Europe 2013: The Arrival

August 9, 2013

One more thing about the flights: I had planned an 8 hour layover in Chicago since my friend Carrie lives there, and I thought we might be able to arrange to get together for lunch or something. It did work, in a just barely sort of way, and we got to spend about three hours together. It was really cool to see her again and catch up, and I was glad I'd arranged to take the longer layover (the other one, at about 3 hours, would have been exactly enough time to hustle to the train, take it out to the stop, get on the return train, and get through security with the recommended two hours; ie completely useless).

I arrived into Dublin around 9 am local time. My attempts to sleep on the plane met with very limited success, and I would guess I only got an hour or two of actual sleep between the flight to Chicago and the flight to Dublin. I herded myself off the plane along with everyone else, and cruised down the halls of the airport, stopping (of course) to take picutures. By the time I got to the baggage claim, our bags were already rolling around, and I found mine in short order (good thing, I'd had a moment of panic in Chicago where I thought I was supposed to have picked up my bags from the Seattle flight; of course I had this thought as I was coming back from lunch, and the bags would have been forlornly going around the baggage claim carousel for hours). I hefted them with a large side-order of dismay: it's a fun academic game to say your one bag weighs 45 pounds (that's 20 kilos!) and the other one weighs 22 lbs (10 kilos!) and your carry-ons weigh 20 lbs together (another 9 kilos!) that still adds up to nearly 100 lbs of crap you have to haul around. My shoulders still ache a day later.

So I hefted my heavy bags down to the curb to get the Aircoach (on the recommendation of my friendly Irish couple), and discovered that they only took cash. Of course. He kindly pointed out the nearest ATM (hundreds of back-breaking meters away), and I returned 20 minutes later, probably bright red and covered in sweat, but with cash in hand. I had a grateful 15 minutes to wait before the bus arrived, and I made use of the time to consume some of the snacks I'd brought along.

The bus ride was quite pleasant, and it included wifi service. I got on, and realized how many things I'd left undone, or how many things had gone sproing despite my planning. The most noticeable ones were that I'd neglected to check my checking account balance, and it was nearly empty (makes for an interesting time at the ATM), and that my Lebara SIM card resolutely refused to work. Every number I tried calling (including the Lebara service numbers) came back saying "Call barred." Intensely frustrating. Many searches around the Lebara website suggested that I was doing everything right. It just wasn't going to work. I finally decided that I'd just have to get an Irish prepaid card once I got to Cork. I was very very happy to have the tablet with me, and definitely think it was the right choice vs. bringing the little laptop computer. Even now, sitting here at a coffee table typing away on a folding Bluetooth keyboard, I'm pleased with the choice.

In Cork, I had noticed The GSM Store as we rolled into town, and that was my first stop. 99c and 10 Euros of credit later, and I had a working phone (albeit with a different number than I'd expected to have for the whole trip). I also used their open wifi point as long as I was there, to figure out how I was going to get myself to Motofeirme, which is the business/guy who helped me buy the bike, and has been storing it.

Martin (the owner/proprietor of Motofeirme) had explained, as I was on the bus destined to arrive in Cork at 2 pm, that he wouldn't be home until 9 pm, and suggested that I "spend as long as possible in Cork." I thought of my hundred pounds of baggage, and somehow that didn't seem like a fantastic idea. We traded a few text messages, and he agreed that I could just head to his place in his absence. So, I "sprinted" (for certain well-encumbered values of the word "sprint") over to the bus stop to catch the 3:05 bus to Kinsale.

The bus dropped me off in Belgooly, and per Martin's instructions, I dropped into the Huntsman to ask them to call me a cab. They did, and I had a cup of tea while I was waiting. The cab arrived in short order, and after a brief discussion ("Where are you going?" "I have these instructions," "Wait, are you picking up a bike?" "Yeah." "I know where we're going,") we were off. Less than five minutes (and 10 euros) later, we had arrived. At a locked gate. Leading to an imposing-looking barn on a barren patch of ground, with some giant tractors visible, and nothing else. "Is this the place?" asked the driver. "I think so?" I replied.

At that moment, very fortunately, a motorcycle rider pulled up, and was clearly about to unlock the gate. Martin had mentioned that two Aussies were staying with him. "Are you one of the Aussies?" I asked. "Yeah," he replied, clearly not sure what to make of the situation. "I'm the American," I said, hoping that Martin had actually told anyone else I was coming. It looked like he had. The Aussie (Terry) opened up the gate, and we drove to the big barn. The cabbie charged me 10 euros (a price I would have expected to pay for 3x the distance we actually went, but there was no meter in the car, so I think he just made up the price).

Long story short, Martin's place is a surprisingly sparse dirt lot with heavy farming equipment along the edges and a giant barn full of the tractors he uses to make a living. He has a little trailerhome off to one side of the lot, and once we got the barn (with its wonderfully overbuilt 3000 euro anti-theft doors) open, I beheld my new bike. It was covered in a decent layer of dust, but other than that looked to be in ok condition. I got it washed, and started installing the bits and pieces I'd brought with me. Terry offered to make me beans and toast for dinner. I gladly accepted, having basically forgotten to feed myself since some time on the plane, well over 12 hours before.

The nice thing about having the bike work to do is that it kept me from wanting to fall asleep too early. The trick to knocking out jetlag is to stay up as late as you can the first night, and try to get up late the next day, since your body wants to stay on the old schedule that would have you going to bed around midafternoon, and waking up near midnight. I didn't go to bed last night until 10:30 pm, and tonight I'm typing this (somewhat foolishly, I suspect) at 1:45 in the morning.

In fact, on that note, I'm going to wrap up this part of the tale, and continue tomorrow. I will just say that Martin did finally come home, at around 10:15. I would have been a deeply unhappy camper if I'd waited until he arrived to leave Cork.

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Created by Ian Johnston. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.