When I start working in the Dublin Wastelands in 2015, upon my return to Ireland after fifteen years in Amsterdam, I was hired into a position in the grim industrial wastelands of county Dublin. My training into my role was given by a person named Assumpta (not her real name). Assumpta was difficult. She treated me with hostility and contempt, engaging in subtle workplace bullying for a prolonged period. For reasons that were unknown to me.
The dilemma I faced was that nothing she said or did could be identified as clear bullying which would have allowed me to take steps to stop it. It more undermining. She never said ‘You really are useless’. It was along the lines of ‘I am concerned about the errors you are making, I am concerned about the negative impact your errors are causing to the business’ showing her to be a conscientious and diligent employee.
Afterwards she would pointedly ask other colleagues to go to the canteen for lunch and make it clear I was not included. She repositioned the picture on her locker so that she did not have to look at me. It was distressing and unpleasant. After a year – by which point I was fully trained and had zero communication with my nemesis – she moved to a new position (in a different building) in the company. We no longer worked together. A huge relief to me.
It was only at that point did I realise that she had interviewed for the job I had been hired for, but was unsuccessful in her efforts. But she subsequently had to train me into the position. An awkward position for her, for sure. But not remotely my fault.
I internally nicknamed her Potato-Face because of her grey complexion and because it gave me a petty satisfaction..
She remained in the company. Our path thankfully never crossed again.
Today I learned that she has been diagnosed with motor neurone disease. A horrible affliction. I am sorry she has to go through this. On a human level I have sympathy for her and her family.
On the other hand she is one of the few people I have ever met that I shudder when I hear her name. She genuinely made my work life hell when I was fresh back in Ireland after decades away.
So I wish her peace in her difficult journey. And I won’t think of her again.
After more than quarter of a century, I moved back to Limerick a few years ago to settle back in to life in my hometown, . Limerick is a city – it has two cathedrals and a castle, and a population of about one hundred thousand people. Nevertheless when you live in the centre, you tend to remember faces that you encounter every day – shop assistants, bar-staff, office workers, market stall holders, neighbours. Street people.
Limerick is suffering like the rest of the country through the government’s refusal/inability to address the housing crisis. It is also in the grip of an addiction crisis. You see people with addiction issues on the streets, hustling for a fix. Some are friendly. Some are cunning. Some are vile. I fell victim to he baby formula scam some months ago. I was accosted one Sunday evening by a gentleman who had seen better days. He spun a yarn about how his girlfriend had just had a baby but that they couldn’t afford baby food, and could I help him out by purchasing some for him. Alarm bells rang in one ear, but ‘hungry baby’ was the louder voice in my other year. I was shocked by the price of baby formula but bought it anyway. Feeling suspicious when I got home I googled ‘baby formula scam’ and saw the sorry explanation for this caper. Mentioning a hungry baby is a foolproof way to tug at people’s heartstrings. Muggins here buys the baby formula in good faith, then the recipient then brings it back to the shop for a refund. The following day the shop assistant who had sold the item to me said this was exactly what happened. He wasn’t given a refund as he had no receipt. I hope he found a use for the baby formula. Had I been more alert I’d have clocked it as a scam immediately. However bad the homeless crisis is in the country, babies are not going hungry. I have seen the gentleman in question subsequently. I blank him. I can’t help everyone with spare change – there are too many. He ripped me off though so my meagre wallet is closed permanently to him. It’s also closed to people who have previously called me a ‘c**t’ when I couldn’t spare a couple of euro. Who would be dealing with that type of abuse?
Then we have Kevin. Kevin (not his real name) is kind of a legend among city centre workers and dwellers. He’s a man deep in the throes of addiction but remains quite friendly and talkative. He’s hustling of course, for heroin or crack cocaine – his substances of choice – but he doesn’t get abusive or belligerent if you cannot assist. I first met him shortly after I moved back. He was always pleasant when asking for money so when I had change I’d give it to him. I had no concern if he was spending it on drugs – he has no choice in this and is going to feed his habit somehow so two euros here and there from me isn’t harming him. I first got chatting to him when I burst out laughing at his request for a couple of euros to make a telephone call. He saw the funny side too.
