Loose Cans

More spectacular. Much, much more spectacular.

Yo la tengo, baby. Fuck you, Wolfe Toney fuckers, because I got the best damn two-bedroom in Dublin. €1100, knocked down from €1150, two double bedrooms, one so gigantic I don't know what to do with it, bathroom with tub, sprawling kitchen fully equipped, fully furnished living room and dining room(two couches, great coffee table, mantlepiece, etc.) safe, in the best neighborhood (right around the corner from the hankered-after Wolfe Tone st. apartment, which, by comparison, is a dump). More later. I'm going up to Belfast with Stephen for the night. Party on.

Less spectacular. Much less. Yesterday I found the apartment. Two double beds, fabulous location, safety, light, etc. Bathtub. It was in renovations, and the only reason the guy agreed to show it to me was because I wouldn't be around when renovations were finished. That means that I have time on my side here; no one else is going to come along and snare it before I do. I said I love it and will be contacting you shortly to let you know if I'd like to sign the lease. I had expected to go see an apartment on that same street later, so I wanted time to compare (the location is the main reason for my enthusiasm; the place is right across the street from a huge toy store). Then, a few hours later, the people from apartment 2 called and said, Oh, whoops, thorry, rented it already. I said Okay, no big deal, and called realtor 1. He was not to be found. I called again that night, left name and number, saw Ultimate mate Dave, pissed around for a while, then went Sparky's house, which I am now inhabiting, and went to bed. Woke up this morning, gave the guy an hour and a half (I couldn't reach him directly, I had to go through the office), and called at 10:30. Not there. Left name and number. Called again an hour and a half later. Left name and number. Called just past two. Was informed he was presently returning back calls. Gave two and a half hours this time and called at 5:30. Left name and number, as well as an explanation of why the hell I was calling so much (largely because my phone is going to die very soon). Haven't called since. If I've not got anything by noon tomorrow, I'm hitting the streets again. This is no fucking way to run a business. It's so easy. I come in, sign my name, bam done. Why is this so damn difficult? Another triumph of Irish engineering.

I was this close. I could have signed the lease right there, a rather large two bedroom with decent sitting room (nice couch, too), a double bed and two singles (which can be pushed together), two floors above a good pub (the bartender was the one showing me the apartment), in a great area, full of commerce, with abundant bus traffic. Unfortunately, the area was Dorset St. Lower, which, after much hand-wringing, Sadie and I (I am here alone; I had to buy a calling card and call Alaska) decided was just too far north. It would be a five-mile schlep for our friends at Halls, and that's too much. You know you would never have made it up there. Plus the ceilings were low. So I backed off at the last second. But I learned something. For the places I'm after, it's first come with money, first served. Having watched my parents vet prospective tenants all my life, having seen them evaluate them on the basis of everything from demeanor to height, I naturally expected that it would be more of a pageant. In this case, if you come in, say, "I'll take it," you get it. The problem is, it's a bit of a gamble. I didn't take the place yesterday (I saw two; the first was wholly uninteresting and more expensive) because it was only the second I'd seen. I'm gambling that there's better and closer out there. If there isn't, I'll call these folks back, but the problem there, of course, is if someone gets to them after seeing all the other options, having decided the Dorset St. flat is the best, then, well, I get the shaft. Which is likely. Though frankly I'd gladly sacrifice square footage for proximity. That's the key. I'm aiming for Parnell St. or Patrick St, though if Camden St. shows up, I might just throw money at it.

I spent last night at the Kinlay house. Slept from 8pm to 10:15, got up, watched the tail end of Beverly Hills cop on the hostel TV, then brushed my teeth and went right back to sleep, despite the best efforts of the guy in the next bunk, who was snoring like a walrus with a gragger stuck in his throat. Tonight, if all goes well, I move into Sparky's. Now I just have to track down Claire.

The other thing is, my phone is now charged. There was enormous panic pre- and in-flight, as my phone had, over the course of the summer, expired, I had no idea with whom I had left my phone charger, and without a phone, this exercise is impossible. I was all set to surrender and buy one for $39.99, but in the Birmingham duty-free, the very helpful salesgirl directed me to an emergency charger, which kept me in juice until I had finished hunting, and could get the people at the hostel to charge it for. Rarely has alternating current so filled my heart with gladness. There was a point yesterday when both iPod and phone were dead and I felt very small and scared. But now both are roaring with power and I am ready for whatever the day may bring. Bebel Gilberto is bopping out Bananeira and meteor is in communication with the satellite, and there is, appallingly, not a cloud anywhere.

...which went unanswered, but which bears featuring. Something tells me he'd appreciate some response:

"Hello world of Horace Mann...it will be strange having your here Sam, glorious and strange. One year of college puts a good decade's worth of distance between you and high school, if you play your cards right, which I know I did...do you need a place to stay Sam?

Can people in general comment in response to this, giving a report of their general mood/how everything has been going for them?"

There is a sense of dawning. Stirrings of new life on this campus. The rugby pitch. It has grass now. It is in fact the loveliest pitch I have seen in my entire life. This is not likely to last. The rugby players will come and tear it to little shreds of turf. But for now, its green glisten and ripple is something to see.

Dublin, on the other hand, has not been covered by a splendid layer of verdance. It remains as gray and tired as ever. Whenever I come home to New York, something has changed. A restaurant, a hardware store, an awning, something to notice and be offended by. Here there is never anything new. It is the same place it was when I came four years ago. In fact, I am spending tonight in the same hostel where I spent my first night in Dublin with the theatre company all those years ago: the Kinlay House. €16 a night, I'm not complaining. I just want my own place. Everything will be perfect.

Good news, though: it turns out that there's no age restriction at duty-free in the states. It occurred to me that in none of the duty-frees is there a sign saying you must be 21, as there is in every off-licence. So I went in and picked me up some really, really cheap quality liquor. Which just made my day. Now it's time to start the hunt.