Arrival

Monday, 2 June 2008
8:33 AM
The Dublin Airport

The first thing that you notice about Ireland – at
least, if you are blessed with the elevated vantage that I enjoyed on
my incoming flight – is that it really is quite green. I'm well
familiar with those who refer to Ireland as "The Emerald Isle" but I
wasn't expecting modern Ireland to resemble an Emerald any more than
Philadelphia is really the city of brotherly love. I was wrong,
though – it really is quite verdant and healthful looking. I could
not see the children dancing hand-in-hand through the dells and
flocks of sheep to the music of merry pipers from several thousand
feel above the ground, but I do feel quite sure that they were down
there, just slightly beyond the grasp of my eager American eyes.

I am happy to finally have arrived in Dublin after
several months of anticipation and planning. After church and brunch
on Sunday morning, my parents and Maria drove me to Dulles airport
where, after the sad goodbyes that must precede a semi-voluntary
separation of several months in duration, I was able to appreciate
exactly how much I love large, crowds of insensitive people. The
morass of people in front of security could only charitably be called
a line, and then only if one had closed both eyes and left the
building. The only bright spot presented by the otherwise dreary
proposition of negotiating our nation's finely-tuned anti-terrorist
forces was the opportunity to wryly observe the scores of individuals
who, with self-satisfied expressions, smugly bypassed the appropriate
queue in favor of a swifter moving lane that was clearly emblazoned
with FIRST CLASS PASSENGERS ONLY. The advances of these airport
ruffians were quickly rebuffed by empowered airport personnel, for
whom the opportunity to put uppity tourists in their rightful places
was clearly the highlight of the pay period.

I made it through security to find that, unlike most
other times, I was not to be conveyed to my gate by the moby-dick-on-
stilts-type-things that the airport has endearingly (and somewhat
optimistically, I think) named "Mobile Lounges". Instead,
international departures have been rerouted to a separate terminal
designed for maximum inconvenience. Given the distance that I covered
on moving sidewalks and some rough calculations, I believe that,
while I entered the terminal in Virginia, my plane took off from New
Jersey.

My time at the gate passed relatively uneventfully.
There was a large school group there who were all talking on a single
cell-phone to some professor, evidently bedridden in a hospital. The
volume of their voices could hardly have been salubrious for the poor
gent, but at least the students were having a good vigorous go at
making sure that everyone in the airport could hear their
salutations. While waiting to board, I discovered that the three
older women next to me were, in fact, from Charlottesville.

As soon as I entered the plane, a remarkable
transformation took place. I was greeted by a captain and flock of
stewardesses who immediately captivated me with their accents. I
thanked them for their greetings in a manner so effusive as to cause
some degree of consternation that they managed to hide with relative
aplomb. The plane did not smell like an American plane. The
passengers were classier than American passengers. The vomit
receptacles were of an exceedingly fine weave. The profusion of green
was so intense that, in most circumstances, it would have produced
eye herniation. In this case, I was charmed. For the first time in
quite some time, I listened with rapt attention to the security
presentation, so pleased was I with the melodious tinkle of that fair
brogue upon my harsh American ears. I suddenly became very interested
with the operation of the oxygen mask, and was especially taken by
the way the staff pronounced the name of their airline "Aer Lingus".
Written, it sound like the name of some strange genus of stork.
Spoken by an Irishman, it is a name of exotic possibility.

As it turned out, though, the flight was quite peaceful.
We rode in a large Airbus craft, but it was so far below capacity
that I can only contemplate how much money they must have lost flying
us across the Atlantic. I had a multi-seat buffer in all directions,
and was thus able to avail myself of the full range of airborne
delights normally stifled by the presence of disgruntled seatmates…or
I would have, if only I had been able to conceive of any. As it was,
I sat quietly in my seat reading and listening to the same 23 songs
on the seat-rest radio for 7 hours.

I am pleased to report that I was able to make unusually
painless progress through Ulysses – when last I attempted to crack
that tome, I laboriously slogged through the first 63 pages before
giving up in favor of something easier, like learning Farsi and Greek
simultaneously on a rollercoaster. Today, for whatever reason, that
was not the case. Perhaps it was altitude-induced delirium, perhaps
it was the intangible satisfaction that comes from hurtling towards
the city in which the novel is set, or perhaps my intelligence and
tolerance has increased (though this seems unlikely), but I was able
to practically sail through 120 pages. This bodes well for my
attempts to complete the novel by the Bloomsday festivities!

The aircraft featured a kind of enforced propriety that
is not usually present in America or American enterprises. Every now
and then there would be an announcement asking us to please pull our
seats forward so the other passengers could rest easy, or asking
everyone to close the blinds so that the sunrise over the Atlantic
would not offend the more somnambulant occupants of the our plane.
Normally, I would have chafed at such paternalism and, with a snide
remark about having paid dearly for the privilege of reclining my
piece of foam .5 inches, I was not about to give it up. Under the
circumstances, though, I was blithely (and somewhat to my own
surprise) found myself obeying the cheerful and excellent voice. I
can only imagine that the novel effects of the Irish accent will wear
off as I spend more time here…in fact, I can only hope. Otherwise,
who knows what manner of mischief I shall get into!

