BEAM ME UP, SCOTTIE!

 TRAVELING:  FUN?

Wish I hadn’t already bought my ticket on Turkish Airlines for my Fall trip to England. 

I bought it a month before bombs killed 52 people in the airport and injured many more.  I just hate my selfishness when, instead of feeling compassion for those poor souls and their families, my first thought was, “Well, it was in the entrance and I’ll be walking in the gate area.”

A friend tells me, “I’d be afraid to travel alone like you do.”  As if I were not afraid now and then. 

Recently I came across these figures from the latest US Census:  • 57.6% of people 65 and older were married in 2015.  • 24.4% of people 65 and older in 2015 were widowed.

So, more than 40% of us do not have a spouse to help with travel plans, to carry or keep track of important “stuff” like a suitcase, passport and wallet, to help find the bus station or airport gate.  Which is why we have sisters, good friends, and tour groups.   Splitting the cost of a room with another person or two is economical.   And a traveling buddy can share the panic of possibly missed connections.

But traveling by myself can have advantages:   I do everything my way and when I make a mistake, I’m the only one to suffer from it.  I converse with strangers because there’s nobody else to talk with.   The woman in the next bus seat can become a free tour guide ("those are the Twelve Bens mountains"), telling me about her life.

Fifty years ago I had a mother-in-law who stopped doing everything she was afraid of.  Her life became so small!  I promised myself I would never do that. So when I planned  my 75th birthday travel extravaganza, I chose to travel by myself.  To prove I could do it and to keep my realm of possibilities as open as possible.

I love the excitement of being somewhere new:  noticing  how people live there, enjoying unfamiliar landscapes, eating exotic food.   But my body and mind now have limitations which won’t evaporate by doing yet more exercises, eating yet more kale.  

Sometimes the traveling bit is wearying.  If only I could be beamed up (where is Scottie when you need him?) to be delivered instantly to the new location. 

Anyway, it is June 6 and time to start the trek home.  I see the last of lovely Rosleague Manor as Andrew drives me to downtown Letterfrack.   The bus “station” is a stone wall where eleven of us sit, waiting for the big bus to Galway.  The other ten appear to be in their twenties, some with massive backpacks. 

The big bus arrives on time but we only get to Clifton when the driver stands and says, “I’m stopping here for 30 minutes.  You can either be locked in or locked out.”  Hunh?

Since I had lots of water and coffee at breakfast, I exit.  “Where is there a public toilet?” I ask the driver.

“The pub over there welcomes travelers.”  Unfortunately, the sign on Mannion’s door says it is closed because of a reserved funeral event inside.  At 11:55 the hearse drives by.  I find a crowded bakery-cafe across the street.  So crowded, they do not notice that I use the restroom and exit without buying anything.  What discipline to walk past the scones and sticky toffee!

Entering Clifden

Will the driver come back?

I join the growing gang of people waiting for the driver to return.  Fortunately, he asks previous passengers to enter first.  Then, those with reservations.  Finally, the huddled masses are allowed to enter, completely filling the bus.  After this, as he comes to tiny towns between us and Galway, he accepts only passengers with reservations.  Winging it is not always the way to go.  

Somehow, the driver avoids hitting the sheep on the side of the skinny road.  My Irish seat-neighbor thinks the sheep are put out there as lawnmowers.  Yikes!

What is the traffic jam ahead?  Could that be a child being pulled by the parents on their bike?  Us two older women wring our hands. 

My buddy loves the countryside, as do I.  We enjoy watching fields and farm machinery go by.  Her husband, though, is a city guy.  He is a professor of mathematics at Trinity College in Dublin.  She tells me about the wonderful time they had for the two years he taught at U.C. Berkley.  She loved the weather and looseness about the place.  

She likes the thrift shops in the U.S.  The ones in Dublin don’t sell the really good stuff.  “They put it in the window but sell it only one day a month. If you have to work that day, you’re out of luck.”

Coming into Galway

My buddy and I part with a hug when we leave the bus but end up seeing each other in the Galway bus station restroom.  The same two stalls are closed for repairs although it has been nine days since I last noticed them.

The express bus to Dublin is quite luxurious.  It even has a bathroom in it.  But the road becomes a typical turnpike.  

When we arrive at the Dublin airport I uncover my first mistake in planning this trip.  At home I had googled “Dublin Airport hotels” and selected the cheapest one with a good review about their breakfasts:  Airport View Hotel and Secret Spa.  Strange name but…

I envision a nice place right off the airport grounds where I can take a shower and prepare for the long plane ride tomorrow.  Turns out it’s a 20 minute ride by taxi.   What the heck?  The driver’s son died less than a year ago and he is still grieving.  He has a big house outside Dublin so his other two children can live there also.  He has no idea why the Airport View Hotel can call itself by that name.  “Nothing is out in that God-forsaken area.”   

We are in a factory district.  When I walk inside, nobody is there.  I case the place while anger at myself-as-travel-planner rises.   When a young woman finally appears she asks for my credit card.  “I don’t know whether I want to stay here,” I say.  “I haven’t seen the room.”  I have never, ever done that before.  What would Bill Bryson say?  It would be insulting, caustic and hugely funny (to us readers).