Early January was cold. Horrifically cold – by Irish standards. Nighttime temperatures plunged to minus four degrees Celsius. There was snow on the footpaths. Compared to Canada or Finland this may seem tropical but for Ireland this is catastrophic – snow, ice, frost. There were colour coded warnings of ‘multi weather hazard events’ to terrify the nation. I was not scared of the weather. My fear was that Dublin Airport wouldn’t be able to de-ice the airplane on which I was due to fly. To Gran Canaria. In June last year a Finnish friend had asked whether I was interested in spending a few days in the New Year in the volcanic, mid-Atlantic, Spanish archipelago off the coast of Morocco. My response was in the affirmative. Little did I know that as the motherland hunkered down to deal with the cold spell, I’d be jetting off to enjoy BigTourism – Spanish style.
On the beach
Until January 2020 I had a snooty aversion to mass market tourism – preferring a nice city break where I’d get a false idea of what living in another European city would be like. My nose curled in contempt when I heard of the sun, sea, sand and sangria trips. ‘It’s just like Ballybunion, except with sunshine,’ I would sneer to myself. In 2020 I took the plunge and visited Gran Canaria for the first time. That trip was amazing – partly because I travelled with a friend who rented a car meaning that we saw the island from all angles – the western cliff coast, the volcanic centre, the capital city of Las Palmas, as well as the industrial tourist town of Maspalomas and its beach – Playa del Ingles. It was also because mere weeks after my maiden voyage to Gran Canaria the world shut down. My memories of that trip grew even fonder as the nation locked down. Thankfully the pandemic didn’t halt my wanderlust and I continued to travel throughout that bizarre time – just more discreetly so as not to attract the ire of the online twitching curtains. My first trip after my inaugural bout with Covid 19 was the day I came out of quarantine – to Gran Canaria where I met up with the Finnish friend I was visiting this January.
This time she would be accompanied by her daughter. I was joined by my regular, Irish travelling companion.
Delving into Irish history can be a depressing endeavour. Oliver Cromwell and his genocide; the Penal Laws; the Great Potato Famine of 1845 to 1851; are just tasters of the misery of the nation over the past five hundred years . Last night I stumbled upon another horror which had hitherto been unknown to me – the Year of the Slaughter between 1740-1741.
I had been aware that the the Great Hunger of 1845 – 1851 is regarded as a defining event in the creation of modern Ireland when one million people died from starvation and disease, and one million emigrated to the USA and Canada when the potato crop failed. The population of Ireland was eight million before the Famine and to this day is still below that level. In school in Ireland we learn about this tragedy and we know that Ireland remained a net exporter of food throughout this horror thanks to the English government’s murderous greed, cruelty and xenophobia. One eighth of the population died. One eighth of the population emigrated (and this emigrant population in North America became very important in securing Ireland’s partial independence in 1922).
Last night I discovered that one century earlier between 1740 and 1741 there was another Famine in Ireland that killed a greater percentage of the population.
Despite my near miss when I accidentally boarded the Tirana to Rome, rather than the correct Tirana to Bergamo flight, we landed in Bergamo on time at 10am. My flight back to Ireland was not until 9pm the following evening. My trip had been extended for a specific reason – I wanted to finally visit ‘The Last Supper’ by Leonardo DaVinci in Milan. This is a painting I have wanted to see since childhood. It’s not an easy undertaking, however. Located in a climate and temperature-controlled monastery, visitors are strictly limited in number. Tickets to see it are like gold dust. I had forked out fifty-four euros for a guided tour of the painting – justifying the price with the realisation that unless I was willing to pay this amount then I’d never likely see it.
