Letter From Ireland
3/23/05 08:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyHere's a letter from the niece! I love her too much!!
It is a treasured thing, those little markings in the travelling student’s passport. When entering or leaving a country, there’s a certain satisfaction in the thump of rubber hitting those tiny booklets. It says, yes, I have been to (insert country here). And if the pictures and tacky memorabilia aren’t enough to convince you that I am indeed a continental jet-setter, here is very official documentation. So there.
Which is why I was fairly perturbed when I returned from Manchester, England with only a cheap keychain in the shape of one of their signature phone booths. Oh, clever little thing.
When I landed in the Manchester airport and strode up to the check point, I was faced with a dilemma. There was a line for non-EU citizens (me), and a line for arrivals from Ireland (me). I wavered between the lines for a bit until the gruff-looking man behind the Non-EU desk raised his gaze wearily at me. I shrugged at him imploringly, beseeching his wisdom. He waved me along to the next line, and I got the distinct sense that the man would have waved me on if I was a new arrival from Bolivia.
Okay, I thought to myself. I can be EU.
When going through the Ireland line, I fumbled ridiculously with my purse. I grappled in a zipper pocket for my passport, secondary form of identification, third form of identification, the name of the hostel where I would be staying, my bank statement, a vile of my life’s blood, copy of my passport, drivers license, fringerprints, and ass, while with my other hand was removing my shoes. For such is customary in America.
The officer (I later discovered he was actually a janitor covering for a co-worker) turned away from a conversation he had been holding and asked for my boarding pass.
What the…?
And my mind exploded a little. Didn’t I just get off a plane? Why boarding, what was I boarding? Was I terribly mixed up? Oh god, I thought, as I had visions of erroneously boarding a plane for Pakistan. I prayed I could still remember my Pakistani from high school...
He glanced at the piece of paper I handed him, then turned back to his discussion. I waited for a moment, until it became clear that I had just completed the rigorous process of gaining access to a foreign country.
Well, how about that.
I think perhaps one of my favourite things about Europe, although I miss my Manchester stamp, is their relaxed attitude towards security. In a panic, I’ve boarded the bus to the Dublin airport, frantically thinking, oh god, I’m only going to get there two hours early. TWO HOURS EARLY!!! Why, that's barely enough time to get my urine and blood samples together for security! And what of the dental imprints? I knew I should have left for the airport three days ago.
I then invariably spend one hour and forty minutes browsing the Travelshop magazines until they eyeball me hard enough to sheepishly go sit by my gate, patiently waiting like a child in church.
I suppose my first clue about the Irish feelings about security should have been on the very plane ride here. A man sitting not very far away was intoxicated and noisy, and the flight attendants had only allowed him on the plane under the stern condition that he was not permit to drink any more. They had been very firm about it.
Oh my yes, that’ll show him.
Except that he pulled a small bottle from his coat, and began to work on that.
Everyone within a three seat radius moved to a different part of the plane.
The exasperated flight attendant came over and took the bottle away.
And that was that.
Except that he pulled a small bottle from his coat, and began to work on that.
And everyone within a five seat radius moved to a different part of the plane.
This episode was repeated so many times that towards the end of the five hour flight the mother fucker had nearly an entire cabin to himself. I wonder now offhandedly if he could have planned this—why, with all the room he had it was nearly like being in first class. And insidious one, this drunk was.
Obviously, this was not acceptable conduct for a passenger of the prestigious Aer Lingus airline. They had officers waiting to escort the man off the plane when we landed in Shannon airport. I thought, good riddance.
Apparently the officers had been there to ensure the safety of this unsteady passenger, to walk him cautiously off the plane to be certain he didn’t stumble and harm himself in his shaky condition. I say this because I saw him leave the airport at the same time I did, and was boggled when the man boarded the same bus to Galway as I did. There were absolutely no consequences for his inappropriate behaviour.
And on the bus, he pulled, from his pocket, a tiny bottle.
The absurdity of this situation never fades away. I think of this man going through Aer Lingus’s security in JFK and imagine him being patted down, producing odd clinking noises. Clinking noises, of course, don’t indicate explosive devices, the guards must have reasoned, and sent him on his excessively merry way.
