Chippers

Supposedly the Greeks, Italians, and some Eastern Europeans settle Ireland and set up Chippers as the story goes. If you're new to Ireland, a 'chipper' is usually the corner shop that purveys fried foods, either for take away or delivery as well. Burgers, chips(thick fries... sort of), chicken fillet burgers(pronounced "fill it" in Ireland), bun burgers(small hamburgers, usually with a lot of ketchup and onions on top), deep fried battered sausages and burgers/wurly/whorly burgers(brutal, but good on occasion), taco  chips(chips smothered in a taco-like sauce), garlic cheese chips(heavenly, with a garlic sauce I rarely see in american fast foods), sometimes pizza,  fried chicken in various forms, and my favourite - Kebabs. In Ireland, a kebabs is basically a pita with lamb, cabbage, and sauce.

I eat nearly every other meal from a chipper. It's not easy on me, but the hours I work grind most of the fat off. I am growing quite fond of chips.

If you've decided to visit the chipper in person, you'll need to know a few things:
There doesn't appear to be a line in many of them, apparently whomever speaks up gets served.
When you order a sandwich by itself, it often gets a small portion of chips thrown in.
Get a side of garlic sauce. Just do it.
The ketchup is much sweeter than American, with less vinegar. Ya get used to it.
Hell, get an order of garlic cheese chips. It will punish you but it's worth it at least once.
Do not leave Ireland without 'enjoying' a kebab from a chipper.
You must enunciate clearly, with my drawl I have gotten all manner of things I hadn't meant to order.

Prices are reasonable, except maybe near city centre Dublin.
DO NOT visit a chipper between Midnight and 2am. It will be a freaking madhouse if the doors are open. The pubs let out, or the patrons are calling it a night, and the custom is to visit the chipper on the way home. I once had to wade through tossed packaging materials, a fight, and a huge crowd to get to a chipper counter in Sligo. They barely understood me, and I didn't understand the gal at the counter one bit. Still, I managed to get my burger and chips before they closed.

Tsalagi

So, I'm walking down the road somewhere in Templogue on the outskirts of Dublin city proper when I see an older gentleman having difficulty with his car. He simply didn't have the strength to remove the lugs from the wheel. When he stood up and stretched his back, he caught sight of me and was a bit startled. I easily towered over the man by at least a foot.

"Shall I?" I nodded towards the poor little Peugeot, which had seen better days.

"Oh, well, oh yes, please, that would be lovely." He managed it as though it was nearly one word.

"OK. Uh, would you mind if I used that tire iron you've got in your hand there? I'm not sure I can do without." I smiled.

"Oh well OK yes, emm sorry. Cheers." He handed over the iron.

I tried to make it look difficult. But the task was surprisingly easy on such a small car. I had his puncture sorted within a couple minutes. I cleaned my hands on a rag he had handy, and when I returned it to him he took my hand and looked me in the face. I could see he was quite a bit older than I had first thought. Perhaps in his 80's? Or had the years been hard on this little guy? I almost felt as though I was halfway holding him up.

"Emm, you're an American right? Are you First Nations?" He still had my hand in both of his. If not for his age and inquisitiveness, I would have felt rather uncomfortable.

"Sir? Um, I'm an American Indian, yes. Cherokee. Well, part Cherokee." It was the first time I had heard the term 'First Nations'. I had rather long hair in a pony tail at this time, and could see where his curiosity was founded.

"I've never met me a Cherokee. Em, not any first nations, ever. You're kind are very rare here, so they are. Bless you all."

"That's very kind. Thank you. I hope you have better luck in the future with your Peugeot." I nodded and was about to turn to resume my commute when he finally got over whatever Cherokee spell I put on him and blurted, "Do you drink?". I was afraid he might ask me to pub since I was in a bit of a hurry, and there was no way I could be rude enough to turn down such a invitation. But, I most certainly do drink. "Of course, I'm an Indian, aren't I?" He motioned for me to wait, and quickly disappeared in to his home, almost spritely for his age. Upon his return he produced a small bottle and said, "I've a naggin of Bourbon just collecting dust. I'm sure you could make much better use of it." Well, now I knew what a 'naggin' of Bourbon was(a small bottle - maybe 5 ounces). He put it in my coat pocket, which I assumed was a sign we wouldn't be toasting each other on the sidewalk. We shook hands once again, and I returned to my route.

