surprised I had made it so far, and told me how lucky I was, but for me it had seemed like a given that I would make it that far.
I’m in the same boat now. I’ve been fantasizing and planning to move here in some sense for two years. I’ve been so busy working on securing citizenship, working with immigration, finding a flat and getting a job that I haven’t had a chance to reflect on the fact that I’m finally doing it. Last night, as I was sitting around the table playing music with this multinational group of friends, I really had a chance to sit back and say, “Wow.”
I have lots to be thankful for this year.
The plight of the immigrant
Posted by: | CommentsI always knew this experience moving abroad would challenge me. I never expected it to teach me about the plight of the immigrant. After the immigration trainwreck, I found myself in a government office last week – the Irish Department of Social and Family Affairs. It’s a lot like the American DMV. I would have taken a picture, but signs were clearly marked all around in block letters “PHOTOGRAPHY IS NOT PERMITTED” with a big red “X” around a picture of a camera.
Anyway, I needed to get my personal public service number, or PPSN for short. That number will allow me to get a job, pay taxes, receive social benefits, etc. Upon entering, everyone must queue up for the receptionist. After waiting in line for 10 minutes, I finally reached the receptionist and took a seat.
“What is the purpose of your visit today,” she asked.
“I’m here to apply for my PPSN.”
“Do you have two forms of identification?”
“Yes – I have an American passport and drivers’ license.”
“Proof of residence?”
“I’ve brought a letter from my landlord.”
“Brilliant. Take this application, go push that yellow button, take a number and have a seat.”
I push the yellow button an a number pops out – “98.” I take one of the many seats in this large open room that is surrounded by desks. Each desk has a readout with a number displayed above it. Every few seconds one beeps and switches to the next number. They’re on number 80 right now, so I wait a half hour among a bunch of other immigrants – Slovakians, Poles…all sorts of folks. The display finally reads my number and I approach the desk.
Now, as you may have been able to infer from my experience entering the country, I’m not totally confident about my legal rights and responsibilities. My trip here was pretty rushed because the free plane ticket I had expired on November 15, the Irish consulate wouldn’t tell me much beyond “You really should wait until you get your Irish passport to move.” So the long and the short of it is, I think I’m allowed to get a PPSN. I think once I get the PPSN I’ll be able to work in the country. There’s only one way to find out.
I give my application and identification to the gentleman at the desk. He’s about my age, he’s wearing a sweater – a lot more approachable that Mr. Grumpy Immigration Man, that guy was wearing a police officer-like outfit.
“Okay, everything looks in order here – I just need your signature here and here.”
I sign it and he looks one more time. He gets up to approve the document then asks, “Do you have a work visa?”
My stomach drops. I won’t bore you with all the details – it worked out fine in the end, I don’t need a visa to get a PPSN, and I picked up the number yesterday. It’s tough though. I’m never quite sure of where I stand in this country from a legal perspective. With every job or government related question, I feel my heart rate rise, my fingers tremble. I’m confident that I’ll figure it all out in the end, I just never thought of the impact of being an immigrant in another country.
Edited to add: Man, my latest entries are all gloomy. Trust me guys, my spirits here are fine, I’m only reporting on the interesting snafus I encounter, but otherwise, things are great. I’m aware of how lucky I am to be in Ireland. I don’t want you all to think I”m taking this all for granted. -John
One week later
Posted by: | CommentsI’d be lying if I told you this hasn’t been a lot harder than I expected. The first half of my week here was particularly difficult. My roommate, my only connection to Ireland for the time being, fell ill and had to go to the hospital for two nights. Meanwhile, I froze up a little bit. Those of you who know me know I’m anything but a shy person. I’m a walk-up-and-talk-to-strangers kind of guy. But there I found myself, standing alone on the sidewalk outside a bakery, paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t bring myself to go in and simply ask if any jobs were available. So I spent four days here surfing the net, watching TV, refusing to be productive. That immigration guy really, really shook me up, and since I didn’t have anyone else to chat with in Ireland, the immigration guy’s assessment of me stuck.
Then on Wednesday, everything started to turn around. My roommate returned, she pumped me up for job hunting, she took me to the landlord to sign my lease and she helped me write a cover letter (my first “sounded awfully American,” she said). The next day I printed off 60 copies of my cover letter and CV – no one calls it a résumé here. I hit the town, handing them out everywhere. Next week I have to stop into a few bakeries and chat with the GM because a manager seemed to like me enough to ask me back.
On Thursday I returned to the Park Lodge Hotel – my home for three and a half months back in 2006. A friend of mine is currently studying there and I know the owner/managers. They were particularly friendly, they even invited me out for the big Thanksgiving celebration they’re having next week – can’t wait!