I, on the other hand, was wearing big shoes and this resulted in the search of my belongings and the destruction of one of my suitcases. Now, if only I had been laden with liquor, I could have saved myself 40 euro in new luggage.
I’m not sure why the European travel system is so much more relaxed. Of course, we have 9/11 still smoldering in the back of our minds to keep us on our toes, but I think it has more to do with the way Americans view travel that keeps our security lines abysmally long and our passport-stampers burnin’ rubber.
It has seemed to me that few Americans rarely cultivate a passion for travel. Or, the passion exists, but exists only in this dream-the-impossible-dream syndrome. “I’d love to go to Europe…one day, you know…but…there’s that whole ocean and all...”
I have yet to meet a European that has not left his or her home country for any period of time. To them, hopping on a plane to Denmark is nearly the same as hailing a cab to the city center, or centre, if you prefer (and you’re European, you will). And of course, you don’t get patted down in a taxi, and the airports abroad are nearly as simplistic.
For god’s sake, sometimes it seems easier for a student or a person to become President of the United States (although they’ll give that job to just about anyone these days) then to visit a place that isn’t Disneyland or the Grand Canyon. And while the Grand Canyon is breath taking, it doesn’t discount the beauty of the Cliffs of Moher, or the sublime beaches of Greece, or the majesty of the Alps. And Disneyland is, undoubtedly, one of the best places on earth (and I’m headed there this summer, wah hoo), what about the undeniable magic of EuroDisney? Okay, perhaps a bad example, but my point is clear.
I’d urge each and every person to travel beyond our borders, purple mountains majesty be darned! There’s so much to see, to taste, to smell (not always the best part of travelling experiences, the pungency of fresh cow poo on Inis Meain will stay with me for a long time), and it’s not as far away as we imagine. And though you may not always get a nifty stamp in your passport, it’s worth it.
It is a treasured thing, those little markings in the travelling student’s passport. When entering or leaving a country, there’s a certain satisfaction in the thump of rubber hitting those tiny booklets. It says, yes, I have been to (insert country here). And if the pictures and tacky memorabilia aren’t enough to convince you that I am indeed a continental jet-setter, here is very official documentation. So there.
Which is why I was fairly perturbed when I returned from Manchester, England with only a cheap keychain in the shape of one of their signature phone booths. Oh, clever little thing.
When I landed in the Manchester airport and strode up to the check point, I was faced with a dilemma. There was a line for non-EU citizens (me), and a line for arrivals from Ireland (me). I wavered between the lines for a bit until the gruff-looking man behind the Non-EU desk raised his gaze wearily at me. I shrugged at him imploringly, beseeching his wisdom. He waved me along to the next line, and I got the distinct sense that the man would have waved me on if I was a new arrival from Bolivia.
Okay, I thought to myself. I can be EU.
When going through the Ireland line, I fumbled ridiculously with my purse. I grappled in a zipper pocket for my passport, secondary form of identification, third form of identification, the name of the hostel where I would be staying, my bank statement, a vile of my life’s blood, copy of my passport, drivers license, fringerprints, and ass, while with my other hand was removing my shoes. For such is customary in America.
The officer (I later discovered he was actually a janitor covering for a co-worker) turned away from a conversation he had been holding and asked for my boarding pass.
What the…?
And my mind exploded a little. Didn’t I just get off a plane? Why boarding, what was I boarding? Was I terribly mixed up? Oh god, I thought, as I had visions of erroneously boarding a plane for Pakistan. I prayed I could still remember my Pakistani from high school...
He glanced at the piece of paper I handed him, then turned back to his discussion. I waited for a moment, until it became clear that I had just completed the rigorous process of gaining access to a foreign country.
Well, how about that.
I think perhaps one of my favourite things about Europe, although I miss my Manchester stamp, is their relaxed attitude towards security. In a panic, I’ve boarded the bus to the Dublin airport, frantically thinking, oh god, I’m only going to get there two hours early. TWO HOURS EARLY!!! Why, that's barely enough time to get my urine and blood samples together for security! And what of the dental imprints? I knew I should have left for the airport three days ago.