This is where I am, apparently

Where is everybody?

We walk along oddly angled hallways like rats in a maze.  The carpets are bordello red; photos of cosmetics grace the walls.  At the bottom of the steps I ask whether there is an elevator.  “No.  Do you want me to carry your suitcase?”   I let her.  I could carry my own suitcase but I don’t want to. 

“So where can I see the airport?” 

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“The name of this place is the Airport View Hotel.  Where is that view?”

“Oh, there was a window in one of the rooms where you used to be able to see the airport.   But they built a factory next to us so it blocks the view.”  

And then, “We’re closing the restaurant at 7 PM because of a bank holiday.  Is that OK?”  I usually eat dinner between 5:00 and 6:00 but, perversely, I am annoyed by this bank holiday weirdness.

I take a shower and head down for dinner with a chip on my shoulder, prepared to hate the food.  But on the staircase, I remind myself that I want to be a kind person and ask God to help me.

From that moment, everything turns around.  Dinner is delicious.  The cook comes out and talks with me.  He is a sweetie and glad I liked the fish.  The bed is comfortable.  All is again right with the world.

I’ve set three alarms for 6:15, 6:30, and 6:45 so I will have time for a leisurely breakfast and still meet the cab at 9:30.  But I wake up five times, afraid I’ll oversleep.  I surrender at 5 AM, hoping to get my mind in gear for the trip ahead. 

Sitting on the bed in my nightgown, I watch the morning news on Irish TV.  It is like watching a radio show.  No one looks at the camera.  They read from papers on the desk.  No fancy hair-dos, no glamorous outfits.  Suddenly I look down and find myself putting toothpaste, instead of skin cream, on my toes.   Good Lord!

I avoid having the Jumbo Jet or 737 for breakfast and order porridge instead.   The red-haired owner-cook tells me there is no charge; the coffee is excellent.  

As I wait in the dining room for the cab, I overhear a conversation between the owner and the seasoned assistant who arrives at 8:30.  “Sorry I’m late but…” she tells the owner.

“Not a problem.  I got the new girl to start.  She got here at seven.  We’re trainin’ her.  If she doesn’t do a good job on the rugs, I’ll beat her with the Hoover.”   Said in jest.

The taxi driver is a hoot.  He and the owner (Patrick and Jerry) insist I take a picture of them.  He charges 18 Euros to get to the Dublin airport, insisting I take the two Euros change from the 20 Euro bill to buy a snack.

 The British Airways line is humongous.  All of us are wondering what is going on.  When I finally get to the front, a stern female agent says, “I don’t see your name on the computer.”

I avoid going into shock and say, “With somebody my age, that comment could cause a heart attack.”

She apologizes so softly I barely hear her.  “Did you find it?” I ask.

“Yes, I said I found it, Madam.”  If I were Bill Bryson I would say something incredibly cutting and funny (to his readers) but all I come up with is, “Glad to hear it.”

 Security is not too bad although they run my laptop through a second machine.  There is time to shop for presents and a book to read on the plane, and even time for scrambled eggs and a cappuccino.  I anticipate having real food only on the flight from London to Atlanta.

We have to walk out on the tarmac to the plane and climb tall steps to get into it.  How would someone in a wheelchair get onto the plane?

I find I’ve been upgraded to first class.  First class!   I am only six steps away from the bathroom.   Plus the crew-mate is a real cutie.  I wish the flight to Heathrow was longer.  Somehow they give us honored guests a tasty lunch in that short time.

This is what a first-class bathroom looks like:

Wow, a picture on the wall!

We end up having to circle around a few times in the sky above London.  Since we were already late leaving, I am increasingly concerned about making the connection to the Atlanta plane.

I hate leaving this luxury but the trip is over and I have to find my way to the proper gate for the Atlanta plane.  I don’t have much time and the directions are horrible.  

HUNH? DO I GET OFF AT -2?

Yet another slow-down:

The plane to Atlanta is delayed because of earlier storms.  I doze off for about 30 minutes but mostly read my new Swedish mystery book until we land.  

I have to go through Customs or something, maybe Security.  I’m not sure because I woke up at 5 AM in Ireland and it is now 9 PM in Atlanta, meaning it is 2 AM back in Ireland.  I take no pictures of any of this because I am too tired to remember.  

I hope and pray that I do not miss the 9:40 shuttle to Athens.  I first have to take a bus from the International to the regular airport.  I un-tense myself by joking around with my bus-mates.  Pulling a suitcase, I can't run but I walk very briskly to the shuttle parking area where, blessedly, the Athens shuttle is still waiting.

When the door of the Groome van opens I see Ray Freeman-Lynde and his father-in-law inside!  Church friends coming back from Boston.   How marvelous.  I sleep half the way back to Athens although the conversation is very interesting.  

After I drive home, I am so very tired I leave my suitcase in the trunk.  After greeting Toni and Feather I fall asleep without brushing my teeth.

If only you could go places without traveling to get there.

Please share your own opinions about traveling if you like.  You can leave a comment (below) or, if that doesn't work, send me an e-mail at rwoodel.woodel@gmail.com.