tragic travels

I'm not even sure where to begin. I know where the post will end up, given that my vacation to Dublin has commenced, but the start of my travels are exhaustingly dramatic and full of detail that I'd be quick to regret with their omission. So... I begin with the journey to the train station. To set the scene I was traveling with four friends on the trip (Tina: Malta / Barbara: Argentina / Mirco: Germany). This is important to take not of because I'll be referring to specific individuals very much. Our plane from Glasgow was to leave at 7:30AM. Glasgow is approximately 45 minutes from Stirling, and thus getting a bus to the train and a train to the airport all before the gates closed at 7:00AM (including security checks) is something none of us cared to risk. Our other option was, therefore, to travel to the airport at night and stay there. So, we left our dorm around 9:00PM and headed to the school's bus stop. We knew from online that the final train to Glasgow ran at 9:30PM, so we HAD to make that connection. Unfortunately, I have inherited a bit of parent's terrible vacationing habits (Getting robbed in D.C., not talking to one another at the Ocean, being stuck in a desolate cabin with a frozen driveway, etc....), and while we made the train, it wasn't always certainty. You see, we didn't get a bus right away at the station, and once we got on the bus, it was 9:18. By the time the bus was in town, it was 9:26. We ran for the train station, which is two blocks from the bus stop and still had to buy our tickets. As an avid runner, I was quite a ways ahead of the others (with Tina trailing in the back with a full suitcase! Tina.. by the way... is about the size of Danny DeVito. Running isn't her strength). I was going to buy one ticket because if you buy as a group of four or five students, you will get 33% off the trip. I'm all for saving money, but none of the stations to buy tickets were open. I ran right to the man guarding the abandoned gates of Stirling Train Station (on the government's dime, no doubt) and asked for the group ticket. He began working with a hand-held ticket dispenser when the other three ran into the building. At the same time the train was pulling into the platform. It would stay for approximately 45 seconds before vanishing through the dusky night. I told the others to cross the overhead stairs and wait for me on the side of the tracks the train was stopped at. I knew I could run quickly once paying for the ticket. The man was taking his time and I urged that I HAD to make the train. He understood and was very kind but not to quick. He clearly had no idea what to do and wasn't able to process the group discount on his machine. So, with a look to the train, to me, then back at the train, he told me to run and take the train before we were shit out of luck. "But I don't have a ticket" I urged (possibly aggressively). He told me to just go. No other instruction. How thrilling. Now I, along with three friends, was sitting on a train illegally. No one checked the tickets as they occasionally do on the ScotRail, and once we arrived in Glasgow it took only ten minutes of begging, apologizing, and playing the foreigner card to get out of the station with the group discount. 

Out the double doors we went and were greeted by a row of taxis. Now, a bus to the airport runs regularly and costs 6P ($9.20) a person. The taxi, however, was only 5.5P ($8.50) a person since there were four of us. We took the taxi. We took the taxi and we got ourselves screwed like a... well... I won't elaborate. This taxi driver takes us to the airport. Glasgow International Airport. Yes, my friends, there are two airports in Glasgow. As we stepped out of the cab, the driver asked who we were flying with. We told him RyanAir (The United/Delta of Europe). He then told us we were at the wrong airport. RyanAir flies out of Glasgow Prestwick Airport. Now, here's my theory. The b***ard did this on purpose. Who the hell asks that question AFTER he drove us to the airport? Since it was 11:15PM by this point, we had only one option. Pay the taxi driver to take us to the other airport, that was inconveniently located 34 miles from the GIA. While I could hope and hope this bad luck would end soon, I am obliged to report otherwise. Though, in hindsight, it makes me laugh and dip my glasses down on the lower bridge of my nose while looking over the glass and saying "Really?" 

So we arrived at Prestwick Airport. And WOOOOO. What a dump it is. We arrived right before midnight, so we were able to get inside to stay the night. This airport (which none of you have likely entered nor will ever enter in your life... all for the best!) was something else. For beginners, their motto/tagline was 'Pure Dead Brilliant.' I repeat: 'Pure DEAD Brilliant.' You're an airport for goodness's sake. Why would someone ever think that was a good idea to put the word 'DEAD' into an airport's tagline. I was beside myself. The other issue I had with the phrase was that it makes NO SENSE. It is literally three adjectives. You can't do that. You need a noun. Did they mean Brilliance? Think about this for a second. It's like having a grocery store with a tagline: "Fresh colorful tasty." And where are the commas? I swear. It was too much. In addition to an unforgettable slogan, Glasgow Prestwick's claim to fame is that it was the only place in the UK that Elvis Presley had ever stepped foot. He was flying one time and his plane had to stop for more gas. The airport took this story as liberty to decorate with garish, amateur, larger-than-life wall paintings of 'The King.' 

