Into the West - Emigrating to Ireland

It is a strange twist of fate. Here we have a country which, for most of the last couple of centuries, made a name for itself as as place of hunger, famine, poverty and violence. The almshouse of Europe, it was called. Yet it is this country which, for most of the 1980s, 1990s and 2000s has become an attractive immigration destination, a "Land of Hope and Dreams" to quote Bruce Springsteen. I'm talking about the Celtic Tiger, Ireland, of course.

But why the hell am I talking about Ireland all of a sudden? After all I'm a German living in Germany, am I not? Actually, I'm not anymore, but let's take the whole thing step by step.

The whole thing started in June 2012, when I found an Email in my private mailbox. Nothing surprising there, things like that happen every now and then in this present day and age. This email was different though. It was an Email by a headhunter, and a genuine one at that. I was a bit surprised again. Headhunters normally don't go off after callcenter agents like myself. This one was, though. And for a position in Ireland to boot. This really could be my ticket out of here, I thought. I had no idea who had hired the headhunter, but still I agreed to a telephone interview. That interview really spiked my interested. It turns out that the company behind the headhunter was none other than Apple Inc. They were looking for native german speakers for their tech support hotlines in Cork, Ireland.

Talk about exciting. One of the world's leading tech companies. There was no way I would let this chance pass me by. I mean, how often does a high school dropout get a chance to be hired by a Silicon Valley giant like Apple? The process turned out to be a rather tedious program of one online self test, and two phone interviews. It was not long after that second phone interview that my cell phone rang. I was at work and, in a move that was rather unusual of me, excused myself and answered the phone. It was the headhunter. Apple had made me an offer. It seemed a bit below what I had originally aimed for, but it was still an offer I couldn't refuse, so I agreed. The scream of joy after the phone call was probably heard as far as Apple Headquarters in Cupertino, California. My head was far to small to handle the big grin I had on my face as I walked back into the office.
As the excitement subsided, I realized what I had gotten myself into. I had just about one month to prepare, and that included getting out of my current job. It may sound strange but the job market in Germany is actually quite rigid. It is standard to have to give your employer four week's notice to months end if you are leaving, and if you have to leave earlier, and your employer doesn't agree... well, basically, you're screwed.
I have to say though that my employer, Deutsche Post DHL, especially the on site management in Frankfurt, were more than accomodating, just as they had turned out to be a very good employer over the last five years.
Fast forward to four weeks later. After a hectic preparation period, which included a period of hot weather that didn't help, I found myself closing the door of my apartment, for what would be the last time. My parents had arrived to take me to the airport, which was a godsend, with a total of two trolleys, a heavy laptop bag and a camera bag to lug around. Once again, I found myself at the British Airways counters at Frankfurt Airport, to embark on yet another incredible journey. And once again, I had mixed feelings as I watched my trolley disappear into the nether world of Frankfurt Airports Terminal 2. Would I see it again? After all, this trip involved transferring at London Hellrow, sorry, I mean Heathrow, yet again.

Once again, the British Airways counters at Frankfurt Airport would be the starting point for an incredible journey, the adventure of starting a new life.

However, unlike my previous trip to New York, this time I would not have a return ticket. This was a one way trip. It still felt a bit unreal. All to soon, it was time to say goodbye to my parents. Now I know how it must have felt like for those thousands of emigrants sayin goodbye to their loved ones at the docks in Southampton, at the Columbuskaje and the Steubenhöft, the two major emigration facilities in Germany, or even the quays of Queenstown, near my future hometown of Cork. And make no mistake, even the blessings of modern communication would not be able to completely bridge the gap wich was about to open up.
Still, though I presume that my parents were churning inside much as I was, there was none of the drama that one associates with leaving for a new country. I had after all made similar jumps a few times before in my life. This was just my first real solo. 
I made my way airside, and even had time for a nice lunch before boarding. After all, as bad as LHR can be, it is even worse on an empty stomach. Boarding my flight was announced not a moment to soon. I was just ready to get on with it.

