I'm a European Citizen!

A good few years ago now, an American friend, living in Munich, explained how he had recently travelled to Barcelona and stocked up on his favourite red wine. Checking in for his return flight, the Spanish airline attendant informed him that he was 23kg over his 20kg allowance (wine bottles, however carefully wrapped, are quite heavy) and that he would have to pay an excess fee. My friend paid no fee and removed none of the bottles. "How did you get away with it?" I asked. He said "I told her in a loud voice that I was an American citizen and that in the US, 43kg was no problem". He asked her why he was being discriminated against. He demanded a manager be summoned to explain why he was being treated like a criminal. In short, he made a big fuss.

My friend told me this story with a smile. He's not usually an awkward customer but he had travelled a long way to get this wine and he wasn't letting it go easily. He explained that he was taking advantage of many european's prejudices that all americans are mouthy, loud people who have no hesitation in making a scene when they feel that they have gotten a bad deal. In this case the check-in attendant didn't want such a scene and my friend & wine made it onto the flight.

That story (which I hope my memory hasn't subverted) has stayed in my head for nearly ten years. Spending some time in the States allows me to experience some of the different ways of approaching and carrying out everyday tasks. I've been caught out a few times already and have felt the temptation to exclaim - "I am a European citizen and we do things differently!". In an ideal world, this would afford me some respect and slack from my American hosts.

For example, the other day rushing to get a rental car back on-time, I pulled in to get some petrol and had extraordinary difficulty operating the petrol pump. It didn't help my mojo that this pump appeared to have clear, very simple, instructions on a little LCD screen. I thought I followed them but one small detail was missing - the nossle is surrounded by a hose that must vacuum-seal around the tank opening before any petrol will come out. In I went to the shop attendant, "the pump on number 6 doesnt work", I explained. Out he came, followed the same instructions, clamped the nossle to the car and out came the petrol. "There you go", he said but in his eyes I could see he doubted that I was of an intelligence to be trusted with car keys. Had I more confidence, I would have explained my European citizenry to him and watched as his respect for me was re-established. Alas, the opportunity slipped by.

Watch out for the Ewoks

More about those Ewoks later. Yesterday was a day for sight-seeing in Marin County, north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Before we could go anywhere, we needed a car and Avis kindly obliged. In a moment of weakness, I agreed to hear a pitch to join their membership program. The good. A kind man with a deep voice and a rich southern accent spoke with me. The bad. He was reading a script that took a very long time to read with no breaks. The good. After agreeing to a trial membership at $1/month and giving him my date of birth, he twigged it was my birthday and said "Well golly, gosh Mr. Moran, its your birthday. Many happy returns." The bad. One easily hooked Irish-man signed up right there.

So, a compact car powering us, we crossed the bridge and stopped at the Lighthouse Cafe in Sausalito for a coffee and a bit of grub. I watched the cook make my 3-egg omellette with hot italian sausage, spinage, mushroom and onion, and the result was a thing of beauty. Crossing the street to settle the bellies we strolled through a couple of Sausalito's many marinas. There are a lot of live-one houseboats moored here with a variety of styles.

On and up and around some twisty bends to see the giant redwoods of Muir Woods National Park. The trees grow tall and straight dwarfing humans staring at them from below. Being a Monday, the crowds were small and once off the main trail, there was a great sense of quiet with just the gurgling of the creeks below. The reference to the Ewoks above comes from George Lucas using an almost identical forest in Redwood National Park, Northern California to shoot the Ewok scenes on the Moon of Endor for Star Wars, The Return of the Jedi. I saw that movie as an 11 year old in the Ambassador cinema in Dublin and in my head, I could hear the sounds of the storm troopers lasers zinging through the trees.

More fine photos available at Knud's flickr photo collection.

What do I have to do to get a drink around here?

