I’ve always had a strange obsession with doors. There’s something so comforting about a well constructed door. I’ve leased a good number of apartments in my past solely based on the allure of their front door. It can’t be helped. I love them. Or at least I did until I moved to Dublin where, among various other setbacks, doors are the devil. They have become my nemesis; actively working against me wherever possible. Side stepping the fact that I got stuck inside my flatmate’s Mini Cooper only an hour after setting foot on Irish soil because I couldn’t figure out how to open a standard car door, I have become a walking embarrassment on a daily basis due to the entrances and exits of everyday buildings.
Cut to my first official day in Dublin. I awoke feeling renewed, refreshed, and ready to embark on a day of exploration. I have arrived, my dear city! It is time to open your gates, and allow me to flood your streets with all the eagerness and blind hope of a fair maiden voyager, setting sail on the waves of her newly discovered territory! Except that I couldn’t open the front door. Or the back door. For fifteen minutes I ran back and forth from each, adamant that it could not be humanly possible to lock yourself inside your own house, while the doors continued to stand unopened, mocking me with windows gleaming light from the outside world. On the verge of kicking the smug and merciless doors down, defeat took hold and lead me storming back into my room where I would spend the next forty-five minutes pouting and looking longingly out my sealed window, at a world I truly believed I would never again be a part of; air that I would never breathe, and rain that would never fall down cheeks that would never be kissed by the wind. Except now I was hungry and the empty bag of prawn cocktail crisps staring at me from my desk was enough to make me dig a tunnel with a spoon, if that’s what it was going to take to get me to freedom. I figured it out, anyway. Who turns a handle upways!?! Down. A handle is always pressed down, for God sake.
And then there was the next day, when I tried to obtain a library card from the incredibly large and very modern lexicon down the road. This building was advanced, and had sliding doors. I happened to stand on the wrong end of said sliding door, thus preventing the censor from allowing me entry. After an embarrassing four minutes of standing in front glass doors that refused to move, I assumed, despite the opening times on the unopenable doors, that the library was, for some reason or another, closed (ignoring the fact that I could clearly see people inside, and they could clearly see me awkwardly standing there, staring at them and not entering the building). Once again accepting defeat, I walked away. After ten minutes, I realized I had walked away in the wrong direction and had to turn back. As the library came into view, I watched two people enter, and one exit from the very same doors that denied me entry.
Fuck sake, Chelsea.
I have a library card now. It’s super pretty. I found another entrance that has a revolving door. I avoid it at all costs for fear that once in it, I will revolve myself to death.
In a way, my attempt to settle in this city is somewhat mirrored by my recent door predicament; though it seems like it’s where I’m meant to be, it hasn’t been easy to get inside. If I had any inkling that fitting in over here after living in England would be a breeze, I had it bitch slapped right outa me the minute I hit the streets. And the theory that having previously dated one of their own kind for an entire year, I would have some kind of shoe in, was bullshit. I’m a foreigner. A loud, invasive, job stealing, over enunciating foreigner who no one understands, and certainly doesn’t find remotely funny.
It had been just over a week since I had moved, and the ever growing feeling of being the odd man out was starting to get to me. Every time I opened my giant trap I felt an instant disconnect from whomever was around. Even my bowels couldn’t seem to cope with my new environment. My pooping cycle became horrendous and digesting anything without feeling like I had swallowed half of the island’s air supply along with it proved an impossible feat. I missed home, I missed my London friends, I missed my mom. I kept quiet (apart from my incessant flatulence), avoided people, and mostly just sat alone by the sea, contemplating life while listening to Damien Rice-- the only Irishman I can always count on to love me unconditionally. But as most things go with yours truly, I quickly became bored with my self pity and decided to suck it up, brave the tough, Irish “charm”, and get a goddamn job. I had my eyes set on a tiny little cafe inside an old church that had been transformed into a Maritime Museum, but straying from my usual “all eggs in one basket” approach, I decided to distribute my CV to the masses. Each place I waltzed into, my endearingly oversized smile beaming from ear to ear, was more curt, and abrasive than the last, until finally something in me snapped.