Initiation Day

"You're not a retard!" Ray's voice sounded sincere on the phone, but still didn't lift my spirits any. I was desperately trying to find the Baldonnel Aerodrome on the outskirts of west Dublin. Ray was the dispatcher for the evening. But there were a few things working against me, as well as my own retardation. They had put me in a left hand drive Chevy 3500 thinking it would ease me in to driving a truck on Irish roads. But it only served to confuse me on roads designed for right hand drive vehicles. Add in a freeway and roundabouts and darkness and a gps unit that took it's time updating my location and strange Irish directions and I was a tad over taxed.

"I am a complete tard-O! Let me pull over and gimme a second on a paper map. This GPS, er Sat Nav, is literally driving me nuts".

The default viewing mode on the Sat Nav unit I had been given was to rotate the map and keep my direction of travel towards the top. It was 2007, and the cheap GPS unit simply did not update quick enough on small meandering Irish roads. So if I had to make a series of turns, through a series of roundabouts, it was basically worthless. It would spin the streets around the map and make it nearly impossible to read them while I was driving. Add to this the fact few Irish addresses were actually on the gps map, and it was very important for me to see the roads I was nearing. I fiddled with it for a few moments and found the setting to keep the map static and only rotate the direction my vehicle indicator was facing. I rechecked the paper map and the directions Ray had given me, and continued on my way.

"I'm here to pick up a car.", I said to the watchman at the gate... 20 minutes after I had my last conversation with Ray.

"You'll have to do better than that.", he barked.

"Um.. I'm here to pick up a car...please?" He let out a surprise snicker

"I need to know the vehicle type, vehicle location, and owner. And the owner need to contact me." This watchman wasn't just a random security guard. The Baldonnel Aerodrome is an Irish military base. I hadn't realized this until I pulled up to a heavily guarded gate across from a bunker with machinegun slits in it. The watchman was the night watchman, a sergeant far as I could tell by his epaulets.

After the correct parties chatted, I was allowed to enter the base. They didn't even ask for my ID.

"So, uh, this is where ya keep yer jets?", I asked the owner of the vehicle I came for.

He laughed. A lot. A whole lot.

"At first I thought you might be Canadian. So, didn't want to insult you by asking or assuming. But now I am fairly sure you're American!"

I laughed. But not so much.

"We've no jets, Man. We've barely got any airforce a'tall, and none by European standards, let alone American. Most of our work is search and rescue or surveying."

I knew I had a confused look on my face. I am not so sure why I did, though. I should have known or assumed they would have a limited air force being a small country and in such close proximity to the UK with bases in the north. Having an airforce simply wasn't necessary, especially since Ireland mostly remained neutral, and needn't worry about British imperialism any more.

I stopped arching my brow and stated, "Must be nice to be neutral. I'm not a big fan of our military, let alone our foreign policies."

I'm not sure whether he didn't know how to take my statement, or was simply a bit taken aback hearing it from an American. He nodded in agreement, anyhow.

Go n-éirí an bóthar leat

 I am at the Department of Enterprise in city centre Dublin. In order to start work, I need a tax ID. In order to stay in Ireland, I need a residency permit. I had neither. It's October 14th, and I have a 30 day visa because I was stupid enough to inform the Immigration officer that I had been hired by an Irish company and was going to get a work visa. I have less than two weeks left on that visa.

