Counterparts.I recall sometime in mid-August I was surfing the ol’ interweb and discovered a rather delightful surprise. RyanAir, that glory of an airline, was offering stupendous (Outrageous! Spectacular! Once in a lifetime!) fares from Gatwick to Dublin. The opportunity presented, I just needed some companions to accompany me to that fabled city of Joyce’s lost dreams. Thus, I quietly spread the word around that it was possible to get a return flight to Dublin from Gatwick for 20 pounds (Shya. I know. 20 pounds). Not knowing too many people in mid-August only five chomped at the bit, while a sixth was to meet us there. So, after one of the simplest meetings in recent recorded history (“Leave?” “Thursday October 18th 8pm.” “Return?” “Sunday. Noon.” “Hostel?” “Booked.” “Pint?” “Yes Please.” (It should be noted that I realise these exchanges make me seem like an alcoholic, but I can assure you that I am not, it just so happens that our meeting place for every trip is in a pub (also, in no way do I condone under age drinking or, for that matter, binge drinking or drinking to excess))), our tickets and hostel were booked, our bags were packed and we were ready to go...in a month and a half.
So the time passed.
To my surprise, when the day came I felt no tingling of excitement, no anxiety, no craving pangs of anticipation. I merely had a brief moment of realization as I stood flat footed and lackadaisical on Platform 8 in the Guildford train station, staring brightly and intently at my compatriots as they ate gingerly at cashew nuts, pears, apples, and bananas, occasionally offering tidbits to me, the wide-eyed child who stands at the window of a sweet shop and has no money, that today, my good friends, we go to Dublin.
A Little Cloud.
After another smooth ride on those beloved Southwest Trains of England we found ourselves, rather easily I should say, to the terminal of Gatwick airport. We then checked in, rather easily I should say, with Ryanair, got our boarding passes, threw away our gel containers that held more than 100mL (goodbye my sweet Colgate Total) and headed to the dreaded airport security. It being nearly half past 6, pangs of that monster hunger began to rap the inside of our stomachs. So we passed through airport security, rather easily I should say, and began searching for Gatwick’s finest offered cuisine. This was spotted almost immediately by one our trusty travelers who, either because of the destructive nature of food withdrawal, which slowly eats (pun intended) away at the nerve endings that control the motor functions of your brain (it’s science) or because of his imperfect English, decried, ‘You? We? Food. McDonald’s?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied gently, ‘we will go to McDonald’s.’
I’ve had better.
With belly...well, with belly, we positioned ourselves in front of the departures monitor eagerly awaiting the flight’s gate to be called. I had been warned beforehand about the adventure that is RyanAir, some referring to its boarding process as a Cattle Call, or a Stampede, or a Rodeo (not really the latter, I just needed a third steer reference), others warning me with serious faces, gazing down on me with eyes like the old man who tells his grandson to stay away from the Nickel’s House, ‘Be There Early.’ So when the gate was finally announced (boarding was supposedly at 20.05, gate was announced at 20.00), you can imagine our rush towards the boarding area. Not overly eager to let stragglers beat me to the gate I held a strong and steady gait complete with arms swinging violently to deter those intent on passing. Upon arrival at the gate, a sense of pride swept through me, my companions in tow, we passed into the boarding area and took a seat near the door in which our dreams dwelled. Our heads were held high for those few minutes as others came in and saw our postures and humbly took seats at the back, but when the seats began to fill up our heads began to bend over so slightly towards the floor in shame. For, as the seats were no longer sittable, those smart enough (and late-enough) stood. They stood in front of us. And as they came in later, they got closer to the front. So here we were, so full of pride but minutes ago, now somehow stuck between staying seated thus guaranteeing being near the end of the queue (for, if we were decent, we would have to let those standing pass by before we rudely stood up to claim our deserved spots) but maintaining our dignity or standing up, while the queue was just beginning to grow, and insuring a spot, not our ideal spot, but a spot nevertheless.
To hell with dignity.
They called for pre-boarding and the inching began. Slowly grown men and women began shuffling their feet ever-so-lightly toward the front of the queue. Thus when the boarding was called a (I wouldn’t say mad) rush began. The space that was once occupied by the preboarders now became free territory and those brave enough went for it with startled stares and confused head spinning. Eyes were wide, and faces were determined. Children screamed in the delight of watching the folly unfold. Family’s pushed through, apologizing with their eyes, ‘We’re a family.’ The rush was over as quickly as it had started, and soon we were seated, together, with plenty of room wondering, “What the hell was all that about?”
So she soared. Quietly and easily through the evening mist of South London the plane rose. Steadily we reached that peaked perfection above the everlasting clouds and into the darkness we settled. As we peered forward to that fabled city, perhaps in some distant corner of my mind rang the bells of Joyce, “Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.”
