Dublin - 2995 Miles
Packing today was no big deal. I mean, granted, my room looked as though a clothes and garbage bomb went off in it – I didn’t have anything packed as of about 12:30 or so – maybe even 1:00 P.M. But I feel like I’ve been preparing to pack for weeks; making lists, printing out itineraries, studying websites, considering what I’ll need – everything I needed to pack was within a ten foot radius of me, there was just no organization to it than any other human might be able to identify.
I’m only bringing two pieces of luggage; my new messenger bag (purchased in the prep frenzy), and my little roll-y suitcase – both carry-on. I can’t emphasize how grateful I am for all the websites I consulted – especially Rick Steves’ (though the instructor of the summer travel writing class at Emerson hates him, according to what everyone I know in that class has told me). It was helpful to keep in mind to travel light; it made packing less traumatic, list-making easier and more organized, and it kept me from being overwhelmed by what the hell I need to bring for a month away from home. I feel prepared for anything, but not overburdened.
(Though I’ll probably buy a cute purse in Spain – it’s the one thing I left out that made me a little sadface.)
People in general seem impressed by or encouraging of my decision to travel light, like I’m some kind of clever, practical creature for having thought of it. LOL – I’ll take it. Anyway, despite my love of surrounding myself with crap, I’ve found I really don’t need that much. I think this may result in a large-scale expunging of belongings upon my return.
Anyway, another thing people seem in some way impressed by is by the fact that I’m doing this by myself; like it’s some brave thing, or some big thing. I don’t know! Nothing about going alone freaked me out – it didn’t even occur to me to freak out – until people started saying these things to me. Even so, I’m pretty much not freaked out. I don’t doubt that I’ll get homesick, and miss the people I love. But I think a lot of people have the experience of going off somewhere alone, but they don’t remember, because once you’ve done it, it seems so easy . Going away to college, going away to grad school, moving to take a job – these are all long-term moves that a lot of people make, often very far from home. Granted, I’m going to another country across the ocean, but Dublin is 2995 miles away from Boston – I don’t think that’s farther than California. Barcelona’s a little farther, but what are a few hundred miles? Maybe a thousand?
I don’t know. I spend a lot of time by myself, and I enjoy it a lot. I look very much forward to having my own space, to being on my own near the beach, to setting my schedule as I see fit; to meeting new people and seeing all the beautiful places that are in Barcelona, and taking pictures of them and writing about them to share with my friends, and to keep for my own sake. I can’t tell if people think it’s a special thing because it could be dangerous or because it could be lonely, but I haven’t read anything to indicate that it’s any more dangerous than any other major city. I’ve taken precautions, I think I’m pretty aware, and I’m fortunate to be in a position to be able to take the safe ways when possible.
Beyond that, as far as loneliness is concerned, I’m lonely often enough in my own home, you know? Everybody gets lonely, or so say all the songs and poems and art, and while it may seem more acute abroad, there are also so many things to do to make myself not feel lonely. So much to think about, so much to see. We’re all alone, no matter how close to other people we become – and learning about other people, immersing myself in another culture, and recognizing the things that stay the same even in the face of so much difference, I think, will only serve to make me feel less lonely.
We’ll see – for now, we’re going to be boarding soon. :D
7:30 GMT, 2:30 EDT – Somewhere between Shannon and Dublin
LOLOL – I didn’t sleep much on the plane at all. My seatmate for the flight was a thoughtful, interesting, Pisces filmmaking student named Jory. Jory is from Cincinnati, and won points right off the bat by, upon learning of my land of origin, telling me he’s never met a bad person from Jersey. (It’s nice to know we’re out there properly representing. :D) From there, conversation went from photography to cinematography to film, to the ways that poetry and film mirror each other as languages, to magazines and media and art. He gave me a few simple tips to help me take better pictures – a fact about which I am very excited. Jory goes to Northwestern, is a Jewish American Indian Greek (or a Greek American Indian Jew?) who speaks Spanish like an Argentine. Serious, smart, but funny, he smiles more in Spanish.
Conversation kept me awake for the first half of the flight, and then I slept for maybe an hour or two – I can’t be sure. Either way, when our plane landed, I was so excited, I jumped right off – not realizing that I was not at my final destination, but in Shannon, Ireland, rather than Dublin.
The Shannon Airport is a modest one, and under construction. Accustomed as I am to the megamall airports as I’ve experienced them in the States, I was somewhat surprised that the International airport for such a prominent city was so famous and prominent as Dublin (a capital, no less!) would have such a humble little airport – and yet I was charmed by it, thinking to myself, “You know, if there’s a bottle of water in that coke machine and some trail mix in that vending machine, I’m straight.”
After walking from the gate (and going back for my jacket – still never realizing I was in Shannon), I found a little Hudson-Newsy kind of convenience store, where I bought a bottle of water; then, I was shaking so badly from fatigue and jetlag, I bought a pack of cigarettes. Being in such a different place was more disconcerting than I’d anticipated, and cigarettes were the most immediately available familiar thing. Oh, and they are such a comfort.
