So we came back early from Killarney because Tobie has a man cold.
Since I had a car at my disposal I figured I'd use my time wisely and go to the welfare office and apply for a PPS number (the equivalent of a social security number). Yes. I'd rather spend my afternoon languidly, doing something vacation-y like read my book...or worst case scenario...productive like writing one of my [insert plethora of cuss words here] papers. But no, I will be a responsible adult and get the PPS.
First of all I had the wrong address, parked in some random alley because I was so shooken up from a near fender bender, and then was given classic Irish directions*, "go tru the alley, turn at de cathedral, past the old hotel and it's there on de left".
There appears to be both a cathedral and old hotel on every corner in this country.
Ok, so that is 2.5 hours of my life I will never get back. No PPS**.
I thought I'd cheer myself up by getting some groceries to make a delicious soup. Cooking always clears my head...forgetting of course that this is the day before Good Friday (i.e. the only day of the year that the 24h Dunnes is closed--actually). After getting rammed by a shopping cart and almost pushed over by a lady with a determined look in her eye and pickled beets in her hand, I settled into the shortest line I could find.
Yes. Things were looking up. Soup. As I was about to place my items on the counter the lady in front of me knocked over a giant jar of mayonnaise thus closing the til.
I should have stayed at home and chosen languid and vacation-y.
*There is a fairly strong anti-immigration sentiment here in Ireland. Especially because many Irish (wrongly) believe that the immigrants arrive and then go on welfare. So I was a little hesitant to ask that many passing pedestrians where the "welfare office" was with my foreign accent. Especially if you saw the part of town I was searching in. Let's just say lots of neck tattoos and broken bottles.
**Which once again makes me have the ultimate respect for immigrants that do not speak the language in their new country. Ok. I am fluent in English and have, oh 7 years of university under my belt and was almost having a crying fit on the street corner today in frustration. Here is to wanting to shake hands and congratulate every person I ever see who has started a new life in a different country.