JandalsnAll

Its over two weeks since I arrived back in the Emerald Isle. So the re-telling of my role as guest in Dublin and host in Doolin since then, may not be entirely accurate. Though a number of notable occasions do stick in my mind. One being Liam’s near fatal incident with an angry/crazy handbag wielding pedestrian. Another being my superb near fatal, near face-plant in the mud. Suprisingly, Antonia passed the few weeks highly unscathed by either mud or handbags, leaving me with very little teasing ammunition. Except for her extreme cow phobia which came to light at every cow encounter in Doolin. Doolin has a lot of cows. Aside from managing to avoid any most unlikely, near fatal cow attack, Tonia also managed to catch a leprechaun in Doolin. Yes, a real live leprechaun. I wonder now if that is the reason for how she remained mud free. And whether its also the reason I didnt…

Let us start from the beginning.

I arrived back in Dublin on a Tuesday night, one night after Tonia and Liam had landed in Ireland. Aside from an outing to the supermarket down the road, I dont think they’d ventured far out of Liam’s brother’s house at all, still recovering from the trip. So next day Tonia and I went to town, and I taught my sister all the important things about living in Ireland just like a big sister should: How to buy a ticket on the bus, how to find the street names, how to buy a plastic bag at the supermarket and (due to the rain and our inherited above-average eye level), how to avoid serious eye injury by umbrella. Liam learnt an important lesson of his own – how to buy half a dozen beer when beer comes in lots of four.

The next day I think was the day we watched the ‘From Justin to Kelly’ movie – as in Kelly Clarkson and Justin Whatshisname from American Idol singing, dancing, reading scripts- a brilliant piece of crap cinema.

One day we went into town, using our newly learnt bus catching skills, and after crossing a road and reaching the curb, Liam comes face to face with a woman with a handbag. For some reason she decided she didnt like the look of him and took a violent swing at him with said handbag – I think I heard her snarl. What it was in Liam that caused such a violent reaction in such an unlikely assailant we will never know, but after that shaky experience, whenever we approached a woman with a handbag, Liam would cower behind me. Tonia said hes been having nightmares about giant handbags too.

The last night in Dublin, Tonia and I went out to dinner at Govinda’s (?), a vegetarian harekrishna (?) run place with good food – and heaps of it. Liam didnt come as it was a Friday night which he reasoned meant a larger number of woman out with their handbags.

Saturday I made the bus trip back to Dublin, Tonia and Liam having decided to follow in a few days time. And follow they did, arriving on Monday night just as I finished my working day. We spent most of our week playing cards, as Doolin was swamped by typical WestCoast of Ireland weather, visiting Jack the donkey and his new friend Little Jack the donkey, and telling each other that yes, tomorrow we would go to the cliffs.

It might have been Tuesday or Wednesday I learnt of Tonia’s cow phobia – but Im not sure as time doesnt exist here in Doolin, until you need to catch a bus somewhere. On which ever day it was we donned our jackets and woolly hats and went for a walk down a local road to the coast, stopping to visit the local dead in the old ruin of a church on the way. When we got to the coast, the sea was impressively wild, the waves smashing up against the rocks, foam blowing in our faces on the equally wild wind. The total opposite of this. (I like that photo and had to fit it in somewhere).

Eventually though, after an hour or so of walking, we had to leave the coast and walk back up the road towards the hostel – but first we had to cross a field. A field with COWS. I thought I was scared of cows, but the difference in my case is that I can reason that cows do not generally attack and eat humans and will walk through a field of them if need be. At first sight of a cow, Tonia started panicking ‘ Its looking at me! Its looking at me!’ And by the time we reached the barb wired gate, she was in a frenzy, flying over the gate like a herd of cows was indeed chasing her. Which there wasnt. If a herd of cows were to attack anyone it would me, as the other two ran off, leaving me at the mercy of the bemused bovine mob. We got Tonia back to the hostel free of cow bites and calmed her jitters with lashings of free tea. Liam tells me she still has nightmares about giant cows.