The airline, like all airlines, was quite stingy with
the comestibles. We received a cola the size of a shot glass and
three pretzels for our snack. Dinner was a surprisingly tasty affair
(it had, to my glee, Cheesecake!) that sacrificed reasonable portions
for tidy packaging. With one necessity, however, the airline was not
stingy at all. On several occasions I was cheerfully and vigorously
offered "a spot o' tea", even when I had not yet finished my last
"spot". I was so pleased by the proffering of this, my favorite
beverage, that I didn't even mind that I had to drink it from a
vessel that was uncanny in its resemblance to a bedpan.

Our airplane served a dual purpose: passenger conveyance
and crap merchant. At several points during the flight, the stewards
would parade up and down the aisles bearing armfuls of cigarettes,
watches, perfume, alcohol, and (inexplicably) rag dolls that could
all be had at inflated but tax-free prices! Their expressions said
"for the love of me mother, take some of this rubbish off my hands, I
hate doing this", but I am quite able to shop on the ground. It seems
that the Irish Surgeon General (who is probably called, in infinitely
more imaginative fashion, the Home Secretary and High Minister of
Personal Welfare) has become even more explicit than his American
counterpart: each carton of cigarettes was labeled with a large
"CIGARETTES KILL" sign that all but obscured the packaging of the
cigarette itself. The skull and crossbones added a nice touch too, I
thought, but that didn't stop the woman across the aisle from
purchasing several cartons. The woman also was found of lavishly
anointing herself with a particularly odious brand of perfume which,
in the enclosed space of our cabin, produced rather nauseating
effects. I had to stifle the urge to punt her from the plane, or at
least to stow her in the overhead baggage compartment for the
remainder of our flight so as to seal in her stench. Alas, though,
her rotundity prevented me from either of these enticing recourses.
Lucky for her.

The descent into Ireland would have been more pleasant
were it not for the presence of what I can only describe as
precipitously explosive bubbles of doom in each of my ear canals that
came with the pressure change. It was so intense that it made my
teeth hurt, and I nearly teared up. Thankfully, the pain was short in
duration (if intense in magnitude). I shall surely be purchasing some
of those "ear plane" pressure equalizing devices for the return trip
so as to avoid festively splattering my brain matter about the plane
cabin. The distinct sensation that your ears about to be brain
nozzles is not a pleasant one.

The views, as I have said, were lovely. Very green, all
divided in a very comely manner by intricate hedgerows. We made a
swift taxi and, after deplaning, I loped along with urgency to beat
the crowds at customs/immigration. Having been warned of the
demanding rigor of such processes, I arrived at the gate and began to
grimly marshal my extensive paperwork to prove, variously, that I
exist, that I am a student, that I am not poor, that I do not have
AIDS, that I will be leaving Ireland at a definite point, and that I
shall avoid, at all times, being conspicuously American. Though I was
ready to prove each of these things – and, indeed, was looking
forward to triumphantly proclaiming my legitimacy by means of a
bewildering array of paperwork – I was waved through with a single
stamp – he must have liked my tie. The fellow behind me, whose rather
disheveled oeuvre lent him a rather pallid and shifty air, had much
more trouble. It is indeed remarkable the extent to which neat dress
and a friendly demeanor can ease one's passage through bureaucratic
procedure and other exercises of great joy.

Were I not such a cheap-ass, I would take a taxi to my
apartment. As it is, however, I have to wait for several hours until
the official EUSA program staffer arrives to drive us there en masse.
It was because of this that I had the opportunity to sit down and
write this, and to eat my first meal in Ireland. Given the
circumstances , I felt that I had no choice but to partake of the
famously artery clogging "Full Irish Breakfast" (alternatively,
simply "The Fry"). I meekly handed over my money (my first
transaction in Euros) and, in exchange, was given a plate full of
eggs, sausage, fried tomatoes, potatoes, baked beans, bacon, toast,
and black and white pudding (which is a sausage-like patty that I
have a strange suspicion is derived from pigsblood). The dish was
impressive not only in its size but in its pleasant juxtaposition of
flavors that are, to an American, unconventional. It was a remarkable
display of gastronomic ingenuity, and I feel thoroughly bloated. I
can't imagine that the Irish sustain this sort of thing on a regular
basis, or they would all be quite portly. I imagine that, on most
occasions, I shall be content with a piece of toast and tea. I am
happy for the moment, however, that I have had a ceremonial gorging.

And so I sit in the cafe with a curiously strong cup of tea, watching
the planes take off. My impressions of this country so far, though
superficially based, are quite positive. The people, their accents,
the food, and the scenery are all quite lovely.

If only I could get out of the airport.