Hello, Dear Readers.
You find me in a McDonalds, in the Dublin(ian) airport, at about 0:30 my time, 5:45 local time. I have now been awake for 19 hours. Yes, for those mathematically astute ones out there I did get up at 05:00. My reasons seemed wonderful at the time, but are looking mighty flimsy now. I have had a stomachache off and on all day, partially I suspect due to nerves, but more likely due to the cheese binge I went on last night while watching John Oliver. I must confess that this is probably the most beautiful airport I have ever been in. This lounge I'm sittting in is less reminiscent of a McDonalds from back home and closer to a hip newfangled innercity mall. Seriously though. you know those prefab benches back home that are the color of...hearing aids? Not a one of them here. Just brightly colored lounge chairs and an abundance of power outlets. And this is the terminal for cheapo bdget flights.
The plane was just as suprising. I've never been on an international, or transatlantic flight before this and I'm used to thinking of air travel as a very slow form of teleportation that requires you to trap yourself in a sardine can with a bunch of other smelly humans in a seat that is plainly not designed for a gangly six foot two teenager who packed enough to live in europe for a year. Then you emerge, an hour or two later from your teleportation pod with stiffness beyond the years of your joints and an irritable constitutuion in a completely different city with very little sensation of movement in the duration. the first leg of our journey was just that. I was in a three-wide airline which was honestly too short for me to stand up in, next to a raucously storing accountant who had the gall to not show up till the last minute. I was left for three quarters of an hour gazing at an empty seat next to me hoping, wishing with all of my soul, crossed fingers and toes that it would stay that way and after I got my hopes up I had to watch this rotund man who held us all up lumber in without a greeting and start snoring. Now some of you may be thinking that it's my fault for getting my hopes up but those of you who know me know that anything that goes wrong couldn't possibly be my fault and is always the fault of the asinine mortals who have the bare-faced cheek to incovenience me. Gosh. The nerve.
The Aer Lingus flight across the atlantic was completely different. I was seated directly in front of a bulkhead in a row of four seats behind a row of three, so I could basically use the aisle as my footroom! The crew were all incredibly courteous and charming Irish folk with a lovely lilt, and what a plane they staffed! it was eight seats abeam at the widest, with eight? bathrooms. I walked around and visited with people, and made friends around me and shared candy and stories and well-wishes. I emerged on the other side less feeling like a human six-two sarding and more like someone who had been pampered for eight hours.
Ireland. I feel I can't really pass judgement based on an hour and a half's worth of experience in an airport, but again those who know me will know that I always pass judgement no matter how little I know or how likely I am to be wrong. What a lovely country. I have yet to meet someone who isn't kind and helpful. The line in immigration was filled with jokes about my admittedly very dorky five fingers and conversation instead of noses in phones. Perhaps this has to do with it being five in the morning and the loopiness that comes with. The Guard in charge of Immigration stapmed our passport with a smile, and wished me well in France, and Customs (it was a little lax due to us Snowdening it in an airport for six hours and technically not being in ireland, but it looked this way for everyone) consisted of walking through a door while chatting to the the officers. If I ever need to run from the draft, I'm going from Canada to Ireland. Though with my high arches, bat-blindness (the technical term) and general dislike for uniformed men shouting at me I'm not sure I would be welcome anyway...rambling.
Anyway my passport looked thoroughly used now. It has my french visa, complete with very ugly mushot, an irish immigration stamp...and several bends souvenir of the French Consulate. Despite the verbage in the back that quite clearly declares "This document contains delicate electronic equipment. Do not bend or submit to extreme temperatures." I feel a bit silly but I must admit that I feel like a proper world traveler now. I'm surrounded by people from all over the world and I'm in a new country full of new things! And I haven't been outside the airport. And I immediately went to McDonalds. I might as well wear a flashing nametag that admits "AMERICAN!" Eh. Whatever. I couldn't really care, though I am curious to what the various reactions to America are. But I'll just hold my head high and get through...my incredibly long wait. I'm half tempted to go for a jog around the airport. I wish I had my bike. I had to leave Major Jake behind. No I didn't name him that, that is actually the model name. I got better things to do than pull your leg, pal. Like figure out what those things are. And if there are enough to fill a six hour wait.
Looking back at this entry it really isn't up to the standards of the last one. Maybe its longer. I'm going to blame it on travel fatigue and shock and yaddayadda. I need to find out what the french for yaddayadda is. Suprisingly it isn't in my dictionary. Madam Poirier, if you read this some help would rock.
Alrighty, I'm going to go explore, with my camera. I'll probably sign back on later with more photos. Or Rambling. Most likely both. I'm really tired man.
Tom Out-
ps Irish water is TOTALLY better than american water.
pps. Maybe I'll come back with caffeine and edits. That'd be smart.