I know... so much exposition, barely any action (and you thought this post would be about Dublin. HA! Dublin is still a sleepless night, trumpet fanfare, and immigration hold-up away). When we begin exploring the airport we right away found where we would sleep. There was a long, red bench that had been comfortably upholstered. There were two students approximately the same age as the four us already on the bench, but there was enough room for more of us. We sat down and set up shop. The two boys were speaking only in French and occasionally glancing towards us all while laughing and continuing their French after doing so. I had the wise idea to begin speaking Spanish to Barbara so they couldn't understand us. Chances are people understand English and so Spanish was the only way I could play this mind came. I tell Barbara what I'm doing and why in Spanish when suddenly one of the boys (Geoffroy) chimed in with his impeccable Spanish. It just so happened he spoke fluently in French and Spanish and dabbled in Japanese. However, he spoke no English. Barbara also speaks fluent French and Spanish as well as English, so the two of them hit it off right away. Both boys had been studying in art school but were out traveling Scotland for the whiskey. They were both enthusiasts. We all passed a bit of time by scrolling through our phones (I didn't take my phone with me. I didn't want to be distracted by it) and playing solitaire (I did take cards!). Soon Barbara and Mirco went to sleep. Neither Tina or I could rest so we wrecked havoc on the empty airport. We took many videos (some may pop up later) that included running up the down escalator and down the up and running through the ribboned queue lines for baggage drop off. Once we settled down, we decided it would be interesting to try and talk with Geoffroy. Though he spoke only several English words ('I don't understand' and 'asshole' among other profanities), Tina and I wanted to have a conversation. So, we sat down and from 2:30-4:00AM and drew pictures, used an iPhone translator (only for an hour - the time allotted for Tina's 5P contribution to the airport internet provider), and forged ourselves through a multitude of topics. 

By 4:30 I was able to sleep a bit. I hadn't been feeling well for several nights previous, and my stuffed nose was causing problems, but I knew not trying to rest might kill me. I "slept" for an hour and was wide awake drinking boiling water and a mushroom/cheddar croissant from Starbucks. We eventually went to security where, once again, the trip provided comedic bliss. Tina (my closest friend here and a dispositional similarity to Kristin Wiig's Aunt Linda impersonation on SNL), being from Malta, has never dealt with strict security. As part of the European Union (EU), she has never followed too strict of guidelines for flying. I was the first to go through security and cleared without beeping. Had I been in the USA I'm sure they would have had something to complain about, but the more lax guidelines let me through. Tina, however, was stopped and padded down. I could not stop laughing. She was cursing in Maltese, which I understood, but the security guard had no idea. After being grabbed from every side, the problem was discovered to be a hair pin she had in her hair. She was required to remove it, which didn't thrill her in the least. The good news was that it was finally time to board the plane.

RyanAir has rather spacious planes (Boeing 737), and Tina and I were able to have our own undisturbed row. Mirco and Barbara (who are dating and were the cause of most of the trip's irritation) sat a row ahead and on the opposite side of the plane. The entire way slept since the seats were much more comfortable than those available in the airport. The ride, however, was a quick 32 minutes. What's worse is when a plane lands on time, RyanAir finds it necessary to blare a trumpet fanfare through the speakers and announce that it has, once again, made it's scheduled landing. 10 minutes fast even! I didn't care when we got there. I didn't need to be scared shitless from the fanfare. As we were exiting the plane (no portal thing. You actually step down the plane's steps onto the runway... just like the President!) I was growing rather giddy over our the misfortune thus far. It was too easy to laugh about it. Mainly because it was pouring down rain as we walked the 50 meters from the plane to the dry inside of the Dublin airport . 

The travels were almost over. We just had to get our passports stamped and move on to our hostel. Since Barbara and I are from the Americas, we were sent to a different line than Mirco and Tina who, as members of the EU, don't get passports stamped but rather just looked over as they walk through a quick line with no questions asked. Our line, approximately fifteen people long, was congested at the front with a woman who took 20 minutes (and likely longer before we had arrived in the line) with the officer stamping the books. If each person was going to take this much time I was going to go crazy. Fortunately everyone else moved through quickly. Barbara was ahead of me and was asked several questions before getting her passport stamped for a three-day ONLY vacation. I walked up after her, the man looked at my passport, asked if I was on vacation, and stamped my book with a large, green stamp that gave me permission to stay in Ireland for 90 days. WIN! As we were walking out of the airport into the receptacle of tourists I saw exactly what was causing the hold up in the line a bit earlier. The woman holding everyone else was immigrating. Needless to say, it's a PROCESS. Boxes upon boxes and luggage beside luggage sat at an immigration counter. I'll just say it right now. That's certainly not a process that I ever wish to go through. 

So that was just the beginning. An adventure and journey in it's own. I thought it was quite necessary (and hopefully entertaining) to ease into the trip and what was to come. Because believe me... there is much more to write about. However, I will have to post the rest at latter time. I expect to have Part 2 of the trip up on Wednesday and Part 3 (Yes, 3 Parts this time!!!) on Friday. Until then!

Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.
                    - Paul Theroux