Homecoming

If you followed the last blog, you would automatically know what I did the first thing I got back to The States (as the Irish would say). That’s right! I got myself an American-sized portion of food. Fajitas to be exact.

When I landed, my father was at the airport waiting for me. In the parking lot was my automatic car that has the steering wheel on the left side and I drove it home on the left side of the road. As sad as it may sound, one of the things I anticipated most about coming back – besides my loved ones and food – was my menthol cigarettes.

Ireland offered me an insight to the European world. For the short time I was there, I learned so much about their culture, people, lifestyle and politics. Along with this, I learned how they differ from us here in the States. I went to Ireland with a mindset that I would try everything that it had to offer and not complain that it wasn’t what I was used to. I promise I tried very hard. On certain days though, all I wanted was my Chicago life back. My cigarettes, my food, my car, my phone, and dare I say even my job.

10 days in Ireland was the perfect amount of time to be there. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the break from reality at home, but I was starting to get home sick. If I had my family and girlfriend there, I probably wouldn’t care if I ever came back. As much as I missed my family here, what I’ll miss most from Ireland is their friendly people. Ireland is known as the land of a thousand welcomes, and they sure did welcome us. From the Camden Court Hotel staff to the workers at local Tesco that sold me Redbull and Lucky Strike cigarettes daily, and of course the man, the myth, the legend Jack Roche.

From being called a “bloody cunt” (which I think translates to strikingly handsome devil) by a drunk Irishman to almost being arrested for littering my cigarette butt, Ireland will sure leave lasting memories. Whenever anyone asks me how it was, I say you had to be there to experience it. Sure I can tell you about the rainy days and the cold nights, but I can’t explain to you the atmosphere in the air, especially if you have never been to Europe before. It may be eight hours away by plane, but it’s light years away from the United States.

For the sake of my sanity, I won’t sit here and list all the pros and cons of living in either country. Go see for yourself. I can guarantee you will not regret going. To quote Mr. Feeney “Dream. Try. Do Good.” That’s exactly what I did and it was an experience like no other. 

The Small Things In Life (or Ireland)

What does it take for a big guy like myself to get an “American-sized” portion of food in Ireland? It could be my past days of being an overweight, husky kid but people in Ireland sure like their portions the size of my little nephews kid’s meals.

Quite frequently I leave the restaurants here feeling bloated but quite unfulfilled. The first Irish meal of the trip was a chicken dinner at the Iveagh Restaurant in the Camden Court Hotel. What I thought was a salad turned out to be sushi with lettuce. When the meal arrived, the chicken was no bigger than a patty and the mashed potatoes were scooped with an ice-cream scooper. AN ICE CREAM SCOOPER! I don’t know about the local Irish folk here, but when I eat mashed potatoes, it’s usually a volcano of potatoes and gravy. Even when I have ice cream, I have at lease three scoops.

Nicer restaurants usually focus on the presentation, so I decided not to judge the Irish food scene with that experience. Soon after, we wanted to try an American meal in Ireland. You don’t get much more American than the fake Italian pizza of Papa John’s. The medium-sized cup even at the American restaurant was the size of my nephew’s sippy cup. When I argued with the server over the size of my order, she looked at me like the gluttonous American that I am.

It is very hard to find a portion to satisfy my excessive eating habits, but there are a few places that are hidden, and definitely not Irish. I guess you can say I have a nose for finding the fattest foods possible. Last night, we found this amazing Australian BBQ place where they served alligator and kangaroo burgers. My problems with the small portions were solved at this place. For as much as I would pay for what can only be considered a snack on the Jenny Craig diet in Dublin, I got a 1lb white shark meat burger. I got so used to the small portions here that I almost didn’t finish it but I’m not the type to let food go to waste.

Yes, I realize I sound like a kid crying about food portions but I really love my food. Coming from a guy who damn near cried when they got rid of the Super Size option, I was upset with the lack of food here. Sure I mean I’m probably a little healthier and thinner since I arrived but that was not the plan. My roommate is an editor at Eater – an online magazine about the food scene in Chicago - so I was all sorts of fat kid happy when I found that out. I figured he would show me all of the good places to eat and what to try but at the end of the trip I had actually corrupted him with gummies.

No wonder Irish people are so skinny. They walk everywhere an American slum like myself would drive and they eat very sparingly. From not melting their cheeses on fries (or chips) to giving baby-like portions, the Irish cooks have disappointed this husky guy. Maybe, just maybe, it’s only the Dubliners who eat like rabbits. No no my friends, even the Belfast folks– who differ quite drastically from the Dublin folks – eat and serve extremely small portions.