I took a bus from Caravaggio Airport in Bergamo to the Central Rail station from there I walked to my hotel which took an hour. This was my first time in Italy’s second largest city.
Milan had never been high on my list of places I wished to visit. Italy is such a beautiful country there always seemed to be a more appealing option. This time was different.
Duomo di Milano
After dropping my bags at my hotel, I strolled over to the Duomo di Milano – the ridiculously ornate cathedral of Milan. It’s an architectural marvel on a par with the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. To take the lift to the roof was more expensive than to take the stairs but it was my chosen option. Having walked an average of twenty kilometres per day while in Albania my leggies were exhausted. I must give props to the Catholic Church – they know how to do a glamourous church.
I spent an hour on the roof and inside the church before exiting on the Piazza Del Duomo and made my way to the Grand Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II on the square. This is an opulent nineteenth century shopping mall housing all the unaffordable Italian designer labels – Milan is a world centre of fashion on a par with Paris and New York. You can tell – the locals are impossibly thin, beautiful, and stylish. I didn’t buy anything. The prices were not visible on many items indicating that it would require a mortgage to buy them.
Grand Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II
Making my way to La Scala opera house I noticed a queue coming out the door. There was a self-guided tour of the place. I waited in line behind an Italian woman who took about fifteen minutes to purchase her ticket. Why rush I guess. It’s an interesting building with an informative museum included. Not quite on a par with La Fenice in Venice, but in the vicinity.
La Scala Opera
The fifteenth century Castello Sforzesco is located a fifteen-minute walk away. Relieved to discover that its museum was closed on Monday I whiled away an hour wandering about its grounds, before heading back to my hotel.
My flight to Tirana in Albania was via Bergamo in Italy – or ‘Milan-Bergamo’ as Ryanair calls it – as if Bergamo is a mere suburb of Milan and not a separate city of 120,000 people, more than fifty kilometres away. Flying over the Alps into Bergamo gave impressive views – not a cloud in the sky with mountains, towns and lakes fully visible from the airplane forty thousand feet in the sky. It was Friday November 8th, 2024, and for the first time in my life I was visiting the Balkan nation of Albania. Landing at 11.10 in Bergamo I had a four-hour layover until 15.20. My friend G was waiting for me in Tirana – he had arrived from Heathrow a few hours before I landed.
Skanderberg Square, Tirana
The internet had warned me that public transport from the airport to the city centre was sporadic, so we had booked a transfer to our apartment with our landlord at a decent price. What a very friendly and talkative man. He gave us a running commentary about the buildings we saw on the way to the city centre. He told us that the route to the airport was like a continuous building site as Italian investors were swooping in to erect buildings now that the Albanian government has decided that Albania needs to become Mediterranean tourist hotspot.
Our apartment was located about fifty metres from the city’s main Skandenberg Square. We dined that evening at the restaurant Ceren Ismet Shehu in the grounds of the Toptani Castle just off the Square. This was a traditional Albanian restaurant with a wood fire burning in the middle. A very tasty and very meat heavy dining experience. The Toptani Castle has become a nightlife area so after our meal we enjoyed a few glamourous cocktails for about a quarter of the price you’d pay in Ireland (one hundred Albanian lek is worth about one euro).
Our plane touched down in Ibn Battouta Airport in Tangier at 9.50pm on Saturday night so we hopped into a taxi driven by a friendly man named Omar and asked him to call our host Mohamed. We were going to be staying on the narrow laneways of the walled old town (medina) of Tangier so he had to give Omar instruction where to drop us so he could take us to our lodgings. The medina is inaccessibly by car. Our house was an old-style house with a rooftop courtyard and blue tiles on the walls. It was already quite late when we arrived, so we headed over the coast (about ten minutes’ walk away) for an evening meal before heading to bed for an early night. There was walking to be done the following day and we wanted to be fresh.