Then this weekend I went out both Friday and Saturday and met a slew of Irish folks. On Friday night my roommate took me out with her friends, then left for home at about midnight, but I stayed out for two more hours chilling with these new folks I met. I took the number of a cool German girl who invited me to see this great band last night (you haven’t heard Man in the Mirror until you hear a bluegrassy rendition of it by this band that was at local pub last night). So things have turned around. I’m getting over my initial culture shock. Now here’s hoping I can nail a job this week.
The band at Monroe's on Friday night.
The move, Part 3: Cast of Characters
Posted by: | CommentsEdited to add: Wow guys, your comments were really uplifting and helpful in response to my last post. Thank you so much for the well wishes. It really means a lot to me.
Nothing can really top my experience with immigration, from a narrative perspective. From here on out I spent the weekend meeting new people and just trying to get a level head after the fiasco at Dublin Airport. The bus ride was uneventful, my roommate Rita picked me up from Eire Square – the park in the center of town. After disembarking the bus I got my first smell of Galway and I instantly recognized it. Smelling burning peat will always be a sense I associate with this place, and all the pubs burn it in their fireplaces. The scent permeates all of Galway – sort of like having an air freshener for an entire County. I feel like a cast of characters is in order.
Rita, the one in charge of the unit (she’s lived here the longest), is a 31-year-old massage therapist. Until last month, she worked in city government, but then made a career change. She’s incredibly friendly and invited me to join her Shakespeare Club – we meet tonight and are reading Twelfth Night. She also helped talk me down from my panic after the airport “That guy seems like a real ass,” she said.
The other two roommates are a couple. Annalisa and Javier. They’re Italian and Spanish, respectively, and they seem to keep to themselves, for the most part. It looks like I won’t get to know them too well, though. They’re moving out at the end of the month. Rita had a friend of hers over last night who might be interested in taking their place, and we hung out and watched TV. It’s nice to meet more people here. Makes me feel like I’m developing at least a semblance of a network in Ireland.
Someone else who has been incredibly helpful is my friend Michael. I knew him from theater in college, and now he’s going to grad school in Dublin. We weren’t ever best friends, but when I called him on my new phone today he too reassured me that the immigration guy’s attitude toward me was the exception, not the rule. “Seriously dude, I don’t care what question it is, if anything comes up, call me. I’ve been what you’re going through, I’ve had the ‘what the hell am I doing?’ panics, I don’t want you to have to go through it alone.” It’s amazing what just hearing that can do. Mike, if you’re reading this, thank you.
(I hope this list grows in the days and weeks to come, but for now, this is it. After buying my cell phone, I had a problem activating it. “Have dialed three people yet?” they asked when I brought it in. Um, no. “Well you’ll have to do that to activate it.” What a sad wake-up call for a guy who hardly knows three people in all of Ireland.)
So I bought a cell phone with Meteor (to my friends living in Europe – send me an email and we’ll exchange numbers. Or just look it up on my Facebook), stopped by a pub that had free Wi-Fi, ordered a Guinness and seafood chowder and did some business.
My first beer in Ireland (and my last until I get a job)
So, now I’m moved. Now the real adventure begins. On tap: Sign a lease. Get a bank account. Secure a PPS number (the equivalent of a social security number, it allows you to get paid, pay taxes, and received government benefits). Find a job. Make friends. Get my time here extended.
I gave myself the weekend after I moved, but now it all starts this morning, bright and early.
I leave you with some pictures of my apartment. If you want to see the full album of my travels, you can do so here.
The door to our apt
The living room
My bedroom. Small, but it gets the job done.
The move, Part 2: December 14, 2009
Posted by: | CommentsAs we were landing in Dublin I was trying to decide what to say to the customs agent. Yes, I’m registered with the foreign births entry – so I’m technically a citizen – I have a piece of paper telling me so, but that paper is currently in the hands of the Irish consulate – they’re processing my application for an Irish passport. It should be back in 5 weeks. I’m allowed in the country for 90 days with my American passport. My plan is to stay here and hunt for jobs while I wait for the passport to come in, then I’ll head over to the UK or Austria for a weekend, leaving as an American and reentering as an Irishman. But how do I explain this delicate situation? I could lie, tell him that I’m just vacationing and most likely get in scot-free, but if I’m caught in my lie I’ll be in serious trouble. So I decide to tell the truth.
I approach the immigration agent. “How long are you planning to stay in Ireland?” he asks.
“60 days.”
“60? Six-zero?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“Well, I’m planning to move here, so for now I’m just doing a little job hunting, some exploring, trying to figure out some job possibilities.”
