Work

I went to Cyprus for work. You know, work, so didn’t see much of Cyprus. I travelled with a colleague who was in a wheelchair and I am delighted to report that people are very nice to you if you are travelling in a wheelchair. Your pushing companion also gets to skip the queue.

I was staying in a hotel near the beach. Breakfast felt like I was on holidays.

I mean come on.

Was I delighted to be whisked away by minibus at the crack of dawn to the conference centre with windowless rooms? I am only human, I was not.

But we did get a tour of Nicosia in the evening where we saw the monument to liberation from the British (enjoyable).

We also saw the archeological museum which was interesting.

Not satisfied with my baking in Cyprus opportunities in May, I also went to a conference in Lisbon last month. Toasty, but I was last in Lisbon before I was married and I had forgotten how beautiful it is. I would definitely like to go back again on my own dime.

Obligatory tram photo.

On my return flight to Dublin on Saturday morning I was sitting on the aisle side with an American in the middle and an older woman from Cork at the window. I knew she was from Cork because I heard her telling the American man so. We waited a long time on the tarmac to get off (I missed the session in Dalkey book festival I had been scheduled to attend that afternoon, alas). The American and the Cork woman began to talk about politics and I started to feel sorry for him so I staged an intervention. “I heard you saying you were from Cork earlier,” I said to her. No further intervention was needed. We established the following over the body of the misfortunate American: she lived around the corner from my parents; she remembered them from when my brother had been a primary school pupil in the school where she taught (we verified his identity from the photo I have of him in his plum velvet communion suit which pops up whenever he calls me, I’m hilarious, it was the 70s); her son is married to a (very good) hockey player who was in my sister’s class in school; she lives next door to the mother of a friend of Mr. Waffle’s from college; and she plays bridge with my best friend from school’s mother. This is possibly the best illustration of why, fond as I am of Cork, I quite like the anonymity of the big city. I felt quite sorry for the poor American.

Anyway, been anywhere nice for work yourself?

I was having a cup of tea with some much younger colleagues the other day and one of them said, “Look at this lovely old music book my grandparents brought me at the weekend.” I had a look at the photo, “Oh Moore’s Melodies, how nice,” I said. “Who?” said the young people. “The Last Rose of Summer, Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms, The harp that once through Tara’s Hall?” I asked in growing alarm. Nothing. They hadn’t heard of Percy French either (for reasons I cannot explain – possibly because my mother used to sing both a bit – Thomas Moore’s work and Percy French’s sit in the same cabinet inside my head). I regarded the group aghast. A philosophical young man at the table pointed out it was horses for courses and said, “Anne, Wu Tang…?” “Clan,” I said proudly but given that they were formed in 1992, that is not quite the achievement it might have been. Had he chosen to mention any band at all formed after the children were born, it would have been a different story.

Anyway, my horror was as nothing compared to the security guard’s at the airport the weekend before last. As I went through the scanner she said to me, pointing at her younger colleague, “He’s never heard of John Wayne, tell him that’s crazy.” I obliged but I could tell that he thought we were crazy. Truly, it’s like being the elves going into the West.

When I was in France last week, I wanted to send a postcard. Using my secret French knowledge I went to a tabac to purchase a stamp (you can only buy stamps in a tabac or a post office and not elsewhere because the French like to torture you). There were two men ahead of me in the queue; not too bad, I thought. The second man was in a wheelchair and when he opened his mouth, it became clear that he was very disabled. He was extremely difficult to understand and you know how the French are, if you are at all unclear. But the woman behind the counter was really patient and worked out what he wanted (an envelope, size A5, it took a while but we got there). Then she had to come around the other side of the counter and get the money from his coat pocket (he had a bad tremor) and put the envelope in the satchel slung on the back of the wheelchair. She treated him with such dignity and patience (and it took ages) that it was quite inspiring to watch. Finally it was my turn. “I’d like a stamp,” said I. She shrugged, “We’re out, try the post office around the corner.” Oh France, never, never change.

I took my courage in my hands and went to the post office; you know what post offices are like. When I went in the door a young woman rushed up to greet me; what did I want? One stamp. She referred me to an empty desk. “This is more like it,” I thought but almost instantly not one but two assistants surged forward. “What do you need?” they asked in unison. “A stamp,” I said. They began pulling sheets of stamps from under the desk. “Just one,” I said slightly nervously. “But which design would you prefer?” asked the one. “This one with the croissant is scratch and sniff,” said the other encouragingly. I bought the scratch and sniff one which was carefully separated from its comrades and lovingly handed over to me. I think I have never had a better post office experience. Odd though.