A lot has happened since last time I wrote. Where on earth to begin? For one, now I am on the campus of Trinity looking out over a beautiful lawn in the first glorious afternoon of sunshine we’ve had yet. Ireland really does shine in the sun. The blue against the green and the dark grey of the buildings – concrete or stone, they all have the same dusky tone – it really is quite beautiful.
Well, I’ve taken up residence at 33 Lower Drumcondra Road, postal code 9. When I got into Dublin Ryan said I would drive right past the house coming in. So I kept my eye out and I was pretty sure where it was. However, I decided to take the bus all the say into O’Connell St. to get a bit of the city. I tried to memorize the thousand twists we took from Drumcondra in the hopes of repeating them backwards. Needless to say, I failed miserably. It’s one of those rules of the universe – when you have a heavy bag and you’re not quite sure where you’re going, you will get lost. Even if you have turn by turn directions tattooed to your inner eyelids.
Finally I did find the place, and though I called and rang, no one answered. So I popped – or squeezed barely with my suitcase – into a call box to call the landlord. First phone didn’t work – ahhhhhhh! Will this be a day of setbacks? Not even two hours in Ireland and I’m lost and can’t even complete a goddamned phone call! But, before panic totally takes over, I go try another box and it works. The landlord says he’ll come by in five minutes.
15 minutes of sitting on my suitcase by the side of the road produces my landlord, Michael. He reminds me of the stereotypical Irish thief-liar, quick, slow with his speech, always trying to put it over on you. He was nice enough but proceeded to put the panic in me about getting mugged and raped and pissing off the other roommates who will hate me and throw my bags out onto the street where they would be stolen by roving bands of heroin addicts who would prick me with dirty needles and give me AIDS. He also told me about every other landlord in Dublin – how he knew them all and that they were all police.
Then the rush of the shower alerted us to the presence of Declan – the 25 year old e-commerce graduate student. He was very nice and made me a cup of tea was kind enough to take me to his college – DCU – to use a computer for internet access so I could email the world to let them know I was alive. I asked Dad to leave a message for Mom as she hasn’t any email.