Our next major excursion was down to MY beach which isnt really MY beach anymore as I havent been there for ages – long enough for someone else to lay claim to it. Actually, this was the second attempt to visit the beach, our first the day prior abandoned when we found we lacked the skills to ford a river. When we finally did get there, we were very happy,
and I was suprised to find my sculptures still relatively intact considering the wind thats been tearing up and down the coast. Tattered but still standing they were.

It was, I believe, on this particular outing that Antonia caught her leprechaun. Now if someone had told me she had found a leprechaun I would not have believed them, not being one who believes in such nonsense. BUT I believe this because I have photographic proof. As I was walking up the beach, I noticed Tonia had wandered off on her own for an unusually long time, so being the caring sister I am I snuck up behind her to find out what she was doing. And it is at this moment that I catch sight of her little friend. I could barely believe my eyes. But yes, see for yourselves, there she is, with him tightly in her grasp, preventing any escape. I could at this moment have confronted her but, knowing a thing or two about leprechauns (though not believing in them of course) I thought it best not to envoke Tonias nor the leprechauns wrath. So I kept quiet. Little did I know I would soon find out just how powerful that wrath was. If only I had continued to keep my mouth shut.

Tomorrow we finally did end up going to the cliffs, as we had been saying all along. The wind was still blowing strong yet the rain had cleared, though the track to the cliffs was still in a swampy muddy cow-pooey condition. But we rolled up our trousers and set off up the incline, skirting the mud as best we could.
About half way up the track we spy something most unfortunate ahead. Most unfortunate for Tonia that is. More COWS. Sitting on the track. And the land around the cows was so swampy you’d lose a shoe. We were cornered. We couldnt go round the cows, , couldnt go under the cows, we’d have to go through the cows. Again Tonia starts panicking. And I start helping her panick. ‘That cow’s looking at you Tonia’. And indeed it seemed these hungry looking cows were eyeing up Tonia’s juicy limbs.

So I tease her some more ‘That cow looks really hungry Tonia’ ‘Hes licking his lips’ ‘Look out! He’s behind you!’. But shes ignoring me, lost in her cow insanity. Or is she? Next thing I know I feel the rock beneath me move, actually move by itself and I teeter above the fetid mud, my arms windmilling trying to catch my balance. And just as Im about to recover my balance I feel a little hand on my bum give me the slightest push, just enough, and then Im moving, downward, fast but in slow motion at the same time: ‘Nwooooowooo’ I cry as I near the cesspool beneath me. And then I have mud in my mouth and mud up my nose and mud in my eyes. And I look like Im smiling but Im actually crying inside. Tonia turns around and says ‘Are you okay?’ trying to cover a smile as she takes my photo. We both know what happened. I think she must have stashed him in her backpack.

So we made it to the cliffs and back. I washed my jeans and wiped my face, everyone had a good laugh. And not a word was spoken of the unusual circumstances, the unlikeliness of the event – that I, eversteady Em had fallen. And no mention was made by either Tonia or myself of the little man of mischief – Im not even sure Tonia knew I had found her out. Next day we went to Galway for the night, then Tonia and Liam headed home to Dublin and I headed back to Doolin. And I havent fallen in any mud since.

How she managed to catch the thing I still dont know – maybe we’ll never know. Nor whether she took her little friend back to Dublin with her. But I know one thing: Just in case, Liam better watch himself.

Wow, so much art. Yesterday I gave myself a nosebleed from looking at art just too hard out. That was at the second venue for the Venice Biennale, the Giardini, or Public Gardens. For some reason I was expecting this particular exhibition expedition to take a mere four hours or so. I was very wrong. Even though after learning my lesson from my first expedition and breezing through the whole area first to pick out the good stuff, I was there from opening time 10am til 5.30pm…. Its all those damn video installations. I start watching one and just have to see what happens. Actually the amount of video work was a little disapointing – seems like everyone was jumping on the band wagon instead of trying to bring back painting. Long live the painting. This exhibition was curated by a different person to the last one and was much bigger, with works that seemed cleaner and more refined than the last. The best work for me being a William Kentridge work which consisted of four video projections of animated black and white ink and graphite drawings combined with actions by the artist as he told a sort of fantastic story. The imagery was beautiful and so I forgave the video aspect. Its not actually the using of video that I dont enjoy, just the lack of painting and drawing – this work combined both. Francis Bacon and Marlene Dumas works were also great to see. Out in the giardini (garden) were exhibitions by all the individual participating countries.