“Move here? You can’t just do that.”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m a dual citizen. I’m in the process of getting my Irish passport. I’m here to do some networking, then I’ll leave the country and return when I have my Irish passport.”
“Do you have any proof of being an Irish citizen?”
“Well, the papers are with the Irish consulate – they’re processing my application.”
“Hm. Well, how much money do you have on you?”
“Right now? 90euro.”
He looks up from my passport and raises his eyebrows. “You have 90euro to stay here for sixty days?”
“Well, I have a lot more than that in my bank account, that’s just the petty cash I had exchanged at the airport.”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
Things went downhill from here. He never got off the fact that I had only 90euro to my name and couldn’t prove otherwise. Pulling up my bank statement on my computer did nothing for him because “How do I know you didn’t doctor that?” Do you have any skills? Did you have a job in the States? What do you do?” I tell him and he asks if I have a resume. I do, but it’s on my computer and again, he says he can’t be sure I didn’t just make it all up.
Then he starts his lecture. “You didn’t really think this through, did you? You know, if I were to come to America and give the answers you’re giving me, I’d be in an interrogation room for hours and likely sent home. You sound pretty naive to me. Do you know how few jobs there are in Ireland right now? I’ll have to talk to my manager about this, because you have to understand I can’t just let you in with the information you’re giving me.”
When I was researching coming here I found that I was entitled to stay 90 days in the country with my American passport without any special visa. That’s how it worked when I studied here, that’s what the consulate told me. I never thought I’d have to prove that I would be a productive member of society, that I’d have to show a bank note. Of course, it all seemed obvious in hindsight. As I sat in the waiting area, I heard him make call after call, talking to managers. I could only make out bits and pieces of what he was saying, “He just comes here with no money and expects us to…if he wasn’t bloody American it wouldn’t be such an issue…it’s a fucking Saturday morning how am I supposed to confirm any of what he’s telling me?” I started dying a little inside. Everything I’ve worked for was going to be put to a stop before I even got in the country. Finally, he approaches me with his boss. The boss asks me the same set of questions, and I answer, this time a little more labored. My mouth feels like cotton. My heart is racing. I’m panicking. I’m not giving good answers. With each word I say I sound more and more like a vagrant.
“How much money do you have in your bank account,” bossman asks.
“Uh, over $2000,” I reply. I was wrong – I actually have 2000euros, not dollars.
“So you have 1400euros, roughly? For 60 days? That’s only about 100euro a week. You can’t live on that.”
“Well, uh, I plan to, ahem, live frugally.”
“Do you have a return flight?”
“Well, no. I’m going to see how things are going and then get the plane ticket when it’s time.”
“And how do you expect to pay for that plane ticket?”
I can see how poorly I’m doing. I can see everything crumbling. But when you’re panicked and pushed into a corner like that, it’s hard to recover. He asks if my parents know that I’m doing this, I answer that yes, they’re supportive of me. So they’ll support you if you get into trouble, he asks. Yes. What’s their phone number? I give it to him, and he goes to call my parents. Nothing like getting a 2am call from a customs agent, eh mom?
According to my mom, he told her a lot of the same things he told me: He can’t just up and move. Do you realize how bad the Irish job market is? He seems pretty unprepared, etc.
My mom replies, “Yes, we know how bad things are there, they’re not so good over here, either. We know he’s doing this; he’s been planning it for well over a year now. If he runs out of money then he’ll come home. He’s young, he wants to have an adventure.”
He lets me wait it out for a good 20 minutes before calling me over. He puts a stamp on my passport and starts writing on the stamp.
“I’m giving you 30 days, because you don’t have the money to survive for much longer than that, right? If you’re getting along okay, you’ve got a job, here’s what you’ll do. Go to the Garda in Galway, ask to speak to the immigration agent, and he can extend your time here. Otherwise, you’ve got to go home.”
I thank him and apologize for not having papers, and he launches into The Lecture again. At the end I thank him again and he says, “Do me a favor, okay? Go call your mum. She’s worried sick on account of me.”
“I will, thank you.” I leave to call her to tell her I’m okay, hop on a bus to Galway, and have a very difficult 3-hour bus ride. This guy really shook me up. As I write this, over 24 hours after the encounter, I’m still pretty out of sorts. He thought so little of me. It’s hard to shake his lack of confidence in me. Why is it strangers can have such an effect on my self-confidence?
So now I have until December 14 to get a job or get my Irish passport. This certainly raises the stakes. Here we go.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
The move, Part 1: This is really happening.
Posted by: | Comments“BA BAAAAAAAAAAA. Baaaaa da ba ba ba ba ba ba BA ba ba BA!”
