Can't Really Complain

"You see, it isn't actually that cold in winter. Not too hot in summer either. That's the problem isn't it?".
"How's that?"
"Well, the weather is shite, we all agree, but not so bad that you can complain about it."
"Fair enough."
"Fair enough all right, what you going to say? 'Aye! It's fierce mild today!'"
"Not without sounding like a gobshite."
"There you go."

Fair Enough

And the weather hasn't been worth complaining about so far. There has been a little rain, and one needs a jumper, but there has been plenty of sunshine and little wind, and no real bitter cold. Apparently it is going to get a lot wetter and more miserable, but not too cold. But I maintain my right to whinge. I know what good weather looks like, and this is not good weather. Sure, it isn't going to kill me, but that isn't the point.

One German friend said that she hadn't seen so many accidents on icy roads as she does in Ireland. "When the road freezes over the Irish don't know what to do. They should take the bus on such days."

I don't know about that - the buses in Dublin are shite. Slow, late, and paying for your ticket is comic gold. The drivers don't give change. You ask for your ticket, show the driver how much cash you have, then drop it into a chute that collects your coins. I always assumed that the coins were counted by a machine when you put them into the chute. But no, in a truly Irish touch no such thing happens. The driver counts the money as you drop it into the chute, then gives you a paper receipt for the change that you can redeem at the transport office.

My Portugese budy Pedro said "I love the look on the driver's face when you hold up a handful of 1 and 2-cent pieces and he knows he has no idea how much change you are giving him. You can get away with short-changing him 20 cents. Do that every day and you can save enough for a pint at the end of the week."
"Pedro, you need to get a job."

More Than a Roof

I finally have my own room! Well, I will come Friday. I am moving into a house with Pedro the aforementioned Portugese, an Argentinian and a Scot. All boys, with a fifty-fifty split between English and Spanish speakers.

After sleeping so long on couches I am hanging out for that room. My own space. Close the door and be along. Don't wait up until all hours waiting for others to go to bed. Don't get woken up early by others going to real jobs that require early rising. A kitchen of my own! And it has gas burners, not the horrible ceramic-electric stove tops that are all the rage over here (some people try to defend them, but you just have to ask "How many comercial kitchens use anything but gas for cooking?").

Brazilian BBQ

Guilliano held a Brazilian BBQ at his place last Sunday. There were the Brazilian lads, crowded around the BBQ throwing salt, oil and beer at the meat sizzling over the coals.
"The meat in Ireland is shit man."
"Yeah, in Brazil you have twenty different cuts, all quality."
A Basque guy pipes up
"I bring meat back with me whenever I return from home. Good Basque meat."

We stand around drinking German and American beer (Erdinger and Millers respectively), some wearing football jerseys for English teams, talking about surfing in Spain and how hot and crazy Brazilian women are (quite, according to the lads).

Froggy Chef

"Hey Frog, where are my fucking fries?"
"Sure you don't want onion reengs? I have nice creespy onion reengs!"
"Keep your goddam onion rings Frenchy, and fix me fries before I start breaking shit!"
"Hey convict son-of-bitch, why are you so rude to me and my onion reengs?"
"Rudeness is relative, and I am talking to a Frenchman"
"Fair point, the French are too rude. Sure you don't want some onion reengs?"
"Nah, onion rings remind me of disappointment. Many a time I have bitten into one thinking it is calamari only to find disappointing onion. Got any calamari?"
"No, but I have some creespy onion rings. Want some?"