November 2006 Archives

But I'm worried it's all going to come to an end. My visa expires in a month, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I am trying to wangle my way into a transfer, but due to workplace politics and Irish visas, I don't know what's going to happen. I don't want to go home. At all.

I'm going to Istanbul for the weekend, on the heels of the departing pope. I'm hoping this will take my mind off my immigration issues, and since Turkey doesn't have a chance until 2013, I won't even have to worry about the flags of Europe.

I'm starting to realize that I'm never going to have any idea what I want to do with my life. I feel like not much has changed in the last ten years--I'm still an awkward teenager wondering whether or not the cheerleaders think I'm cool. I was talking to one of my friends back home and her response to my latest romantic and medical travails was "Jesus, that's so Lina."

Some people might say I'm predictable. But at least I'm consistent, right?

"Yeah," he replied, "but you don't speak Polish. That would be better." He scratched his chin, thinking intently. Thinking for the Polish, you know, doesn't come easily. "Maybe you should visit a Polish concentration camp so you could learn," he said giving me a sidelong glance.

My jaw dropped in shock.

"We call them language camps now," he said, shrugging.

On Friday, I spent the first 5 hours of work with a large wad of gum in my hair. I discovered said wad at approximately 4 am, but with no internet access, I was unable to determine an appropriate course of action. I knew that something could get it out, but as my most reliable guess was lighter fluid, I decided to stay the course and leave the gum in until I received confirmation of the best method of removal.

I had an important meeting to attend, so I managed to artfully conceal the gum and adjoining tangled hairball in a well-constructed braid and went on with my day. Not without a fair amount of bitching, mind you. Finally, Poland said to me, "Let me just cut it out for you." I looked at him aghast. A Pole offering to cut my hair?

"Yeah, and off to the "showers" next I bet," I managed to spit out. My recent weekend trip to see the list of relatives that were exterminated in Auschwitz apparently had an effect. It was his turn to look horrified.

"What is wrong with you Americans?"

This is a question I receive a lot around here. Luckily Poland's [redacted] allows me to ignore such slurs, but the abuse I take on a daily basis about my nationality never ceases to amuse. I'm still trying to push the me-as-exotic thing, but so far the response has been only lukewarm. Tonight I was told "Exotic--only if talking about your dancing career."

As it turns out, any type of oil or peanut butter will get gum out of hair. 30 minutes at home for lunch and a bottle of canola oil on my head and the gum was gone and I was ready for another raucous Friday night in Dublin.

In response to a complaint from a Dubliner that I only write about things that I am dissatisfied with, here's a list of things I like in Dublin:

Me at the castle in Edinburgh

Before going to Scotland, all I knew about the country was what I had seen in Trainspotting (the movie). Therefore, I wasn't surprised when everyone appeared to be a criminal and junkie. I was slightly surprised to realize that much like Trainspotting (the book), I couldn't understand a fucking word anyone said. Ostensibly we are speaking the same language, but I'll be fooked if could understand what they meant when they said "A'll hae a troch 'o roch, un a puck 'o richy peg!"

Here's a typical exchange:
Me: What's your name?
Scotsman: ofaemvad
Me: Excuse me?
Scotsman: edfrtdatyl
Me: WHAT?
Scotsman: neswDavidpofd
Scotsman: Can omgrtysl kiss gdsg you?
Me: I guess so.
Me: But in America we don't use tongue.
Me: Don't even try it.
Scotsman: Oefsdaaw