I've Forgotten How To Cross The Road
Emigration, as an experience changes you. You're very much taken out of your comfort zone and forced to adapt. You pick up new habits and conform to new norms. You eat things you wouldn't normally eat. You become exposed to cultures beyond those that you grew up with and that you have moved to. Eventually, it just becomes second nature.
In my case, this lead to a whole raft of wonderful experiences. I picked up plenty of new habits. Most of them good, I'd like to think. Most of them, I stopped noticing after a while. I started saying things like "trash can" and "pop the trunk". I'd genuinely go to the pub "just for one drink". Occasionally, I'd get stick from my friends at home when I started talking "American".
That said, I still held strongly to some home comforts. I always made a point of watching the 6 Nations rugby championship, for example. I would pay over the odds for Toffee Crisps in sweet shops that carried them. And it was pointed out to me that when I spoke with another Irish person, my accent changed. As if I shrugged off the toned down lilt like an old coat for the sake of the natives and could freely converse in my mother tongue with my people.
In some ways, then, slipping back into Irish life has been a sort of return to the norm. Toffee Crisps are readily available at a reasonable price and I'm not slowly picking my way through the correct pronunciation of words that I might not naturally use in the first place. I feel safe enough in swearing at soccer referees and I don't feel like the only person in the city who knows how a roundabout is supposed to function.
Conversely, there are some things that I have found hard to readjust to. It's taken me a while to accept that the tax is included in Irish prices. You know, that when something says it costs €20, it's €20 and €22.60. More than once, the girl on the till has looked at me funny when I've handed her odd, completely unnecessary change.
Perhaps the most worrying thing I've noticed, though, is that I no longer function at traffic lights. It's not that troubling right now because I'm not driving, so relax, nobody is in danger of getting run over. But as soon as that red pedestrian light comes on, I stop. And then stand there as half of Dublin brushes past, muttering under their breath about "bloody foreigners".
For the uninitiated, the act of crossing the road in Dublin is a game of judgement, opportunities and occasionally bloody minded-ness. You don't just stand at the lights and wait patiently for the little green man to tell you when to go. You approach the road you desire to cross, and from a good ten yards away, you start sizing up the traffic. You're not looking for breaks, or a stop, you're looking for a fluid pathway, one that opens and closes in front of you, allowing you to weave through the living organism and hopefully emerge as one at the other end.
The first time I encountered this, it caught me completely by surprise. Well, sort of. But I played the diligent citizen and stood stoicly between an OAP and a young mother with a pram, waiting on the green light. By the third time, I was willing to give it a go, and crossed on a red myself. Seven seconds and one angry bus driver later, I found myself with two feet firmly on the other side of the street. I decided I'd wait for daylight to make my next red light crossing attempt.
So, other than a long winded apology to the drivers and pedestrians of Dublin, this blog post is really to acknowledge the transition back into Irish life. A lot is made of emigration in Irish culture, but returning emigrants are often glossed over, as if the prodigal son's return is just a matter of killing the fatted calf and carrying on as if all is right in the world. It isn't necessarily that easy, and can be every bit as challenging as emigrating was in the first place.
But still, I've survived the roads on foot. I might wait a few months yet before taking to a bike.
In my case, this lead to a whole raft of wonderful experiences. I picked up plenty of new habits. Most of them good, I'd like to think. Most of them, I stopped noticing after a while. I started saying things like "trash can" and "pop the trunk". I'd genuinely go to the pub "just for one drink". Occasionally, I'd get stick from my friends at home when I started talking "American".
That said, I still held strongly to some home comforts. I always made a point of watching the 6 Nations rugby championship, for example. I would pay over the odds for Toffee Crisps in sweet shops that carried them. And it was pointed out to me that when I spoke with another Irish person, my accent changed. As if I shrugged off the toned down lilt like an old coat for the sake of the natives and could freely converse in my mother tongue with my people.
In some ways, then, slipping back into Irish life has been a sort of return to the norm. Toffee Crisps are readily available at a reasonable price and I'm not slowly picking my way through the correct pronunciation of words that I might not naturally use in the first place. I feel safe enough in swearing at soccer referees and I don't feel like the only person in the city who knows how a roundabout is supposed to function.
Conversely, there are some things that I have found hard to readjust to. It's taken me a while to accept that the tax is included in Irish prices. You know, that when something says it costs €20, it's €20 and €22.60. More than once, the girl on the till has looked at me funny when I've handed her odd, completely unnecessary change.
Perhaps the most worrying thing I've noticed, though, is that I no longer function at traffic lights. It's not that troubling right now because I'm not driving, so relax, nobody is in danger of getting run over. But as soon as that red pedestrian light comes on, I stop. And then stand there as half of Dublin brushes past, muttering under their breath about "bloody foreigners".
Frogger was a game largely designed around crossing College Green
The first time I encountered this, it caught me completely by surprise. Well, sort of. But I played the diligent citizen and stood stoicly between an OAP and a young mother with a pram, waiting on the green light. By the third time, I was willing to give it a go, and crossed on a red myself. Seven seconds and one angry bus driver later, I found myself with two feet firmly on the other side of the street. I decided I'd wait for daylight to make my next red light crossing attempt.
So, other than a long winded apology to the drivers and pedestrians of Dublin, this blog post is really to acknowledge the transition back into Irish life. A lot is made of emigration in Irish culture, but returning emigrants are often glossed over, as if the prodigal son's return is just a matter of killing the fatted calf and carrying on as if all is right in the world. It isn't necessarily that easy, and can be every bit as challenging as emigrating was in the first place.
But still, I've survived the roads on foot. I might wait a few months yet before taking to a bike.
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