Travel Log – Day Two 5/12

Technically this is day two, though I still haven’t slept. We are now in our 18th hour of travel, (my 21st hour without sleep), and we have landed at Heathrow. Apparently the Brits still have a bean to pick with the Irish over here…I am guessing this as it took us two hours and ten minutes (a subway, a train, three elevators, two check-out desks and customs) to get to the Aer Lingus wing. My conclusion is: we are actually *walking* there. The bastardized step-child of a wing they put it is has only “generalized” gate numbers (77-86), with no knowledge at *which* gate the plane will pull up to for loading until it’s already done it. Not that this matters at the moment anyway because (of course) it is running late.

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Now: On plane. Our captain sounds like a leprechaun and they are tag-teaming Gaelic and English for the flight info run-down. This is the third time today (remember, I haven’t slept yet) that I have heard that ER floatation-device-air-hose-dropping-from-the-ceiling speech, and I gotta say, in this dialect I don’t mind it so much. Contacts now glued to my eyes permanently as we commence with our two hour flight. If I can survive the screaming child one row behind me, we will have achieved the height of Buddhist temperance. Next: land, find car rental, learn to stick-shift left-handed, and find hotel…where we will take turns propped up in the closet-of-a-shower we were warned they would sport here. Not that we care at this point. I’d take a bath in an airport *sink* if I had to go one more bloody hour in these clothes.

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Note: we are in Europe. You can tell this because every third person on this plane is wearing a suit and tie, and another third wear the suit jacket even without the tie…and everyone else are slob tourist Americans. We do sorta stand out in the wrong way. At least, though, we are the “respectful” kind. This means we aren’t “yawling” in loud, round tones (like some people), commentating about how “quaint” everything is. (Journaling doesn’t count.) We’ve already been chatted up by a female version of Barry Fitzgerald about our itinerary in a brogue so thick that even mom has to lean in to catch it.

…Am confident will feel less cranky once I’ve had a wash, a change of clothes, and am sitting over a Guinness…something like 2.5 hours from now. I’m mentally closing down at this point and have decided I’m either too old for 24 hour travel or just need a lot more practice at it. I’m opting for the latter. But *after* a drink and sleep.

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Dublin! A car, the last automatic they had! They said, “It’s a little large.” It is a sedan. Now: How to drive on the wrong side of the road. It’s more difficult than you’d think when you’re in Dublin. Imagine you woke up and Seattle, with all it’s crap road construction and one-way streets, did a reverse flop on you. It’s like that. And this is on no sleep, moving into hour 23. Go mom, and yay for insurance!

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Note: Just missed the Gay Theatre Fest Dublin. Sponsored by Absolut Vodka. Their poster child on display: Oscar Wilde. As. It. Should. Be.

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Twenty four hours, almost to the “T.” We arrive at hotel. Relocation is complete. Now for that shower and our first Guinness in Ireland…at the first local pub we catch!