Break from a busy day, Tangier
The following day gave us sunshine so after a quick outdoor coffee on a terrace in a medina café with indoor smoking and without tourists, we walked down to the coast (La Corniche) again for a breakfast looking at the sea. Based on my judgement (and Google Maps) the landmass in the distance must have been the southernmost tip of Spain. Tangier is located on the Tingitan peninsula and is on the coast where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea. We took a walk along the beach where we spied some camels in the distance giving rides to tourists for a cash payment. A friendly local dog approached us and sat with us for half an hour before heading on his way. I noticed that he had a yellow plastic earring. I wondered what that was. Lunch was consumed outdoors where I had a lamb shawarma – a dish traditional to the Middle East but seeing as Morocco is an Arab-Berber country the cuisine is similar. Moroccan cuisine is very tasty but not new to me. Having lived in Amsterdam – a city with a large Moroccan population- for many years I know my Moroccan dishes.
My plan to visit Madrid in December 2022 was thwarted, when standing at the gate in Dublin Airport, ready to board at 7pm an announcement was made, to inform us that due to weather conditions our flight was cancelled. Disappointed, as I had been looking forward to visiting the Spanish capital for the first time since 2006. This December another flight was booked – for our winter wanderings we’d be spending three days in Madrid followed by three days in Tangier in the northernmost tip of Morocco. Sunshine at this time of year is a great means of cheering oneself up in the Irish grey season.
‘Guernica’ by Picasso at the Reina Sofia Museum
The Ryanair flight from Dublin to Madrid was non-eventful and we landed at 2pm, whereby we each acquired a ten-ticket metro pass for fourteen euros and followed the internet’s instructions on how to access our apartment. Lunch, en route in Chinatown involved Szechuan chicken and rice. Out apartment was located on the edge of the city centre so theoretically it was possible to walk to the heart of the city. We took the metro that evening to Gran Via which was festooned in Christmas lights. We enjoyed a few drinks in the Chueca district which seemed to have calmed down from the riotous party district it had been twenty years ago. A more likely story is that Chueca has remained the same and it is I that has become more sedate. We dined on pizza at ‘ThatsAmore’ – a pizzeria owned and run by an Italian man. Rather tasty.
My first trip to Italy as a tourist was in February 2020, just as the world was about to shut down. My first holiday to that country was a revelation. I found Rome to be enchanting. Since then I have averaged two trips a year – never to the same place. Italy is a country where you can pick any spot, and it will be a delight. My favourite place to visit thus far is Venice. But not Venice as most know it. I was lucky enough to visit during the harsh lockdown of 2020 when international travel was strongly discouraged, meaning that my flight to that city was empty and the tourist throngs were conspicuous by their absence.
Palermo
This year I decided that it was time to visit Sicily. . Or rather the Ryanair sale for a return flight in August decided for me. Frugality is a necessity when it comes to travel, as otherwise I would be bankrupt. My return flight cost 140 euros. I was planning to travel alone but as often happens I had an inquiry from a regular travel companion. I wouldn’t mind at all – I like solo travel but given the choice having a co-conspirator is very much appreciated.
Sicily is much larger than I had imagined and has a population of almost five million people. How would we decide our itinerary. Some research indicated that a few stops would be possible. We decided on three days in the capital Palermo; two days in the second city Catania in the shadow of Mount Etna; and our final two days on the island of Ortigia in the ancient Greek city of Siracusa.
Our flight landed on Saturday evening at 8pm and we reached our enormous apartment. It was one of those high ceilinged, old, Italian houses with a complicated floor plan and random doors leading to nowhere. We had an early night. In the morning we had an early start. We were being collected from our apartment at 8am for a day tour. Two weeks earlier I had booked a full day excursion to the town of Agrigento in the south of the islands to see the Valley of The Temples.