While lunching at Reuben’s Gourmet Sandwich Co. during our very snowy and wet trip to Belfast, I was yet again disappointed. What I ordered was a burger, what I got was two buns with vegetables and a dime-sized meat patty. Ahh the joys of going back to the States and indulging in Italian beef and sausage combos with cheddar cheese. (Cue the Homer Simpson slurring sound).

Closer To Home Than Expected

After traveling 3,675 miles, home should have seemed light years away, but after covering the Liberties community for a few days and mingling with the locals, I’ve realized I’m closer to home than I could have ever imagined. Odd huh?

The sense of family and pride in this neighborhood reminds me of my home and community is Serbia. I guess I’m lucky to be multi-national and know the best of the Eastern and Western worlds. Though I was fairly young when we left, the minute I saw the love and sense of community in the Liberties Market, I was transported to Ulica Milorada Jevtovica Smita in Serbia where I grew-up. The commotion of neighbors talking and shop owners yelling the prices of their goods as residents walk by the Liberties Market on Meathe Place awoke a sense of remembrance of the old country.

As a six-year-old poor refugee in Serbia, there wasn’t much to do beside play with the other poor kids in my street. (This isn’t the point of the story where you feel bad for the poor little boy, so please don’t). From what I remember, the parents also bonded due to similar life situations. Pretty soon, the street became it’s own community, just like the Liberties. When going to talk to my Dublin idol –Jack Roche- his attitude and knowledge reminded me of the old man in Serbia –Guto- who was the spitting image of Mr. Roche.

The colorful fruits and vegetables that line the street in the Liberties Market exhume the vibrant colors seeping from the personalities of the shoppers and owners. What looks like a run down street with graffiti on the corroding buildings is actually the heartbeat of the community. Call it weird, call it inhuman, but there’s something about the butcher shops in the market that scream working class.

Where Serbia and Chicago drastically differ, Serbia and Dublin have a striking comparison. In Chicago, we have a routine of locking our doors as soon as night falls and god forbid we let our children play in the streets without a baby lease, monitor having 911 on speed dial. On my street back home in Serbia and in the small section of Dublin known as the Liberties, safety is not a concern. In both place, I’ve walked down in the dead of the night without looking over my shoulder or walking faster to avoid alleyways and abandoned houses.

Maybe it’s a European thing but I genuinely felt safe. Sure, I got lost numerous times and had to ask for directions but I wasn’t afraid to ask. If I got lost in Chicago, I would call the first cab to pick me up and bring me back to safety. If a stranger walked into a store on Western Avenue in Chicago looking for directions, the owner would probably press charges of trespassing. Jack Roche, on the other hand, would welcome them, give them the proper directions and pack them a few apples (only after talking their ear off for 10 minutes about the most random subjects). Sure the residents of the Liberties are going through a rough financial time, but their wealth comes from their sense of community and togetherness. It’s the same togetherness I left in Serbia in 1997. So while I may be miles away from my parents, sister, nephew and girlfriend, I am closer to home than I have been in 15 years.

Worldly Advice

The day has finally come. In a few hours, I will be departing for Ireland. My mom and dad are giving me their last minute parenting instructions while I am there. “You’ve come this far, don’t let it all go to waste there,” my father said to me in a stern manly voice. It must be the whole Eastern European complexion he has when it comes to advice. I have to admit, the advice was short, which I appreciate. My mother on the other hand, that’s another story.

As I was packing, she sat next to me the whole time making sure I didn’t forget anything. I can’t count how many times she has asked me if I packed my passport and of all things, clean under garments. With that came worldly advice such as, “make sure not to drink the whole time you are there,” and “make sure to actually do work there besides fooling around.” Even if I was going to suburbs, I feel she would give me the same advice.

Packing was a nightmare. I’m still unsure if I have packed too much or not enough. The last few hours before I actually head to the airport are the most nerve wrecking. I woke up at the crack of dawn to make sure I get a head start on finishing a few things I needed to finish before I leave and I can say I have successfully succeeded. However, I am sure as soon as I sit on the airplane I will remember something I didn’t do that I should have. However, there will be no time to think about that.

As much fun I am going to have in Ireland, I have already scheduled a busy week. A few sources have agreed to set up interview times when I arrive in Ireland. Along with the tours Suzanne and John have set up for us, this will be an intense week. One thing I want to make sure to leave time to do, besides visiting London, is going to the fruit and veg shop in the Liberties neighborhood I saw in the documentary . Something about the worker there and the neighborhood makes me want to spend a few good hours there.

I guess this is the time I should spend with my parents before I leave. All that means is more worldly advice from my father such as “pamet u glavu,” which in English is translated to “knowledge in the head.” It has very little to do with actual knowledge but more so of a threat to restrain from stupid acts while I am there.

Well Ireland, I have been talking about you for weeks now. It’s finally time to come and conquer you. See you in a few hours!