You find me in a McDonalds, in the Dublin(ian) airport, at about 0:30 my time, 5:45 local time. I have now been awake for 19 hours. Yes, for those mathematically astute ones out there I did get up at 05:00. My reasons seemed wonderful at the time, but are looking mighty flimsy now. I have had a stomachache off and on all day, partially I suspect due to nerves, but more likely due to the cheese binge I went on last night while watching John Oliver. I must confess that this is probably the most beautiful airport I have ever been in. This lounge I'm sittting in is less reminiscent of a McDonalds from back home and closer to a hip newfangled innercity mall. Seriously though. you know those prefab benches back home that are the color of...hearing aids? Not a one of them here. Just brightly colored lounge chairs and an abundance of power outlets. And this is the terminal for cheapo bdget flights.
The plane was just as suprising. I've never been on an international, or transatlantic flight before this and I'm used to thinking of air travel as a very slow form of teleportation that requires you to trap yourself in a sardine can with a bunch of other smelly humans in a seat that is plainly not designed for a gangly six foot two teenager who packed enough to live in europe for a year. Then you emerge, an hour or two later from your teleportation pod with stiffness beyond the years of your joints and an irritable constitutuion in a completely different city with very little sensation of movement in the duration. the first leg of our journey was just that. I was in a three-wide airline which was honestly too short for me to stand up in, next to a raucously storing accountant who had the gall to not show up till the last minute. I was left for three quarters of an hour gazing at an empty seat next to me hoping, wishing with all of my soul, crossed fingers and toes that it would stay that way and after I got my hopes up I had to watch this rotund man who held us all up lumber in without a greeting and start snoring. Now some of you may be thinking that it's my fault for getting my hopes up but those of you who know me know that anything that goes wrong couldn't possibly be my fault and is always the fault of the asinine mortals who have the bare-faced cheek to incovenience me. Gosh. The nerve.
The Aer Lingus flight across the atlantic was completely different. I was seated directly in front of a bulkhead in a row of four seats behind a row of three, so I could basically use the aisle as my footroom! The crew were all incredibly courteous and charming Irish folk with a lovely lilt, and what a plane they staffed! it was eight seats abeam at the widest, with eight? bathrooms. I walked around and visited with people, and made friends around me and shared candy and stories and well-wishes. I emerged on the other side less feeling like a human six-two sarding and more like someone who had been pampered for eight hours.
Ireland. I feel I can't really pass judgement based on an hour and a half's worth of experience in an airport, but again those who know me will know that I always pass judgement no matter how little I know or how likely I am to be wrong. What a lovely country. I have yet to meet someone who isn't kind and helpful. The line in immigration was filled with jokes about my admittedly very dorky five fingers and conversation instead of noses in phones. Perhaps this has to do with it being five in the morning and the loopiness that comes with. The Guard in charge of Immigration stapmed our passport with a smile, and wished me well in France, and Customs (it was a little lax due to us Snowdening it in an airport for six hours and technically not being in ireland, but it looked this way for everyone) consisted of walking through a door while chatting to the the officers. If I ever need to run from the draft, I'm going from Canada to Ireland. Though with my high arches, bat-blindness (the technical term) and general dislike for uniformed men shouting at me I'm not sure I would be welcome anyway...rambling.
Anyway my passport looked thoroughly used now. It has my french visa, complete with very ugly mushot, an irish immigration stamp...and several bends souvenir of the French Consulate. Despite the verbage in the back that quite clearly declares "This document contains delicate electronic equipment. Do not bend or submit to extreme temperatures." I feel a bit silly but I must admit that I feel like a proper world traveler now. I'm surrounded by people from all over the world and I'm in a new country full of new things! And I haven't been outside the airport. And I immediately went to McDonalds. I might as well wear a flashing nametag that admits "AMERICAN!" Eh. Whatever. I couldn't really care, though I am curious to what the various reactions to America are. But I'll just hold my head high and get through...my incredibly long wait. I'm half tempted to go for a jog around the airport. I wish I had my bike. I had to leave Major Jake behind. No I didn't name him that, that is actually the model name. I got better things to do than pull your leg, pal. Like figure out what those things are. And if there are enough to fill a six hour wait.
Looking back at this entry it really isn't up to the standards of the last one. Maybe its longer. I'm going to blame it on travel fatigue and shock and yaddayadda. I need to find out what the french for yaddayadda is. Suprisingly it isn't in my dictionary. Madam Poirier, if you read this some help would rock.
Alrighty, I'm going to go explore, with my camera. I'll probably sign back on later with more photos. Or Rambling. Most likely both. I'm really tired man.
Tom Out-
ps Irish water is TOTALLY better than american water.
pps. Maybe I'll come back with caffeine and edits. That'd be smart.
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