A Speedbird Tail on the ramp in Frankfurt. Would that plane take me to London?

Looks like it. No other British Airways planes on the tarmac.

These chairs really help you relax before heading to your gate.

This is it... leaving Germany

British Airways were pretty much how I remembered them: Good staff, horrible aircraft. I really would like to know how BA can make a ten year old aircraft seem twenty or more years old from the inside. The crew was top-notch though, especially the cockpit crew. We were delayed on the ground for some time as we had a no-show, whose luggage had to be unloaded before we could continue. Furthermore, the APU of our plane, an Airbus A319 for those who want to know, was busted, which meant that the air conditioning was out of business. On the plus side, there were only 67 other passengers onboard.
After what seemed like an eternity, we were pushed back, the engines were started, and we began our "pilgrimage" to Runway 18 at Frankfurt, which was just about at the other end of the airport. Once there, we had to hold for another fifteen minutes to give the wheelbrakes time to cool down. Lufthansa and Turkish Airlines were sent out ahead of us. Then it was our time. We lined up, and the throttles were pushed to takeoff power. As we started racing down the runway, I just couldn't hold it back anymore. The stress of the last weeks, the goodbyes from parents, friends, and family, all that came to the surface, and tears rolled down my face as we climbed into the summer air over Germany.
About ten minutes after takeoff, the tears had been replaced by a wide smile as I enjoyed the smooth flight and empty aircraft. I also tried my hands at a bit of air-to-ground photography with the new camera I had gotten as a birthday present. The results were, well, see for yourself.

The Moselle - Ugly memories of teutonic wine romanticism rear their  head here.

Büchel AB, home of the last nuclear weapons in Germany. Speaking of nukes, I'll have two please.

Feet dry over the english North Sea coast.

Pretty soon, we began our approach to London Heathrow. The moment we entered the clouds, the turbulence began. What followed from now to touchdown was some of the worst shaking I have ever experienced in an aircraft. Yep, it really was that bad. I was really glad when we touched down.

Birds of a feather flock together. I guess in this case, we're talking about Speedbirds.

Once on the ground and parked, the part which I had feared most began, transferring at London Heathrow. The first part, the transfer from Terminal 5 to Terminal 1, actually went pretty smoothly, and I was in the lounge at Terminal 1 within 45 Minutes. That's when the hassle started. As usual for BAA managed Airports, Passengers are forced to wait in the lounge until boarding starts, and of course, there are not enough seats, so passngers are more or less forced into the retail outlets or food places, so that the operators can take every last dime of you. Another thing came in here that made the situation even more unpleasant, though I am unsure how much blame BAA actually deserve for this
Ireland-Bound flights are apparently handled by this one special Pier of Terminal 1, separate from any other departures. I guess this is a relic from the times of the Troubles, and a security measure. The passport and security checkpoint on the way to the gate indicate that. Still, the whole affair extended the time it took to the Gate, and by the time I got there, the final boarding call was going around. Furthermore, due to the strict hand luggage policy of Aer Lingus, the Airline that would take me to Cork, my white trolley had to disappear into the hold of the new aircraft.
Speaking of aircraft, the Airbus A320 that would take me to Cork was a special one, a retrojet, the likes of which many airlines use to celebrate their more or less proud heritage. This particular one carried the markings of an Aer Lingus plane from the 1960s. As with all planes from this airline, this one was named after a Saint, St. Colman in this case, an important figure from the early days of Irish Christianity.