Lucky for me, I had forgotten my jacket, and had had to walk quite a ways back to the gate from the little nexus of buying stuff in the terminal, and then, once my stuff was bought, decided to transfer the water I’d bought into my trusty Sigg before I went out into Ireland to smoke a cigarette and find a cab. Because of my terminal tendency to lollygag (and certainly some credit must be given to CPT), I heard when they called my name over the loudspeaker, and I went back, utterly confused. It took a moment to realize that at the gate, flight 132 from Shannon to Dublin was being announced – LOLOL.
They quite kindly ushered me back onto the plane, and one of the flight attendants, in that lilting accent with which I’ve already fallen completely in love, called me a “naughty girl,” then asked me how I’d enjoyed Shannon. LOLOL! Sheepish and laughing, I apologized and went back to my seat. And now, I’m on a plane, and in the time it’s taken me to write this, I think we’ve made it to Dublin – or very nearly.
I should add here that Ireland is already beautiful, as staggeringly green as promised, even from the window of a plane.
10:07 AM – Lobby of the Jury’s Inn, Parnell Street, Dublin
Well, the ambition was to tool around Dublin while I waited for check-in to start. The very courteous staff at the Jury’s Inn took my bag for me, which was lovely of them, but sweet Jesus, not only have slept only an hour in the last twenty-four, I have a mean case of the 'itis.
It all started at the Dublin airport, which was much more the Dublin airport that I expected. We had to wait on line (in queue!) to get our passports stamped, but I’d been warned, so it was just a matter of people-watching, at that point. And realizing, at some point, that I, myself, was being people-watched.
I don’t really have a good idea of what I look like sometimes – at least as far as demographics are concerned. I’ve said before that I look ambiguously ethnic, and that’s about as far as it goes. I don’t know exactly what to think when people look at me; I’m wearing my trusty straw fedora (which has become an obvious staple of the summer of 2009), some jeans, ballet flats, and my peach swirly CK shirt. (Maybe I’ll attach a picture I take with the tricks that Jory taught me.) So I don’t know – I’m accessorizing more than the rest of the people on the plane, so that might be a thing. I thought I’d get to Europe and everybody would be skinny, and I’d be the fat American, but as it happens, I haven’t noticed a difference in body-type ratios. (They’re playing Latin music in the lobby of this hotel. This amuses me.)
So anyway, I was people-watching, noticing that there were a lot of funny Americans on my flight, including two Southern couples traveling together, probably somewhere in their sixties, and they were freakin’ adorable, talking about needing to recover from the flight and get a drink. There were some line whiners (one dude went up to the lady and asked if he had to get his passport stamped even if he was on his way somewhere else), and a couple of restless kids (which, even though I wanted to give them the stinkeye, I couldn’t really blame them for not wanting to wait in line after eight hours on a plane – I think they were just acting out how we were all feeling, the way kids sometimes do).
Anyway, everyone in Dublin has been, so far, just as nice and friendly and smiling as everyone told me they would be, from the passport agent to my cabbie to the folks at the hotel. My cabbie was a damn riot, and kept me laughing all the way to my hotel. He told me I should stay in Dublin, and told me a little about spots near my hotel I could check out while I’m here today. Lovely man!
After I dropped my bags off, I asked the clerk at the hotel to direct me to some breakfast – which was across the street. Real Irish breakfast! Now let me tell you, the Irish breakfast is not concerned with your health, your cholesterol, nor a balanced diet. The Irish breakfast is a protein fiesta concerned with meat, meat, some beans, meat meat, an egg, and oh, MEAT. I had a piece of blood sausage (called black pudding, but I wiki’d it, you wily Irish scamps!), and white pudding (which I think also has gross stuff in it), but both were tasty. (I liked the white pudding better, but only because the texture of the black pudding was kind of weird and liver-like. Maybe because it’s made of, oh, BLOOD). There was also big ole thick slice of ham or bacon or some kind of delicious pink salty pig meat, and two regular, diner-style breakfast sausages. Oh, and some damn tasty toast with the butteriest butter I’ve ever seen or had. Included in this breakfast was not a cup, but a whole POT of tea (which was also very nice!) all for the low, low price of 8.50 Euro! (which is less than $12.50.) All this in the middle of the Dublin city centre (as they call it!). The portions were not the monstrous affair you’d find at an American diner, but I didn’t need a doggy bag, and I am, as some would say, full as a tick!
As an aside, the waitresses were these freaking beautiful - beautiful - Eastern European or Russian girls. Sweet Jesus, I’m talking beautiful. I had to make myself not stare. But having breakfast at this place (an trying not to stare at the waitresses) also me the opportunity to people-watch out the window of the restaurant – so I should inform you that all Irishmen in Dublin 35 and under appear to be at least cute, if not hot. Which is almost unfair, considering they already have the accent going for them.
11:08 AM – My room at Jury’s Inn, Parnell Street, Dublin
This hotel is pretty swank! The room is comfty, and mine, and nice and dark. I’m about to take a nap so I can go out and explore Dublin. I’ve bought a map. And an umbrella with sheep on it! :D It’s great! And it was cheap! :D Nap!
:MWAH:
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