Before saying anything else, I know that bars in the US rigourously enforce ID checking before serving alcohol to anyone. American friends have told me that you could hobble in with a zimmerframe, a grey beard down to your toes and a fresh-faced barman might still have a nagging doubt that you had reached the legal age. Armed with this information and despite the fact that two day's short of my 34th birthday most observers would suspect my early 20's were well behind me, I always carry my new shiny standard EU model driving license around with me when I'm out of a night in the States.

It's easy to guess what's coming next. My Stanford flatmate, Knud, and I wandered into Palo Alo last night looking for a beer to accompany our conversation on sorting out world problems. Our first port was the Gordon Biersch micro-brewery (fancy website here) and we lost no time finding two fine, comfortable stools right at the bar. "ID please" said the fresh-faced barman. "No problem" sez I, brandishing with a flourish my recently-renewed driving license. And that's when we came to the problem.

He squinted at the license, first holding it close to his nose. Then, as if it gave off a particularly nastly smell, he shrivelled up his face staring at the document from arm's length and said, with scorn reserverd for those he knows are trying to trick him, "I don't recognise this document, have you got a real identification". "No, thats it", said I. "I'll have to check with a manager", says he. Two minutes later he's back and, with much disdain, informs me that he could not accept "this piece of paper" and consequently he would not serve me a beer.

You dont need to read the details of my reaction. Still being sober as a judge, I politely acknowledged the problem but requested to see a manager. He said that he in fact was a manager etc., etc., etc. No luck. Then the walk of shame as we leave our comfy stools and head for the door, beerless.

This is Palo Alto, the town that serves Stanford University. The guy behind the bar is most likely a student himself. My driving license is (one of) the official driving license models for the European Union, not just Ireland. The reason they gave for not accepting it - "this is just a piece of paper". They may as well have added - "how can we take that crazy pink piece of paper seriously". Maybe the folks at Gordon Biersch had never seen a European driving license. Maybe I was the first guy to present them with this crazy pink thing. Who knows? No problem. But the bizarre image of the barman staring with scorn at the license, as if it personally offended him lingers. Zero for customer service. Zero for common sense. In total, a big zero for the Gordon Biersch micro brewery in Palo Alto from Matt, the youthful-looking, Irishman abroad.

Happy ending: we went across the street to the Rose and Crown (reviewed here) and without any fuss had our few pints, solved a few minor and major world problems, before toddling home.

View from Stanford

Hard to believe that so much time has passed since my first and only post. Here I am in Stanford University on student exchange until the end of August. Its hot and I am feeling the heat physically and mentally. Crunch time is here for completion of my PhD Thesis and I am lining up the cards to see how best the material I have can be organised into a coherent whole.

I was inpsired to return to this Blog after a random conversation on the prevalence of (non-malevolent) cursing in Ireland. I curse quite a bit, I suppose, but usually the tone is soft which in Ireland is intended to take out the sting. Anyway, this lead me to take a quick look on the Web for other's experience of cursing in Ireland and I found Joy's blog here.

Its always interesting to see an outside view on your home place and even though I raised an eyebrow or two at some of her experiences, it is an entertaining read.

You have to start somewhere

My first blog entry.
Coming from my kitchen in Innsbruck waiting to catch a bus to a plane to Crete for a 3 day workshop on Semantic Web. I see the value of Blogs but it will take some time to get used to the idea of publishing my thoughts in such a public way.

So Innsbruck. Its very pretty and the people are friendly even wenn Sie fast kein Wort Deutsch sprechen koennen. You should come here to visit. Enjoy the mountain air. Stroll around the old town - a small network of cobbled streets. Hit the Elferhaus bar (almost under the goldenes Dachl) for a Wiesenberger beer.

The town is set up for a short break with the Innsbruck card. It covers most entry-fees and all the buses that you need to take. The highlights are the Bergisel for the ski-jump, the Hungerberg-bahn for breathtaking views and the Alpine Zoo. Just watch out for the bears. Come in April and you can combine some glacier skiing with the spring sports. Come in May or June and enjoy the weather.