Welcome to the travel blog of my Irish Journey.
Atlanta traffic made me close my eyes and take a walk under the trees in my back yard. I looked carefully at the flowers blooming in the side bed near the deck. I walked through each area of the yard looking at the grown and thinking how beautiful as Oni, the driver of the black Lincoln, edged his way along the almost still traffic going nowhere. I took a deep breath as the police would not let Oni stop the car in front of the international terminal; they were only allowing the park and ride buses stop. He stopped any way at the very end. An officer yelled at him as we processed my credit card and Oni unloaded my luggage. This was the beginning of a day (though it was 16:00 hours) that would go on for many, many more.
Travel is not fun anymore. Once upon a time we dressed up to travel on a plane. People were nice. Now people wear any and everything. Attendants repeat the same sentence regardless of the question; they might as well be robots or holograms like the ones in the airport outside of London named Holly and Graham, who tell travelers how to disrobe to go through security. The drop bag line took 36 minutes, the security line took another half hour (thank goodness for TSA) and they ran be through 2 checkpoints thanks to my new knees leaving my personal belongings on the conveyor belt 3 lines over. The train lines, the amount of people, all left me stressed and frustrated. But there were good points: the drop bag lady had a nifty little plastic tie to keep my luggage tag from falling off ($1 at Wal-Mart, just say no) and I found an oasis at the piano bar in terminal E. I knew I was in for a treat when she played a melody of George M. Cohen’s songs, all related to Memorial Day. I once got called out in a college social studies class for answering a bonus question on a test for who had contributed most to the American patriotic spirit. I thought everyone knew Cohen had written songs that got the American people through two world wars and earned him the Medal of Honor from the President of the United States. Lyrics of all his songs played in my head as I ate a sandwich and had a glass of wine. Things were better now until two tables over a woman in her mid 40s with keyboard in front of her pushed over a glass of water and in her haste to type, simply moved to the next table with her phone and computer, beer bottle and glass of whiskey, and plate of food. Her mate returned and she gulped down the food swigging on the beer, asking for a box to go, and drying off the bottom of her phone and computer from the spilled water. She ate the sandwich except for 2 bites, rolled those in a paper napkin, grabbed everything and left the mess. Her mate shook the empty box and left it on the table, following in her wake in his much too tight t-shirt advertising a bar from his hometown.
The flight was oversold and 2 people did not have seats. Luckily nothing happened to cause the news to cover and we boarded, took off and settled in. Next to me was a family of 5. Father had retired and was taking his wife and 3 daughters for 10 days to Ireland. The 20 year old Katie sat next to me and was excited beyond words. What was meant as an 8 hour plane ride with food and sleep resulted in bad food, and a child who insisted on screeching every 5 minutes…the…entire…flight. Every plane entering Dublin that morning landed at the same time. The line for customs stretched a half mile down the walkway before even entering the custom’s hall. Normally this would have made me unhappy. A lady beside me saw me smiling and asked why. I told her that I had had both knees replaced and was pleased that my legs did not hurt even without rest, even with the long walk, even with the long standing. She, too, had had one knee replaced and we began to talk. She was with her husband and daughter and we talked through the winding lanes. They were from Rhode Island and were interested in rocks. I mentioned the Blarney Stone, but that was not on their agenda.
Finally I was on my way to the AirCoach. I had my ticket; it was to arrive in 5 minutes. By the time I got my heavy luggage under the coach, I got the last seat in the back of the bus next to a young man from France who was meeting up with friends and a sister doing an internship in Belfast. As the bus puttered through the streets of Dublin, I remembered being here some years ago and the memories were good. At my stop, Talbot Hotel Stillorgan, I was the last on the bus. The driver pulled out my luggage and left it on the sidewalk pointing me to where the hotel was a half block away. It was pouring rain. I had an umbrella and a rain hat but with pulling two suitcases, the umbrella was useless. The short trip to the front of the hotel left me soaked. The room was not ready. I dried off in the ladies room and did the only sensible thing one could do on a journey like this: go into the bar and order a pot of tea. I am now in Ireland.
Leara Rhodes 