In January of this year, Aer Lingus had a sale. I checked out the destinations and found a six day return trip to Chicago for 395eur in September. That was a steal so I booked it immediately. Having travelled to Chicago a quarter of a century earlier, I did not have any abiding memories of the city. That earlier excursion had been in August and was three days at the end of a fortnight’s journey to New York, Boston and Chicago. I remember the stifling humidity of August, my friend urgently requiring a toilet while in Boystown after a burger went down the wrong way, and me getting trapped in a different toilet.
Back in the twentieth century I had two regular traveling companions with whom I travelled each year. Usually at the end of our holiday we needed a break from each other and we’d take an ‘alone day’ where we’d do our own thing and then meet for dinner and drinks later. I think I went to a bookshop. I selected a diner for lunch and had a sandwich. After my meal I repaired to the restroom, to a cubicle. Unfortunately the door would not unlock for me after my business was finished, and I ended up calling for assistance from the laughing waitress, while being a luminous shade of puce. I remember her comment ‘don’t worry, you’re not the first that’s happened to.’ With 20/20 hindsight I wish I had replied ‘Maybe the door needs fixing then.’
This trip would be different. I was travelling alone and therefore would be marching entirely to the beat of my own drum. Travelling alone is not a challenge for me. About ten years ago I decided that the world was far too big to wait until others are ready to see it, and that if I have a yen to take a gander, then I should go right ahead. Happily when I make the booking I will often acquire a companion who will ask if they can come as well. Not this time however.
In March, a curveball flew in my direction. My youngest brother and his wife (whose wedding I attended in Ibidan, Nigeria last year) announced that they were expecting their first child on September 20th. My travel dates to Chicago were 18th to 24th September. They lived in Burlington, Vermont. A mere 900 miles / 1500 kilometres away. I took this as a sign that I was meant to travel to Vermont for a few days. A return flight from Chicago O’Hare to Burlington International Airport (one flight a week to Canada) was acquired.
My flight to Chicago departed on time at 3pm on Wednesday and lasted eight hours. I watched the films ‘The Bridges of Madison County’, ‘Singin’ in the rain’ and ‘Joker’ during the trip, where to my joy I had a row to myself.
I was staying at a grim little boarding house in Chinatown. This suited me fine. It had a bed, a table, chair and bathroom which is all I need. I wasn’t planning on doing anything there except sleeping. Chinatown is about four miles south of the famed Chicago Loop which would be classified as the main downtown, tourist area. I didn’t arrive till 9pm so that evening I stayed local and dined on sour fish soup in Friends BBQ in Chinatown.
I woke at 6am on Thursday (the six hour time difference meant my body thought it was lunchtime). I had an appointment at 11am for an architectural boat tour of the city. I estimated that it would take me about ninety minutes to reach the meeting point along the Chicago river. The plan was to take the Metro but the early morning sunshine was refreshing so I walked along the banks of Lake Michigan to reach the meeting point, stopping en route for a Korean breakfast of an egg tart, apple and bacon on toast, washed down with filter coffee.
I passed the famed Cloud Gate statue (more commonly known as The Bean as it resembles one) in Millennium Park. This is possibly the best known landmark of Chicago. I am not sure why. Although to see the majestic skyline reflected in the bean is impressive.
The architectural boat your was fascinating. In 1871 Chicago was a rapidly, expanding city of 300,000 residents. Mrs O’Leary’s cow knocked over a paraffin lamp (allegedly) resulting in nearly all of downtown burning to the ground, and one third of the population being displaced. Amazingly only 300 people perished in the fire which raged for days. Chicago became an architect’s dream as it was being rebuilt. A blank canvas – the skyscraper was invented in Chicago. The first skyscraper only had ten floors, but even that must have been a wonder in the 1870s. Various iconic buildings were shown to us including Willis Tower (pronounced locally as Sears Towers – at one time the world’s tallest building), Trump Tower and the St Regis tower – the 101 storey building by Jeanne Gang which is the tallest building in the world by a female architect.
midnightmurphy 