As you may have read previously, I had received quite a lecture in Immigration, and the stunning beauty of the Amazonian officer that berated me with questions for hours only took part of the sting away. Now I found myself in front of the next woman. Er, hurdle. I had applied for a permit and delivered the application in person only 2 or so weeks earlier. She was professional, yet very personable. She admitted that with all the Irish that emigrated to the US, that the least she could do was give me a permit so that I could stay there legally and work and pay my taxes. On my first visit I was informed that I was 'fast-tracked' for a visa and would be contacted shortly.  Today I was meant to take possession of that visa. The same officer I had met nearly 2 weeks previous stood before me. I was warned to be careful not to be taken advantage of, instructed to check in with the Immigration Control for my residency permit, and informed that she was in the process of granting my work permit, and if I could come back in one hour, it would be ready down at the front desk for me. I hate to admit it, but my eyes started to slowly tear up. I could see her smile when she shook my hand and told me, 

"Welcome to Ireland, Wesley. Go Neiri An Bothar Leat - May the road rise to meet you."

The road near the Dept. of Enterprise as I left -

You're Hired

I'm hired. It's October of 2007.

Only one problem. I do not have an Irish driver's license, let alone a license to drive a large recovery vehicle. I had an international permit, but all this does is transcribe what your US license is good for. It is good for renting a car and not much more.

The boss tells me he can insure me(somehow), and I can drive the smaller trucks. That's how it started. Within months I would be driving whatever was available, regardless of size.

So no license, no experience driving a truck in Ireland, no familiarity with most of Dublin, and I have difficulty understanding many of the local dialects. It was nothing if not stressful. 

Then there's the street names. Nothing prepared me for this. Nearly all Irish streets are in Irish. If not Irish, they are in an English translated version of Irish, or both. In other words, for a Texan used to English and Spanish, I had to basically learn a new language nearly. Here is a short list of Irish street names I found interesting:

Slieve Bloom  - a mountain range in Ireland

Bothar Na Breena - Road of the Breens...uh, and there's at least 2 of them in Dublin area

Chapelizod - uh.. a chapel for a lizard?

Kilmacud - Church of the son of Oda..sure.

Knocknarea - named after a mountain in Sligo

Mainaster Bhuithe - named after an old monastery thing

Clonmacnois - Clan Mac Neesh is sort of how it's pronounced.

I spent hours reading Irish words to get used to their pronunciation and spelling. I knew it grated on the dispatchers a bit all the times I've asked for a spelling of a word. When someone says "I need you to go to MacUilliam road", and you are spending time trying to find McWilliam in your gps or maps, it gets a bit frustrating for all parties involved. Now multiply that by dozens and dozens. 

Let's fast forward a touch.

So, you have learned the Irish naming conventions. Good. Too bad it won't do you any good some of the time. You see, Ireland has a thing called a Leprechaun. I'm sure you've heard of it. Well, turns out in the inner city, there are a LOT of them. You've spent weeks getting used to the names, words, and  Irish sounds. You've gotten used to checking what looks to be a tiny alleyway because sometimes these are actually thoroughfares to another neighborhood, town, or driveway. You've learned that Dublin does not use any standardization of street naming or numbering conventions(I.E: even numbers on one side, odd the other, Avenues being north-south while Streets are east west, etc.). 124 Bothar Na Hidaiche can be directly across from 1879. Street signs can be on poles, walls, under bushes, behind trees and brush, above shop signs, 1' off the ground or 15' up a wall. Some houses have no address on them. You've learned the GPS is mostly to get you in the general area of your target. So... you fight through all of this and you arrive in your general area only to find that most the signs have been removed(sometimes burned, vandalized, painted over etc.). Or worse, they have been swapped. At night this is a headache. During the day, it can be worse because now you have to engage the locals in an attempt to locate your address. Many of which were guilty of the sign swapping...

The locals often do not understand me. I have to try and speak in sort of a radio announcer's voice for them to understand me. Then there's the part where I'm butchering the name of the street I am attempting to find. Then there's the worst part - the actual directions. Imagine Irish street names spoken in a thick Irish accent, using vague directional nomenclature in creative ways you've never experienced previously. I couldn't either - until I experienced it first hand. I was lost. A lot.