The place was called Harry’s Cafe. His name was Derek. Derek is a dick. Upon handing over my CV from across the bar, Derek tried to make me feel small, and stupid, and spoke to me in a manner that not even a child who shoves pennies up their nose with the opened end of a felt tip marker should be spoken to. I was so taken aback by his reaction to me that I was rendered speechless, a very rare and dumbfounding experience. I left feeling overwhelmed with emotions; angry, offended, but most of all completely and utterly discouraged. I walked back to the seaside and let my tear ducts add a few more gallons of salty water to the ocean, then returned to the safety of my single bed where I remained for the rest of the day, clutching my stuffed sheep, and only friend, Clamato, and googling the potential repercussions of being discovered and charged as an illegal immigrant in the UK. I fell asleep thinking about all the people in the world that would love to have me as their employee and woke up even more pissed off and raring to rectify my mistreatment. It was a Tuesday, and Derek, sitting window side knee deep in important, and probably cooked paperwork, didn’t have a clue what was about to burst into his subpar cafe, verbal guns blazing. I dropped firmly in the seat beside him, looked directly at the balding spot on his head (his eyes were glued to his laptop screen) and spoke, my voice shaking with pent up anger and adrenaline.
“Derek.” Our eyes met. If mine could have, they would have burned his retinas clean from the googly balls inside his oddly shaped skull. He removed his glasses, as if encouraging me to try.
“I have come to take back my CV.” At this I narrowed my eyes, and cocked my head slightly to the right, for effect.
“Alright.” His response was indifferent, but I knew I had him sweating. He walked to the back of the bar, pulled it down from a board covered in what I assumed were the employment histories of countless other poor, jobless and unsuspecting victims such as myself, and returned to the table, placing it carelessly in my sweaty and vibrating palm.
“You know, despite what you may think, it wouldn’t kill you to be a nicer person.” This time he was the one to cock his head. It was on.
“It isn’t easy putting yourself out there, trying to find employment, especially in a new city, and treating someone as poorly as you did, who is only trying to make a life for themselves, is incredibly unnecessary, and really shows a lack of character on your part. And while I would hope that you don’t treat your customers or fellow staff in the manner by which you treated me, I certainly do not wish to risk finding out. So I will be taking my CV, and my potential business-- which could have been a lot! I am a writer! I sit in cafes for hours at a time!-- and will not be returning!”
It seemed I had stunned him into a blank expression, almost as if he wasn’t phased by what I had to say. But he was. I could tell I’d shaken him to his very core when he finally replied,
“Alright then. It’s a really cool place here but suit yourself.”
“Ya, well, I’m a really cool girl! But you’ll never get the chance to find that out now, will you?! No you won’t. Good luck, Derek.”
And off I strutted, slamming full force into the door that clearly read pull and not push.
After that, I realized that only I am responsible for what it is I take from this city, and I’m never one to take things lying down. If I was to make it in this bizarre and ruthless town, I’d have to grow a thicker skin and laugh in the face of that which might otherwise dehydrate me through an excessive amount of fallen tears. Once I decided to accept and not expect, Dublin began to shed its rough, outer shell, and all its doors suddenly swung wide open. The next day I was given teaching work at a dance studio. and two days after that, the Maritime Cafe that held a select few, though the most precious, of my divided eggs, offered me a job. Even my intestines untied the knots that they had so callously inflicted upon me and I began to poop in a respectable fashion once again. I spent the remainder of my last week of unemployment exploring the city in a whole new light. And I’ll be damned, did it look good. Don’t get me wrong, Dublin’s still a hard-edged bitch. I think I’m just slowly starting to discover how to manage her frequent mood swings, and stubborn unpredictability. Or maybe she, like most I've encountered in my lifetime, has just resigned herself to the fact that Chelsea will get her way, regardless of what fight one might put up, and has given in to the idea of us sharing our lives together for the forseeable future...
