Living My Irish Dream

Still don’t know what Love means,

No matter where you go in Dublin’s city center, and many large cities, you’ll almost always find people sitting on the street begging for their keep. There are the young runaways, the sullen addicts, and then there are Roma people, often referred to as gypsies.

Despite the fact that the Roma usually don’t exhibit addictions, have children with them, and maintain distinctly tidy appearances despite their meager means, it’s the Roma I hear my Irish friends and neighbors complaining about the most.

Since France officially began deporting hundreds of Roma families this week, I’ve taken part in more than a few interesting conversations. Several of my friends were, like me, horrified by the measure, but I was surprised to find that many people wholly supported the idea of involuntary deportations.

No matter where you go in Dublin’s city center, and many large cities, you’ll almost always find people sitting on the street begging for their keep. You’ll see young runaways, sullen addicts, and Roma people, often referred to as gypsies.

Despite the fact that the Roma usually don’t exhibit addictions, have children with them, and maintain distinctly tidy appearances despite their meager means, it’s always the Roma people I hear my Irish friends and neighbors complaining about.

As France officially began deporting hundreds of Roma families this week, I took part in more than a few interesting conversations about this blatantly discriminatory new policy. Several of my friends were, like me, horrified, but I was surprised to see how many people fiercely supported the measure.

It’s difficult to be away from home when the people back there are hurting.

It’s difficult to be a New Yorker in Ireland on the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

Especially this year, when the city has been caught up in sheer chaos over the proposal to build an Islamic center near the site of the devastation, and a crazed Floridian fame-seeker was threatening to burn copies of the Q’uran if its imam didn’t build the center elsewhere.
All I could think this week was, my city is in pieces right now. And I’m 3,000 miles away.

SEE PHOTO GALLERY HERE

On the dark country road that leads the way to the Electric Picnic festival, the lights of a giant Ferris wheel peek out over trees and draw us towards them, like moths to flame.

Call me crazy, or if you’re generous of heart, just call me ridiculous.

I spent the weekend visiting psychics. Yep, mediums, portals to the other world, fortune tellers, mystics, – however you want to describe them – I visited two of these mysterious beings over the course of two days.

Before you turn to judge, let me give you my terrific justifications for spending good money and time to hear the thoughts of self-proclaimed witches.

There it was again. The cool sting of rejection, like an unexpected slap across the face.

I’d just met with a potential financier for a documentary film I’ve been working on with my sister, and after he viewed the product of our 8 months of hard labor, he had brushed it off with a few words.

"I don’t know how to say this... it’s just not what we’re looking for."

An edit room never felt so cold. I looked at the hundreds of soundbites on my Final Cut timeline scornfully, for not proving they were worth their salt. And down at my hands, for the same.

Combing through my email outbox, I count how many resumes I’ve sent out in the last few months. Forty-two, forty-eight, forty-nine; this month’s total hovers around fifty. I’m too tired to count beyond that depressing point.

The only message I’ve received in response is the philosophical one: Nobody wants to hire you!

I came to Ireland from New York City exactly a year ago. It was only supposed to be for a short visit, but like many before me, I fell in love with the land where my father and grandparents were raised, and decided to set up a life here. I’ll stay for a few months, I thought, depending on how well things go.