I got up at 7:30, showered, dressed, and packed. I made it downstairs in time for the 8am shuttle to the airport, which was only about a mile away. The Irish Rain Gods were giving me one last dousing before I went airborne. The sky was dark and grey, much like my mood. I was homesick for both my home/family and for Kerry.
I made it through security, customs & immigration, and whatever the hell else by 9am. That's a fecking record because you have to wait through three different queues and go through three different screenings before getting to your gate. Oh, and you have to fill out paperwork regarding what you've brought back with you. The government official I had didn't bother to ask me a damn thing about what I'd been doing in his country or what I was bringing back or whether or not I'd handled livestock (there are serious issues regarding transferring contagious diseases), as soon as he saw that I was from Islamorada, he started asking questions about the airport/port of entry that may open in Marathon. He's looking to transfer, see, and he thought I might be of help. I told him to use me as a reference. And that worked. I'd neglected to fill out my paperwork, handed him and empty form, and he grinned like a dunce and let me through. Maybe this day will go smoothly after all!
I found my gate in short order and checked the time. I had nearly two hours to kill, but even I knew it was too early for a pint. Good thing, because my only choice for food/beverage was a stand named "Irish Meadows". It was full of damn tourists; mostly Americans. My least favorite flavor. I bought a monster-sized water. Hydrating is key on long flights. One sip of clear stuff for every pint. It's scientific fact. No need to look it up, just trust me. I also bought an OJ (I wasn't back in the States yet, so I knew it would still taste good.), and a blueberry muffin.
I found a table for four, covered with empty coffee cups, dirty plates, and other crap. I pushed it to the side and opened the juice. I nearly spit it across the Irish Meadow when I discovered it was made with "extra pulp"! No. I don't do pulp. Argh. I recapped it and left it there for the next bum. I devoured the muffin, picked up my trash, and went for a walk. I knew I was in for a lot of sitting and my legs don't like that, especially after a trip of long bouts of walking. I went up and down, up and down, so many times, I knew who would be sitting where the next time I came through. When that got old, I went into the ladies room to brush my teeth and well, use your imagination.
Unfortunately, I'd wandered into the men's room. (First time this trip! I usually do this at least three times.) I abruptly turned around, but got my roller bag and monster back pack caught in the bags of an incoming man. We were hopeless stuck and a backup of men trying to get in/out quickly ensued. When I managed to untangle myself, I think I blurted out a very loud "for feck's sake" and stormed off, red in the face. I hate finding myself in the men's room. At farty-seven (yeah, that's how you pronounce it), you'd think I'd have learned to look at the goddamned sign on the fecking door.
I headed for my gate which was FULL to overflowing. Literally. I counted eleven infants/babies (by this I mean unable to walk yet) and at least a dozen walking toddlers. Oh Jaysus. I love babies, but not on planes. Babies on planes are worse than the clap. Not that I've any firsthand knowledge of the latter, but it seems right. I watched as the proud mothers exchanged the adoration for each other's offspring, always followed up with "how old is he/she?" Moms of small babies/toddlers must ALWAYS respond to this question in months. For example, the mother of a two-year old will reply, "She's twenty-five months". A yearlng's mum will say her child is eleven months. Its code and it means something. Don't take this lightly. (In full disclosure, I did it too.) Women's ovaries control this particular phenomenon. Don't try to understand it and don't try to change it. Ovaries are powerful feckers.
As I was about to implode from all of the crying and whining and bottle-making, our Aer Lingus representative apologized for what would be a "short" delay and told us to come back in tirty (yes, tirty) minutes for an update. I went for another walk. Anything to put some space between me and the crying ones...anything except another men's room. Tirty minutes later, we were told to come back in another tirty.
Two-and-a-half hours later, we were on our way. I watched two movies and read. I was sitting next to a man who left Dublin fifty years ago and moved to Queens. He's lived there ever since and considers NYC his home. I didn't trust him much after that. I found out later, that my gut was right. He nicked my breakfast bar! I shit you not. About an hour before arrival, we were given a cucumber and mayo sandwich (um, no) and a breakfast bar. My neighbor devoured his sandwich in short order. I asked him if he'd like mine, too. He graciously accepted and put it in his carry-on, beneath the seat in front of him. He also slipped his breakfast bar into the side pocket of that bag. I left my breakfast bar on my table, I figured I might need it later. When I got up to use the ladies/men's room, I left the bar on my seat. It wasn't until we were deplaning and I saw two breakfast bars in the side pocket of his carry-on, did I realize he'd taken mine. I said nothing, but found it irritating nonetheless. If he'd asked, I'd have given it to him. While we walked off the plane, I considered slipping my hand into the pocket and taking it back. That's when I realized how tired I must be.
We landed about three in the afternoon at JFK and my connecting flight to Fort Lauderdale had left at two. While still in the air, my Dougie had been trying to get me booked on the next flight, which was scheduled to leave about 3:45. He sent me a text to that affect, told me to go to the Jet Blue counter, and demand to be put on that flight - they wouldn't allow him to do it over the phone. When I got to the counter, they handed me a boarding pass....for a flight that left at 6:45pm. I asked about the earlier flight and they looked past me and said, "Next!"
Welcome to America.
I was exhausted, the whirlwind was finally catching up with me. I called Dougie to tell him the new plan and was surprised to find tears in my eyes and a voice that wouldn't work. Yep, I was tired, which meant I was crying. Oh shit and feck, too. Dougie assured me we'd figure it out and told me to relax, find a place to sit and have a pint. Thankfully, JFK has more beverage-serving options than Dublin. I found one near my gate and sat. And sat. And sat. After twenty minutes, no one would serve me, despite my repeated, "Excuse me" attempts for service. I realized why. I looked - and smelled - homeless. My t-shirt and the long-sleeved sun shirt I wore over it were stained with...heaven knows what. My hair was...clean, but tangled. No make up. Flip-flops exposed my battered feet and unattractive little toe with black nail.
I took the hint, gathered my bags, and kept walking. I found an open-air sort of bar, with seats inside an actual gate. I thought I might have better luck there and I did. There didn't have Guinness or Carlsberg on tap. I settled for a Bud Light bottle. It tasted like dirty water. I got a call from my baby girl, the first time I'd heard her voice since I'd left home. It made me even more homesick and, in spite of her exuberance about Central Park and all of the exciting things she was doing, I was a wet blanket. I apologized and she told me to cheer up. I cried again after we hung up. Jaysus, woman, pull yourself together.
I arrived in Fort Lauderdale about ten. The last shuttle to the Keys had left at nine. I was too tired to rent a car; I knew I'd never be able to successfully navigate a two-and-a-half hour drive home. Gracious friends in Miami offered to let me crash with them, but again, I didn't feel capable of the fifty-minute drive in a rental to their house either. In the end, Dougie found me a room near the airport, with 24/7 airport shuttle service, and food service until 1am. I need to pay him for his travel agent services.
I arrived in the hotel, a Sheraton, which was very nice...and gigantic in comparison to what I'd gotten used to in Ireland. The lobby was about the size of Kenmare. I dropped my bags in the room and called room service (I couldn't take any more ungracious looks about my appearance/odor). Once it arrived, I took a very hot shower and crawled into bed where I ate half of a chicken quesadilla and drank a glass of wine. I didn't watch TV or blog or do anything. I ate, turned off the light, called Dougie to say goodnight, and crashed. It was about midnight. I may have cried again...I was soooo close to home and yet, so very far away.
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