This flight was almost the exact opposite of my flight to London. While that flight had been on an old, but relatively empty aircraft, this one was exactly the other way around. The aircraft, St. Colman, was brand new, it even had that new airplane smell to it, but it was also packed. From my perspective, it looked like all 182 Seats were full.
With that load, and no chance to get either my tablet or my camera, it looked like a long flight. There wasn't even any scenery to look at, clouds closed in immediately after takeoff. We stayed above the cloud cover most of the time as we made our way westward. Final approach to Cork was once again in the clouds, though there was much less turbulence this time. However, as we made our way downward, I noticed something else on the windows, rain. Great. My Jacket was safe and dry in one of my trolleys. I mean, I've been to Ireland before, I should have known.
Touchdown in Cork was hard, braking was brutal. Both is just about the right thing, considering the runway was half as long as in Heathrow, it was wet, and we landed in a crosswind. 
The airport in Cork was a welcome contrast to the megahubs in London and Frankfurt. Only one jetway, and we ignored that. disembarking was via airstairs. I only have one question: How can it be that a suitcase needs more than 45 minutes from the hold to the luggage belt when the aircraft is parked right outside, not even 200 meters away?
Anyway, having won the luggage roulette, the next goal was to get to the hostel. I was in no mood to try my luck with the bus, so I took a taxi to my hostel, Kinlay House in the Shandon area of Cork. The hostel itself was a throwback to my boarding school days in Austria, as far as the feel and vibe of the place were concerned. As far as the location is concerned, the place is pretty much ideal.
The city itself is in equal parts small town and metropolis, Old Europe and New World, settled elegance and youthful madness, subdued elegance and in-your-face brashness. To bring it all down to one point: This place is alive.

Patrick Street, Cork. It isn't just the citys main shopping streets, but also one of Corks main  thoroughfares. I don't think I have to say much about the traffic.

See what I mean?

Looking up the North Channel of the River Lee towards Gurranabraher. The hills and the river are two of the reasons that all traffic has to flow along several restricted corridors, creating an absolute nightmare of a traffic situation.

Here we're looking along the South channel. The straight street dead ahead is the South Mall, home to the financial heart of Cork.

The south channel doesn't remain navigable for long. At low tide,  it looks more like a mountain stream. The church in the background is St Finn Barrs Cathedral, the historic heart of Cork.

Talk about turning swords into plowshares. That bollard is actually a cannon. And bollard is actually  quite the right turn, considering that's what it was actually used for. You see, the Street where this thing sits, Grand Parade, was once the eastermost limit of the old town, and a waterway. The eastern side of Grand Parade, was part of the city docks.

Opera Lane. That's where the the money is. The orange building in  the background is Crawford Art Gallery. We'll talk about that a bit later.

Emmet Place, now home of the Cork Opera, used to be a dockyard. I guess that shows how much maritime trade used to be the lifeblood of the city.

This building is another example of the maritime heritage.  What is today the Crawford Art Gallery  started out as a customs house at the nearby Emmet Place docks. It is not known how many artworks inside were actually confiscated by customs during their tenure there...

Cork is a pretty one-dimensional city? Yeah right. Outside the Lee Valley and some tributaries,  hills force much of the development and traffic along a small number of restricted corridors, as seen by this look at Shandon. By the way, my hostel is just at the foot of the church tower in the center.

Old vs. New - You'll find this type of contrast all over Cork. Not all of it dates back to the economic boom during the early 2000s, a large part of the city was destroyed during the Burning of Cork by British Loyalists during the Irish War of Independence in the early 1920s.

What was that about contrast?

While Patrick Street is definitely the main shopping street,  it is firmly in the  hands of  large high-street chains like Marks + Spencer, or Debenhams. Oliver Plunkett Street, on the other hand is still dominated by small shops and local companies. It is more often not even busier than Patrick Street, if that is possible.

Of course, not all that glitters is Gold. That goes for Cork as well. All of Ireland has been hit pretty hard by the double punch of the Global Financial Crisis and then the Euro Crisis. And, although studies by Swiss Universities have now shown that the downgrading dealt to Ireland by the global rating agencies was neither deserved, nor backed up by facts, the country was plunged back into a dark past most people had already relegated to the history books. Even here in Cork, one of the better-of areas of the country, the unemployment rate is at 15%, and poverty is pretty evident in the streets. Districts like Gurranabraher and Knocknaheeny can rightly be considered ghettos.
Still, the situation is improving again, and with Apple and other companies are restaffing, and indeed expanding their operations in Cork. All in all, the future is, well not exactly bright and shiny, but at least brighter than the last couple of years.