And So It Begins

We’ve been in Ireland for over twelve hours and already it’s been an adventure.  Hell, it was an adventure

getting here.  Let’s start with that.

I shouldn’t share all of this crap because it’ll give you ammunition in future arguments, but when I dish dirt, I dish it on everyone involved, not just those around me.  I know I come out of this looking like a dufus, but I don’t care.  I’m in Ireland and nothing else matters.

We rented a car and drove to Miami’s crazy zoo of an airport.  That was fairly uneventful except for making an ass of myself at the gas station.  I didn’t know which side of the car held the tank.  Hell, I’ve seen people make that mistake with the car they drive every day.  Lauren and I laughed when I busted a U and pulled up to the other side of the pump…and my gas tank was still on the wrong side.  Color me blond.

Once inside the airport, we walk dozens and dozens of American Airlines check-in counters.  After what seemed like a couple of miles, we finally saw the US Airlines check-in!  Yay!

Boo! 

It was for First and Business Class.  Our tickets read “poor white trash”, so we kept walking.  There was only one other US Air line, so we joined it.  At the risk of sounding racist, we were the only pale-skinned people in line.  That’s really not unusual in Miami.  Everyone was of Hispanic descent and pushed baggage carts PACKED with huge packages wrapped in clear plastic.  Out of the blue, five or six more would join a group of three or four already in line.  That sort of behavior always puts my nose out of joint as my Dad would say.  At Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, these people would have been known as “budgers”.  I’m grown up now and call them jerks.

More infuriating than the budgers was that while there were six US Air attendants behind the counter, only one was dealing with customers.  The other five checked their cell phones and talked.  While I attempted to guilt them into working with an uppity stare, little girls with long, straight hair and high-heeled sandals ran around the waiting area and screeched in Spanish.  Lauren The Child Hater glared at them while I silently prayed for them to wet their pants or throw up; anything to get their family to step out of line.

After almost forty minutes, I left the line and approached one of the lazy US Air employees.

“Where are chew going?” she asked.

“Dublin via Philly,” I said.

She stared at me without speaking for several moments before saying, “This is the line for Cuba.”

I’ll wait while you finish giggling.  Make it fast, I’ve got things to do.

“Okay…where do I go ?”

She pointed at the First and Business Class line.  “But I’m in economy class,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Of course it doesn’t.  Just ignore the signs about First and Business Class and jump right in.  Duh.  I rolled my eyes and thanked her in my best Ricky Ricardo imitation.  She didn’t look impressed.

Thirty minutes later we were sitting in an “Irish Pub”, having a snack and waiting for boarding time.  Forty minutes after that, the flight was full, the attendants had given their mindless demonstrations and we were ready to back away and taxi down the run way.

Wait a minute. 

No, wait ninety minutes.  The emergency brakes wouldn’t disengage and the plane was stuck.  Rather than drag us and our hundred tons of baggage off the plane and cram us into a replacement aircraft, they called maintenance.  An hour and a half later, we backed away from the gate.  I was what they call a disgruntled passenger.

It was an uneventful flight.  I watched “Gone With The Wind”, reciting all of Scarlett’s lines out loud for my neighbors to enjoy.  That killed almost four hours.  I tried to sleep, but let’s just say the “poor white trash” section of the plane doesn’t offer any leg room and my chair’s laid back position was a generous ninety degree angle.  Sleep wouldn’t come.  I watched a documentary about chimpanzees that reminded me of my plan to adopt a small monkey when Lauren leaves home. 

Customs and Immigration went quickly.  We found a cab, gave him directions and pretended to understand what he said for the next twenty minutes.  He dropped us off in a rather seedy-looking part of town.  Our “Guesthouse” didn’t resemble the website on which I’d found it, but hey!  We’re not picky girls.  We can handle a less-than perfect, campy sort of hotel.

Good thing, because we were staying in a shit hole.  

We were given a key and sent to the second floor, which was confusing because our room was actually on the fourth.  Oh, I forgot to mention that there was no elevator and the staircase was very narrow and the corners were sharp.  Once inside our prison, I mean room, we found two beds and a bathroom.  The wifi we paid for didn’t exist.  There was no room thermostat and the temp up there was very stifling.  (This coming from two chicks who live on a tropical island!)  The ceiling wasn’t equipped with a fan.  The TV was a six-inch screen bolted to the wall, about four inches from the ceiling.  Below it was a piece of paper taped to the wall, proudly listing all six channels it received.  The bathroom was one step above camping.

Lauren and I have slept in worse.  We’d grin and bear it.  We set off to explore Dublin and exhaust ourselves so that we’d sleep like the dead when we returned later in the day.  At nine pm, after being up for almost 36 hours, the room was hotter than ever and we simply couldn’t live with it.  I asked the proprietor for a box fan.  He told me to open the window.

We walked to the Temple Bar area and told our sob story to every nice hotel reception staff we found.  Fast forward a few hours, we are settled into the beautifully plush Brooks Hotel.  We moved out of the slum, told the landlord we wouldn’t pay for the room because they couldn’t deliver the services for which we paid (in truth, I was prepared to split it 50/50), he told me to “F*&# off” and my Irish temper, finally in its native land, was set free.)  Suffice to say, the place has been slammed all over the bonny city of Dublin, I won’t be paying half a Euro for the shower I took there, and we’re comfy in our new digs.

The lovely cab driver who took us from the Brooks Hotel to the Glen Guesthouse to collect our things and then back to the Brooks Hotel wouldn’t charge us the full fare.  He’d heard the whole story and “was embarrassed” by the behavior of the Guesthouse.  He was a very kind man and I tried to pay him the full fare.  In the end, we split the change and he wished us a safe journey through the Dingle.  His biggest concern was that our hearts would be hardened toward the people of Dublin because of the behavior of just a few.

Silly Cab Driver Man.  We met so many kind and generous people today; Bill the 78-year-old English Rico Suave who drinks pints all day long and laughs at his stories harder than anyone else, the helpful gentleman at the Tourist Office who directed us toward the better part of town and apologized for the Glen Guesthouse, the servers at O’Shea’s who let us hog their pub’s fire and filled our bellies with delicious soup and bread, last but not least - the kind ladies at the counter of the Brooks Hotel who welcomed us in and gave us shelter.

Once settled in our posh room with three beds (yes, three!), we ordered bowls of creamy vegetable soup and a cheese board from room service.  I have a bottle of Italian red wine that I bought from a corner shop earlier today.  Bottled waters sit on the bedside tables.  It’s almost time to end this very long day. 

Although I’m tired, my boots are calling.  They smell adventure.  Dublin is nice, but it’s not what we came for.  We want great expanses of green, salty breezes and country pubs.  That dream is but a four-hour train ride away.  The Dingleberry Forest is around the corner. 

Now it’s time to dim the lights and rest.  We’re going on over forty hours without sleep and I know when to quit.  I’ve been combating cold sores and an ear ache that has grown steadily worse all day.  At this moment, I can’t hear out of my left ear.  No matter.  It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.

Dreams of the Dingle Peninsula are good for a cold.  Isn’t that what Grandma always said?