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| Guinness on my Compass: January 2000 - "Europa" |
Greetings! Gav here. Whether by accident or intent you’ve stumbled across my homepage. As I write this I still have no idea what awaits me on the road ahead. Maybe I’m bent over my sister’s computer in London, hoping to swiftly recover from the mother of all Millennium hangovers and trying to reconstruct what the hell happened over the festivities. Maybe I’m sitting at my desk in Turin looking at all the work that’s going to be dumped on the poor sod who has to take over from where I left off. Or maybe (and I like this one) I’m sitting in a cyber café in Dublin, my hometown, mulling over a pint of Guinness and reviewing my various lists to check that I have all the necessary travel clothes, medicines, CDs and flight tickets. My arms might even be smarting from the last of my vaccinations. Wherever I am you can rest assured on two things: one, I haven’t yet left Europe and two, I’m getting increasingly anxious about my decision to jack in my job and head off to Africa and Australasia. Funny, because if I’d to give advice on the subject to someone else, I’d tell them to "go for it". Phrases like "If you don’t do it, you’ll regret it when you’re sixty" or "It’s now or never" would seem appropriate. But when you are the person who needs convincing, it’s never that straightforward. |
| Guinness on my Compass: January 2000 - "Soapbox" |
I suppose I should say a word on why the hell I feel the need to pack in a well paid safe job working for the EU and hit the road in the first place. To be honest, leaving the office itself will be a doddle. I’ve always loved Europe and I imagine I could be called an "integrationist" or "federalist" or whatever label Eurosceptics like to attach to those of us who have lived in different continental countries and have liked the resulting international mix. But I’ve had enough of European public administration, its needless bureaucracy, people who put procedures before policy and managers whose major concern is not to rock the boat and retire on a nice fat pension. I know I sound like I’m mouthing off from my soapbox, but I’m not one to hold my tongue on matters I hold dear and the web is as good a forum as I know to really speak one’s mind without fear of censorship or censure. And seeing so many committed and talented colleagues leaving disillusioned or trying to battle on despite the demotivation, brought about in no small part by the indifference of their bosses, really pisses me off. I mean, we’re talking about people whose annual salary probably exceeds the GDP of several African states. Or to borrow the title from one of Fela Kuti’s classic tracks, we be talking ‘bout "Expensive Shit". Don’t get me wrong – I like a nice hefty pay packet as much as the next man (can’t feed my ever expanding CD appetite without one), but the amount one earns, whatever one’s profession, should at least bear some relation to one’s usefulness. Otherwise, it’s a needless waste of human resources and potential. If we’re not careful such short sighted individuals will ruin the whole process of integration for everybody, not just for those of us who believe that Europe should mean more than a cushy lifetime job on the Brussels gravy train. Please feel free to take a moment, raise you’re left arm and clench your gloved fist if you can relate at all to what I’m saying and feel in any way similar. |
| Guinness on my Compass: January 2000 - "Snappers" |
Anyway, now that the politics are out of the way (always good to drop a "little bit of politics", as English comedian, Ben Elton, would say, into the mix) I can deal with the hard part about leaving Turin. I know there will be times when I’m stuck in some hole in the middle of Africa without a soul to talk to and I’ll wish I was back playing footie with the lads or back with my mates sinking pints of stout in "Dan Donnelly’s" or going bananas on vodka and Red Bull in the "Six Nations" or "givin’ it some of that" at 3am in the murazzi. Four years is a fare chunk of one’s life (it’s nearly one seventh of mine in any case) and I hope that the many friendships I’ve made in Italy will stand the test of time. Touring Turin’s Irish bars on the St. Patrick’s Day Pub Golf tour, overindulging on seafood pasta in Venice, wine drinking in Le Langhe, snowboarding and overdosing on caramel vodka in Zermatt, housewarming parties, world parties, toga parties, bad taste parties and of course my farewell "Yellow Feeva" bash – there’s been a lotta good times had since I arrived in this neck of the woods in February ’96. Plus, though its ill tempered motorists and ineffectual quasi-Soviet bureaucrats at times drive me completely up the wall, Italy is pretty much an amazing place and finding anywhere else, which provides one with such endless lifestyle possibilities, won’t be an easy task. But despite the fact that we managed to fit over 120 people into our flat on Via Napione for "Yellow Feeva", the Torinese scene just ain’t what it was. As I said earlier, many friends just had their fill of all the crap going on around them in work and headed off to the horizon. "Big up yourselves" as Ali G. would say! Others put their energies into their private lives, got hitched and low and behold, nine months later a plethora of "snappers" ensued. The mad bashes till four in the morning gradually gave way to early evening dinner parties. So eventually my turn came to make the decision between planting roots or uprooting myself de nouveau, between the choices of procreation or emigration. I opted for the latter. True, the baby option was never really on the cards, not having a steady girlfriend (and no – that’s not some desperate plea for loads of e-mails from eligible young ladies). Although, if a group of fit female stagiaires from Stockholm really want to write to me, I’m not exactly going to complain! |
| Guinness on my Compass: January 2000 - "Now Boarding" |
Anyway enough digression and blather. Frills and spills await! What follows is all a consequence of that choice I made, and when you next hear from me, I should be somewhere in Morocco, head stuck in my Lonely Planet guidebook and getting busy practising some pidgin Arabic. If you want to write (and if you’ve got this far that’s a promising sign), then drop us a line at the following e-mail address: gavin_doyle_ie@yahoo.com
Oh yeah, I almost forgot – why Africa? Well, I’ll say this for it for starters, it’s not Europe. Later. |
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