The best of these was Australia’s Ricky Swallow, who had no video whatsoever, rather painstakingly carved sculptures of still life with references to time, existence, death – all those deep things. There was probably some other good stuff from other countries, but by this time, nose bleeding, feet stumbling, mind reeling, everything was one big foreign blur. But Im not racist, Im not.
I didnt actually find NZ’s contribution to the exibition til I was on my way back as it, plus Northeren Irelands plus Morroco’s and a few other countries were hidden away…probably because Italy doesnt need to stay on NZs good side… but the exhibition looked interesting, from what I could see through the haze of my art-induced insanity. Youve probably heard about the work, its the one with the portaloos. And the portaloos are supposed to move or speak or something but it was almost closed when I stopped by. There were also lots of signs and gates and words and other confusing things in it. As far as attempts to confuse the viewer go in contemporary art, I can assure you NZ is up there with the best of them.
Today I succumbed to the inevitable and went for the San Marco basilica experience. Seeing it again, it was still awe inspiring to think of the time and material value of the place, which was built as a monument to St Mark – or whoever it is who was smuggled into Venice from Egypt and whos bones are buried under the basilica. There is so much work evident in the huge number of mosaics, and so many precious gemstones and metals in all those stolen treasures, its hard not to be impressed. I wish I had the desire and patience to actually read all the educational plaques around the place and thus actually learn some stuff but I was too busy looking for impaled pigeons. Where are they? I think either the pigeons have learnt that sitting on spikes is not a good idea, or the religious authorities felt people should be spending more time reading educational plaques rather than looking at pigeon corpses and so have hired specially trained pigeon scoopers to quickly hide the evidence should an impaling occur.

Tomorrow, I’ll do a last minute dash of spending, then its off to Treviso airport to sit in a shed for two hours (for that is all it is) before flying to London and back to Dublin. Where Tonia will nurse me back to sanity and massage my aching smelly feet like every good sister should.

Ive read and heard it said that three days is plenty to see Venice, but Ive been here for five full days and there’s still plenty I would have liked to have seen. Guess it depends on your definition of seeing Venice. Though I will be glad to be back to Ireland where ‘please’ is only one syllable and has no tricky rolled rrrrs, where I dont have to practise buying a bus ticket, and where Im not faced with the eternal dilemma of deciding just what flavour of gelato to have today.

Buon giorno! Yes here I am in Venice – I wish I could say that in Italian too but Im still working on “Give me five scoops of gelato right now”. Actually I did manage to ask to use the internet in Italian: Vorrei usare l’internet?” but then the receptionist replied with “buonosidoveoraquantoraviolimamamiaquello?” and we were back to englese but Im trying. Not that it makes a huge difference here. It seems to me a lot of the shop keepers are treating me like I shouldnt be here wether I try or not. Either that or theyre super nice while theyre showing you all their wares. And in a way I dont blame them. Imagine January and February downtown in the Mount and times that by six more months and you see what they have to deal with. And its embarrassing the way some people treat Venice, storming into a shop and demanding something without even trying an Italian greeting and with out using manners in any language – Ive seen it many many times.
Anyway Im here and having a good time – and a bit of a laugh. Sitting in SanMarco’s square provides hours of entertainment, from the parents who pay to have their children swarmed by filthy Venetian flying rats, to the women with the golden getups purchasing imitation godola man getups for their unfortunate husbands or grandchildren. Or maybe they like that sort of thing, who knows.
Back to the flying rats, these arent your Auckland variety of dirty, these are 800 year old SanMarco Piazza variety of dirty. And every day approximately 4000 people walk through the square, people who could have stepped in anything on the way there, even poo, and who leave 700 000 00000 invisible poo footprints contaminated with 10 00000 000 0000 00000 000000000 000 0000000 germs. And Mum and Dad think it’ll be fun to let little Johnny play with the pigeons. So fun that they pay EU1 for birdseed to attract pigeons with 800years worth of poo on their feet to climb all over their children. And then they take a photograph so as to look back with fond memories on the time they contaminated their child with 800 year old poo germs in San Marco Square.
It is indeed the place for taking photos. Not only of the palace which really is impressive, but of other people taking photos of the palace. I’d really like to be able to take a huge panoramic photograph and be able to literally count how many people are taking a photo in the square. I’d also like to know how many of other peoples snapshots I am in – I try to get in as many as possible.

