August 1, Ireland Wants Us to Stay

The most inappropriate ending to a wonderfully smooth, well-organized and delightful trip. Katie and I somehow managed to book and miss the exact same flight home, not because we stayed out too late saying goodbye to Ireland, but because we tried to board a plane that didn’t exist. Well, technically, it did exist, but not at the airport that we were at. We both miraculously booked departing flights out of Shannon Airport instead of Dublin, a good 5 hours south from our residence at Trinity College.

After several hours of crying, disbelief, adrenaline pumping through our blood, anger, pleading with airline employees and many trips to and from the pay phones and internet booths, we finally accepted that there was no way we were getting a flight home Friday. We booked a 70 euro hotel room near the airport and decided to call it a day, spending the rest of the night searching for plane tickets and ordering wine in the lobby. Later that night came both great and frustrating news: tickets had been purchased for our return home, and they were much cheaper tickets than we were originally able to find. However, these tickets were also for Sunday, leaving us with another 30 hours to kill in Dublin. I could feel my heart sink into my stomach. I wasn’t upset because I necessarily wanted to leave Ireland (in fact, part of me thinks that I brought this upon myself because I had been complaining so much about not being ready to leave yet) but being trapped against one’s will, without money and snippy receptionists was not an ideal extended vacation. Accidentally purchasing a 474 euro ticket from Boston to Washington D.C. under the pretext that we would be able to find a flight to Boston did not help this sinking pit feeling. And neither did the 25 minutes I had to spend on a payphone with Bank of America in order to get my credit card re-authorized to purchase tickets home.

Fast forward 2 days, and Katie and I can hardly believe what this weekend has been. As we sit with our feet stretched out on the foot rests in front of us, eat our cheese lasagna and seafood stew, watch our individual tvs that pull up out of the arm rest, my faith has been temporarily restored in the karma of the universe. By some twist of fate the airline chose four lucky economy passengers (I believe ones that just recently purchased, and therefore spent a good deal of money on their tickets) to be moved to first or “business class.” I realize this is not an uncommon occurrence, but its never happened to me before, so I’m allowed to be a little obnoxious. And after our ordeal at the Dublin airport this weekend, Katie and I could not contain our excitement. As we work the next few months to try and repay our parents the debt we’ve acquired, I think we will always look back on Ireland as an adventure that ended with an especially overwhelming, albeit memorable, exploit. Ireland never failed to keep up on our toes and helped us grow until the moment our feet left it’s soil.

July 24, On the Mend

Belfast feels like a skeleton of a city. It looks like its been beat up, mugged, had all its money, its cell phone and ID stolen, gutted, and left to crawl home. It feels like we are walking into a war-torn town. I imagine each building has seen a better life at some point. Nothing looks new. And the grey sky leaves a somber taste in my mouth.

But the people are the most interesting people I’ve been exposed to in Ireland, and make an interesting contrast to the dismal physicality of the city. Their kindness, liveliness, friendliness and talkativeness hint at a deeper culture, a community, bubbling up just beneath the cracked surface.

For example, there is a group of 6 middle-aged men sitting in the couches next to me in the lobby of our hotel in Belfast right now. They are wearing red cowboy hats with white stitching, some have brown cow-spotted pants, and they are all sporting a white t-shirt with an oval vignetted picture of a smiling boy in glasses. It crosses my mind that these men are here for the gay pride parade that we stayed an extra 2 hours for. A few minutes later I realized they were more probably part of a bachelor’s party. Since we’ve been here everyone has been a surprise, and kind of an adventure.

In each new city we venture to, one of the initiating experiences is finding good (and well-priced) food. Usually we have our professors to guide us a little when we first arrive in a city, pointing out basics and suggesting restaurants they’ve already scoped out. In Belfast, we didn’t have any of this. So it was up to us to navigate the streets and guess what would be good and what we could afford. Clearly looking like a lost pack of puppies, torn between which way to look for food next, a young woman drinking coffee at an outdoor part of a restaurant in front of us jumps in, ”Excuse me,” she offered. “If you are looking for good food Queen’s Bar is just in the next building.” We hesitated for a couple seconds. “Its cheap too,” she added with a smile. “I promise I wouldn’t send you there if it wasn’t good.”

We were sold.

And so was I.

Our waiter that night, our bus driver to the Giant’s Causeway, the people staying in the International Youth Hostel, the cashier at the Off-License liquor store, the man who made our Turkish kebabs, the young lady and the nice man with septum piercing who shared their hand-rolled cigarettes with us at the Laverty were all the most friendly and kind natured people I’ve encountered in Ireland so far.

I know Belfast has an intense history of political struggle. Believe me, you could feel it in the air. But despite how nervous I wanted to be, and how sad the surrounding city looks, it feels like Belfast is on the mend. And I can only hope I can embrace that emerging feeling of persevering spirit when I leave.