Texts from my Personal Blog: a very informal way to tell stories about my time abroad in Ireland (www.dcartolina.blogspot.com)

Sweet Tragedies of a Different Trip

I look at the microwaves. It sets 8:50 PM. In Brazil, according to the time zone, it must be 4:50 AM, I think. I think because is the only thing left for me to do in this huge apartment where (for now), I live alone. The TV doesn’t work, there is no radio, no computer and I don’t even know my neighbours yet. The idea of living in Ireland, that seemed to be so much fun at beginning, starts with small tragicomedies that wouldn’t be so interesting without being written.

The first inconvenience, as already mentioned, was the television. Yes, exactly. That object that we despise so much, is the one I miss most at this particular moment in my life.

I press all the buttons, check the outlet, try the remote and nothing! It just doesn’t work.

I regret to inform (to me anyway) that TV has become a mere detail when I had the bright idea to heat water to make a "coffee". After all, I'm alone in the apartment, I have no television and I (still) don’t feel like drinking.

As I decided to make some coffee, as usual, I put some water inside the kettle and put it on the stove to heat it. I already start to imagine the taste of warm coffee inside my mouth. I would really like to feel the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen, but my imagination is not strong enough to disguise the smell of burning that enters in my nostrils.

God damn it! The kettle was an electric one. I quickly turn off the heat, but the plastic is already all melted on the stove. My God! I have never seen an electric kettle in my whole life! But the best part is yet to come... I look behind my door and I see a “very nice” note that says: “Any damage caused will be charged at this apartment dweller”. Well I won’t get too much into details about the price because I prefer to forget about this for a moment.

And this is all because I am telling you only part of what has happened to me. I have still left aside a broken outlet, two burnt fingers and a thong which served as a rubber band to hold a small lever that makes the bath water come through the shower, not the bathtub.

But on the other hand, what would happen to this text if it wasn’t for these events? What would I do without a paper and I pen in that moment of my life when I have no television, no computer and, just to make it complete, I am far away from my family and my friends? There is nothing left to do besides thinking and writing.

At the end of my writing I look again at the microwaves. It keeps setting 8:50 PM. What great news: the microwaves clock is also broken.

Finger Happy Meal

And how it would say the old expression, go to Ireland and lose your finger! Ok, of course nobody would do such a nonsense. However, it seems that my not so sober conscience in a Saturday night has decided to take literally the adage that have I just invented.

Let´s start from the beginning…

Even though I am still unemployed and have already gone through some "misfortunes" of life in Ireland, nothing would be more ironically funny than to go out on a Saturday night for fun with friends and end up literally feeling as an end of night can be very painful.

Everything went well while I was holding a glass of beer with my five lovely fingers. Yes, I had never given so much value to my fingers like in that night, specifically for the index finger of my right hand, the one I miss so much right now to write this paper.

In a bar, normally, the process works more or less like this: you drink beer, beer quickly goes to your mind, goes even faster to your bladder, you go to the bathroom, use the toilet, and take back one more beer. But if you are already a bit too excited because maybe this time the beer decided to climb faster to your mind than to your bladder, things may not happen so simply.

At some point of my rambling thoughts while leaving the bathroom, I let my right index finger positioned exactly in the most dangerous place: the gap between the door and the wall. Those few seconds that I had to remove my finger from the gap, before the door was closed, were forgotten right there, and there was also left my finger.

Bad words in Portuguese, drunk tears and a tap with a lot of running water on a purple, swollen and extremely sore finger, is all I can remember of that "unforgettable" moment. At this point, after almost an hour in the bathroom, all my friends thought I had decided to do all possible and impossible needs right there in the toilet of the bar. But to their surprise, there I show up, after a long time, with big crying face, ready to go.

The night that seemed so much fun, turned out to be only funny for those who have not felt the pain of a crushed finger.
After all the explanations of what happened, I finish my night at the nearest McDonald's, making the strangest order in whole my life: a cup of ice to stick a swollen finger that now bears the affectionate nickname of Finger Happy Meal!

The Delicious World inside the Gyms

The time has come. There is no way to hide any more. My arms and cheeks become chubbier and the old excuse of shrinking clothes doesn’t help any more. After almost seven months living in Ireland there is no way to deny the extra pounds that clearly appears in front of the mirror and in front of people’s eyes. Even with a loose shirt to disguise here and a big coat to hide there, there is no escape, it's time to go to the gym.

After you take the initiative, first appears the whole idea of excitement. New gym pants, a tight top to give you that upgrade you need and let’s go to the gym. At the beginning, everything looks cool, you begin to feel thinner after the first class. Yes, what works in the first week is the psychological effect, women love those things. But no one getting lazy, now I have started to pay the gym, I have to go every day.

Come on people – yells the trainer – one, two, we'll burn calories, do not give up!

After the fifth day it starts to hurt in your ear. Is every damn day: come on people do not give up, just once more, only five more times, only 89 more times, now faster, faster, faster!

Ahh! It gets even stranger because everything is in English and there are some times that everything sounds really confusing: come on! Go faster, to the left side, to the right side, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze ... What the fuck the squeeze? Does he want me to smash something? Maybe hitting? Oh my God, even my English failure at this time.

Now everybody lie on the floor, 50 abs, hold up there one time, force, force, force.

Oh my God! Am I in the Army? Please stop yelling in my ear, damn it! Yeah, its a great time for swearing when you are at the gym, its also a great time for crying! Ahhh! Why do I have to have a tendency to be chubby? Maybe if I stop eating chocolate, or perhaps if I start to take Activia every day ... All of the dumbest ideas comes to your mind at these times.

Lengthening time comes. So happy I am, the class is about to finish! 45 minutes of suffering to burn around 200 calories. So much chocolate over the weekend and the last hour you have spent at the gym can only burn a mere cereal bar that you ate before the class. I really love gym!

Now for the stretch, breath control – says the trainer – inspire as it rises, falls when expires.

What? Do you think by now I'm able to control my breathing? Actually I don’t even know how I'm still breathing, Jesus! Please finish that torture now! Even stretching is complicated, I can not stand it anymore, stop it, ahhhhh!

And finally we are finished, another day of workouts and a lot of "joy". I feel pain all over my body, everything now is sweat and tiredness, but nothing will take off my pleasure of coming home and eating a huge bar of chocolate. After all, what is the gym for?