So a quick synopsis of what Ive been up to.

Day One: Caught the bus from the airport and stepped into the madness and the wonder of Venezia. Checked in at Santa Foasca hostel which is a part of the University dorms. Was basic but clean enough.

Day Two: Walked around absorbing the sights and sounds. Checked out the bridges. Visited the Peggy Guiggenheim museum of modern art. I was lucky enough to catch a few talks on her life – she sounds like this eccentric crazy lady who actually knew nothing about art when she started collecting – Im keen to read her biography “Out of this Century” if I can find it cheaper than they were selling it. Saw some Kandinskys, Pollocks, Calders, Picassos, Ersnts and more – just like 6th Form art history but in real life. Had dinner in a small Italian cafe. Had pasta for dinner, of all things.

Day Three: The first visit to the Biennale. It was great but exhausting. I should have gone through the whole thing first then gone back to the best things, because all the good stuff was at the end, and I was tired and hungry and had to go to the toilet by then. Also I missed out on going inside Moriko Mori’s huge beautiful UFO because the queue was closed. But it was great anyway, with lots of crazy stuff – lucky I decided to be a tourist and opted for the audio guide. Contemporary art is so hard to understand sometimes. Its like the artists are just trying to confuse you on purpose.

Day Four. Today I went to Murano by waterbus to see some Glass Crap. Geez there was alot of it. There was some beautiful stuff too, but a lot more crap than not. So I bought some presents there. Then I came back and looked around down by the square and there was alot of glass crap there too but it was cheaper. Luckily I only bought the non-crap in Murano. Last night and tonight I stayed at Foresteria Valdese. It was my first choice but they told me it was full when I rang. I checked it out on my second day here and they did infact have some places. Its an old building being restored and apparently has frescoes on some of the ceilings. Not my room though. Im sharing a room and a bathroom with four other girls and get free breakfast. Im really glad I decided to come by because its a great place to stay and excellent location – close to SanMarco and the Biennale but also outside the tourist area. And internet is only 5EU per hour not EU9 like most of the other places in the city.

Tommorrow is more biennale, Monday is the big tourist extravaganza – SanMarco etc (I have to look for pigeons impaled on the spikes) and Tuesday is check I have enough glass crap day, then home to Dublin.

And now my internet time is almost up and as Ive spent all my money on glass crap and gelato I cant afford to pay for more.

Ciao (that means seeya later alligator).

Well the days are passing by and the event of the Reunion of Sisters is growing nearer. Possibly not to be quite as Barbara Taylor Bradford as it sounds, but exciting none the less. Actually more exciting than a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel in my opinion, or than I imagine a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel would be….
As soon as next week in fact, I will finally have a little sister in close enough vicinity for me to effectively pick on again (Long distance teasing just isnt quite as satisfying). Oh the fun we’ll have. I’ll pull her hair and she’ll go running to Mum to tell. Except theres no Mum to come to her rescue this time….mwahaha. She might go running to Sandeater but I’ll just pull his hair too.