I then invariably spend one hour and forty minutes browsing the Travelshop magazines until they eyeball me hard enough to sheepishly go sit by my gate, patiently waiting like a child in church.
I suppose my first clue about the Irish feelings about security should have been on the very plane ride here. A man sitting not very far away was intoxicated and noisy, and the flight attendants had only allowed him on the plane under the stern condition that he was not permit to drink any more. They had been very firm about it.
Oh my yes, that’ll show him.
Except that he pulled a small bottle from his coat, and began to work on that.
Everyone within a three seat radius moved to a different part of the plane.
The exasperated flight attendant came over and took the bottle away.
And that was that.
Except that he pulled a small bottle from his coat, and began to work on that.
And everyone within a five seat radius moved to a different part of the plane.
This episode was repeated so many times that towards the end of the five hour flight the mother fucker had nearly an entire cabin to himself. I wonder now offhandedly if he could have planned this—why, with all the room he had it was nearly like being in first class. And insidious one, this drunk was.
Obviously, this was not acceptable conduct for a passenger of the prestigious Aer Lingus airline. They had officers waiting to escort the man off the plane when we landed in Shannon airport. I thought, good riddance.
Apparently the officers had been there to ensure the safety of this unsteady passenger, to walk him cautiously off the plane to be certain he didn’t stumble and harm himself in his shaky condition. I say this because I saw him leave the airport at the same time I did, and was boggled when the man boarded the same bus to Galway as I did. There were absolutely no consequences for his inappropriate behaviour.
And on the bus, he pulled, from his pocket, a tiny bottle.
The absurdity of this situation never fades away. I think of this man going through Aer Lingus’s security in JFK and imagine him being patted down, producing odd clinking noises. Clinking noises, of course, don’t indicate explosive devices, the guards must have reasoned, and sent him on his excessively merry way.
I, on the other hand, was wearing big shoes and this resulted in the search of my belongings and the destruction of one of my suitcases. Now, if only I had been laden with liquor, I could have saved myself 40 euro in new luggage.
I’m not sure why the European travel system is so much more relaxed. Of course, we have 9/11 still smoldering in the back of our minds to keep us on our toes, but I think it has more to do with the way Americans view travel that keeps our security lines abysmally long and our passport-stampers burnin’ rubber.
It has seemed to me that few Americans rarely cultivate a passion for travel. Or, the passion exists, but exists only in this dream-the-impossible-dream syndrome. “I’d love to go to Europe…one day, you know…but…there’s that whole ocean and all...”
I have yet to meet a European that has not left his or her home country for any period of time. To them, hopping on a plane to Denmark is nearly the same as hailing a cab to the city center, or centre, if you prefer (and you’re European, you will). And of course, you don’t get patted down in a taxi, and the airports abroad are nearly as simplistic.
For god’s sake, sometimes it seems easier for a student or a person to become President of the United States (although they’ll give that job to just about anyone these days) then to visit a place that isn’t Disneyland or the Grand Canyon. And while the Grand Canyon is breath taking, it doesn’t discount the beauty of the Cliffs of Moher, or the sublime beaches of Greece, or the majesty of the Alps. And Disneyland is, undoubtedly, one of the best places on earth (and I’m headed there this summer, wah hoo), what about the undeniable magic of EuroDisney? Okay, perhaps a bad example, but my point is clear.
I’d urge each and every person to travel beyond our borders, purple mountains majesty be darned! There’s so much to see, to taste, to smell (not always the best part of travelling experiences, the pungency of fresh cow poo on Inis Meain will stay with me for a long time), and it’s not as far away as we imagine. And though you may not always get a nifty stamp in your passport, it’s worth it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
3/24/05 05:02 am (UTC)But the young tend to gloss over the fact that in the US, we only get, on average, two and half weeks of vacation whereas, Europeans get at least a month!
(no subject)
3/24/05 05:43 am (UTC)And yes, she really does have a way with words! *is so proud*
(no subject)
3/24/05 03:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/24/05 07:53 pm (UTC)