Does anyone else have the “Sunshine” alarm chime on their cell phone? It’s really annoying, but it gets the job done. It’s how I woke up on Thursday morning at 5:10 am. I instinctively hit the snooze button and rolled over, then realized “Holy crap, I can’t snooze, I’m going to Ireland!” The first leg of the trip (to Atlanta) was uneventful.
Ron and Evelyn
On the 7-hour layover I met the coolest old Scotsman man ever. Ron and his wife Evelyn were at the gate 3+ hours early like I was. They were going on one of their many retired-person vacations, but it wasn’t anything new for Ron. He’d traveled the world is his job as chief engineer on a cargo ship. He told me about his experiences with the poverty of Bombay (he worked in the 50s when the city still went by that name), the time he and his shipmates were taken as prisoners of war by Egyptians off the coast of Africa and the time he was a semi-pro soccer player. Crazy, right?
I got my tickets (I was flying standby, remember) and my seat assignment was 1C. First class, first row. Holy crap first class is amazing. It’s like eating at a fine restaurant where you can eat and drink as much as you want and it’s all the same price. I particularly enjoyed the Mahi Mahi and the French Toast.
Garçon, I'll take the fish.
As we were approaching Dublin and the city lights swept over me, I was overcome with emotion. Dublin at pre-dawn doesn’t look too different from any other city in darkness. But it sure felt different as we approached. All these years of planning and I’m finally here! The happiness didn’t last long though. Customs came next.
To be continued…
I spoke too soon.
Posted by: | Comments
Last night I had a going away party at Kierans, and, well, I take back what I said about being unsentimental about leaving. I have great friends.
Goodbyes
Posted by: | CommentsI’m not feeling too sentimental about saying goodbyes this time around. Maybe it’s because I don’t have an end date in mind that makes it harder to legitimize the fact that I’m moving. I went to my hometown this week to move some boxes and my mom cried when I was leaving, which sucked. At other times in my life when she’s cried (when I left for college, for example) I didn’t have control of the situation. This time I’m making the positive choice to leave home. Either way, it’s hard for me to do the whole ‘last time I’ll do _____, eat _______ or visit with ________” thing since my future is so uncertain.
Further complicating matters, my employer decided to lay off 100 people yesterday. So while I’m sending out the ol’ “Last day, thank you all for making my time special” email people who have been here for years are getting their pink slips. Talk about awkward timing.
Because of the compressed time frame with my move I’m meeting people at a local Irish pub tonight to say goodbye. After that I move my furniture tomorrow, then I leave on Friday (changed from Thursday because the flight is overbooked). My excitement level surpassed my stress level a few days ago, so now there’s nothing to do but hurry up and wait.
The plan
Posted by: | CommentsAlright, time for brass tacks. Here’s my itinerary for getting to Ireland. Since I’m using my friend Angela’s flight benefit from working at an airline, I’ll fly standby. Sometime this weekend we’ll decide which flight has a higher likelihood of having open seats, Minneapolis to JFK to Dublin or Minneapolis to Atlanta to Dublin. I’ll leave in the morning to catch the connecting flight. The flight to Ireland will be in the evening. I’ll arrive mid-morning, Dublin time. “But you’re not living in Dublin,” you say? That’s right. I need to get to the other end of the country. So I’ll find a bus to get to the train station (the Irish decided not to put a train station at their airport. WTF?). Then I’ll hop on a train and three hours later I’ll arrive in Galway. My apartment should be walking distance from the train station, but with all my luggage and exhaustion, I’ll probably just take a cab. If there’s still time in the day, I’ll sign my lease and attempt to get my PPS, which is like an Irish social security number. You need it to do just about anything in Ireland. I need to apply for that right away so I can apply for jobs. It all sounds great on paper, but for those of you who have done any major traveling, you know nothing ever goes perfectly according to plan.
All in all, it will be an eventful 36 hours, but once I’m done, phase one of my move will be complete. Phase two: get a job!
Failure is an option
Posted by: | CommentsAs I’ve become more serious about my Ireland aspirations, my family, friends and coworkers have been worrying on my behalf. All the questions amount to the same thought: “What if you blow all your savings, quit your job and sell your freelancing equipment to move to Ireland and you fail?” I’d be lying if I said I had no worries, but I’m at peace with the decision I’ve made. In my mind, failure is an option. I might get out there and be unable to find a job. I might get homesick around the holidays. I might hate my roommates. These are all possibilities.
But what’s my alternative?
I’ve been daydreaming about this since I first got the ball rolling on applying for citizenship in 2007. To not at least try moving to Ireland could lead to one big regret. I don’t want to look back when I’m 40 and wonder if I could have made it in Ireland. I just want to do it. Maybe it won’t work out for me. But at least I’ll know that I tried. I’d prefer that to wondering “What if?” any day.