Tuesday morning next week I plan to catch the bus to Dublin, where I will hassle my two victims for one night (said victims having arrived in Dublin from NZ on Monday), before jetsetting, or at least the Ryanair equivalent of jetsetting, myself away for a week in Venice. Yay Venice! Land of ‘Many Flavours of Gelato of Which I Must Try Every One’, and ‘Many Kinds of Pizza of Which I Must Try Every One’, and also ‘Glass Crap’, as Ang so eloquently puts it. Of course I have a valid excuse for gorging myself on gelato and pizza and looking at glass crap, that being to see the International Art Exhibition held as part of the Venice Biennale which ends first week of November.
As usual I have left everything to the last minute and havent yet decided on a place to stay. But I do have flights so I WILL be there, sleeping somewhere….

As Tonia and Liam prepare to cross seas to see me, let me share some of the lessons I’ve learnt here in Ireland so as to help make their assimilation easier.

Lesson One. Coronation Street. If you are a fan, you’ll love Ireland, if not, be prepared to face your worst nightmare. When walking the streets of Ireland and interacting with Irish citizens, you can expect to find that approximately one in five Irish people resemble Coronation Street characters. Not a statistic that is widely publicized, or even accurate, look around you and you will start to notice the scary truth. I’ve seen countless Martins, Tyrones, Sarahs and Candices, spotted a few Les’s and was once even lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the rare and elusive Fizz. One of my bus drivers even was a dead ringer for that short guy with the goatee and leather jacket that did dodgy dealings with Mike a while back. I cant remember his name…I should have asked him when I saw him. The questions that arise from this peculiar coincidence are those age-old questions of which came first, and nature versus nurture. In this case, are these lookalikes born this way, or are they such fans of the show that they would go to extreme lengths to alter their appearance so as to resemble their favourite stars?
While in Ireland, if you find yourself coming down with a case of Corrie Fever (symptoms include: an involutary cockney accent and disillusions that a Vera-hairdo would bring out your eyes) it is reccomended (by all good doctors) that you take a large dose of quality television such as The Simpsons, three time daily until symptoms subside. NB. EastEnders is not reccomended as a safe alternative to Coronation Street.

Lesson Two. Weird Bugs, Man. Just yesterday I saw a walking toothbrush-head. About an inch long and spiky it just ambled across my path, all unconcerned as if it didnt look anything like a piece of dental equipment and just like an ordinary bug. I think the Irish call this thing a catepillar. Though I didnt try one myself, I see a lucrative untapped market in all-natural toothbrushes.
When visiting Ireland be prepared to be amazed, disgusted and fascinated by the assortment of mutant bugs and birds. Also be prepared to have the spooky sensation you are in the middle of a Hitchcock film in which the multitudes of crows, ravens and jackdaws just abiding their time will soon turn on the innocent human population. If one were to look at the individual bird populations in Ireland with relation to those in NZ, one might deduce that crows are the sparrows of Ireland, sparrows are the fantails of Ireland, and fantails are the crows of Ireland. In summary, as in New Zealand there are no crows, in Ireland there are no fantails. But there are robins. Robins are the cutest little birds that like to hop around you hoping for some food while you pretend you are in the remake of A Secret Garden. Significant bird mutations observed include: magpies – Irish magpies dont have the fleck of white on the side of the head that NZ magpies do, gulls – some gulls in Ireland wear a little black masks to preserve their annonymity when interacting with other gulls – that or they like to play Zorro, unlike NZ gulls which have no need for annonymity and dont watch movies. As an avid birdwatcher you can take it on my good authority that this is true fact.
As you will know, St Patrick banished all snakes from Ireland in a year a really long time ago. He did not however deem it necessary to banish the legless lizard. I have been informed that this ‘legless lizard’ does reside in Ireland and that it does in fact have no legs. BUT it is not a snake. Though I do wonder if Ireland’s secret authority on reptilian matters decided to call this particular specimen a legless lizard just so as to prove St Patrick did a thourough job.

Lesson Three. Squirrels. Ireland has squirrels! And I saw a mink once. (This lesson is a sub lesson of Lesson Two devised to give the often overlooked squirrel the attention it deserves).

Lesson Four. The Bus Lady. There is a fine art to riding a bus for two hours in comfort. In my opinion, buses shouldnt be called buses but rather Big Slow Nightmares On Wheels. Though there are ways to make your trip slightly less nightmarish. A major part of this consists of avoiding of the bus lady. The bus lady comes in several forms, though will usually appear elderly and fragile and wearing a scarf – unfortunately this is often a ruse to maximize the bus lady’s potential to harrass unsuspecting passengers .
The Buses Arent for Bags Bus Lady is the lady who is a stickler for the rules and will take every chance she can to catch you out. Take this one example: Woman sits down near the front of the bus and places her handbag and shopping bag on the seat beside her. There are free seats infront and behind her. Buses Arent For Bags Lady comes along the aisle and makes like she want to sit next to Woman. Only problem is Woman’s bags are on the seat. Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady makes a fuss and declares ‘Buses arent for Bags!’ embarrassing Woman as she apologetically moves the bags onto her lap, and at which point all other polite passengers feel obliged to move their own bags. After which, Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady carries on and takes an empty seat further down the bus. Another example: Woman gets onto strange bus in a strange country with strange bus rules and puts her pack down beside her. Buses Arent For Bags Lady comes along and squeezes into the same seat as Woman stating ‘Buses arent for bags!’ Woman apologizes and moves pack to the rack pointed out to her. Woman spends rest of the bus trip being scolded by Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady.

The second form of the bus lady is commonly known as the ChronicChatter Bus Lady. The chronic talker loves to chat, wether it be about the weather or the lack of weather or the two different forms of the word weather. You must be very careful how to respond to the ChronicChatter, a response to the question ‘Whats the Time?’ will very likely prompt a long description of how ChronicChatter had a watch but she lost it and thats why shes asking you the time because she never knows the time now that shes lost her watch but it really was a nice watch, and have you found a watch? because shes lost her watch. A variation on the ChronicChatter is the ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter who after your reply of ‘twenty to three’ to their ‘whats the time?’ replies back in loud capital letters with ‘YOU NEED TO PEE? WELL YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE BEFORE YOU GOT ON DEAR’. If you say ‘twenty to three’ and they reply ‘WHAT? YOU HAVE GAS? WELL IM SORRY TO HEAR THAT DEAR’ which doesnt even rhyme, you can be pretty sure that they are indeed just faking ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter syndrome for their own sick pleasure. Headphones, while a deterrent to a plain Chatter, will not stop a ChronicChatter or a ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter who will continue to ask you questions depite your exaggerated performance of removing your headphones every time they do. Best just to ignore these ones, saves everyone else hearing about your supposed bladder problems.

Picking the right seat is the best way to avoid any bus problems. Too close to the front and you’ll get the Chatters, not close enough and you’ll end up victim of the Bags Arent for Buses Lady. A recently conducted experiment deduced that if you sit a minimum of four rows and not more than six rows from the front of the bus you minimize the risk of any discomfort as a result of the above annoyances, and as well as the seat next to yours will be the last to go giving you extra freedom to spread. The elderly will choose a seat in the first few rows, while others will walk past your seat before they realize there are hardly any seats left on the bus.

Lesson Five. Lingo. Best study up on your Irish lingo before you arrive so as to avoid the potential for embarrassing misunderstandings. For instance, in Ireland someone might say ‘Hows it going lads?’ which if directed at a group of females is not a case of mistaken gender because in Ireland everyone is a lad. If you a with a group of females, one of your Irish friends might still say ‘See you later lads’. Much the same as one might say ‘See you later guys’ to a group of female friends. ‘Where’s the craic?’ is not a request for a mooning, but a general question about where the best fun is to be had. I have it on good authority that you should not say ‘pants’ in polite company here in Ireland though I havent been brave enough to test out this naughty word for myself. Or at least, you should not say ‘My pants are all wet’ or just as bad ‘Oh look, I just got my pants all dirty’ as Irish ‘pants’ are infact the equivalent of NZ ‘undies’. If you are of an Australian persuasion, ‘my thongs are all wet’ as one Aussie male has been known to have said, is even worse. ‘Jandals’ however is a word that is completely safe – as no-one will know quite what you are talking about.

Lesson Six. Ireland is cool, the culture is great and the people are generally more than welcoming.