Day 1
Arrive at the airport to find out our 9:45 p.m. flight is delayed five (5) hours. Seven (7) hours from when we are standing at the check-in line at the airport. We’re not at the nice terminal, mind you; no, we’re at the shitty-ass terminal that has wrapped sandwiches and flights to places on the globe I have never heard of. We went home, ate Thai, watched TV and went back to the airport to catch our 1:45 a.m. flight.
I also realize that we are flying back Monday instead of Tuesday, but I have a hotel booked Monday night. I convince Aer Lingus (hereinout the “Flying Assholes”) to extend our trip an extra day for no cost. I consider this a victory. (Foreshadowing.) We are now flying home Tuesday.
We check both bags. I sense something is wrong so certain things (i.e., medication) do not get packed. We carry nothing on except electronics. We do not mingle clothes in suitcases for the first time ever. You know, except my favorite DVF dress. (Again, foreshadowing). I watch both bags go ON to the little runway to nowhere. I see them get sucked up into the flaps. The baggage dude says to me, “You can go now. Have a nice trip.” Famous last words.
Day 2
We arrive in Dublin and wait at the baggage carousel. Lots and lots of bags come off and I start to worry. The plane was not full so our bags should NOT be taking this long. Towards the end my small suitcase appears. I start to pray silently, please don’t let Sports Fan’s suitcase be lost. Please let it come off the runway. Now. Now. Now? The carousel stops moving. My heart drops into my stomach. He looks at me. I shake my head.This cannot be happening. Not now. Not Ireland. I walk over to the Flying Assholes’ “Help” desk and explain the situation. They assure me that it will be on the next flight and they will send it to our hotel in Galway the next day. By lunchtime. I’m hopeful. Sports Fan is not. He is already giving up hope. I convince him we can still catch the train to Galway. “It will be there tomorrow. They told me.”
We take a taxi to the train and find our reserved seats. I don’t know how long it takes us to realize that reserved seats means the asshole car with no air conditioning. Since when does “reserved” mean crappier treatment? Did the people on the lowest levels of the Titanic reserve their places first and the people who had beds and china just happened to wander on at the last minute? Sports Fan is dying of heat. In the only clothes he has in Europe. He finds other seats in the packed train after a couple of stops and we move. The ride is fine, but we say aloud to each other, “doesn’t this countryside remind you of New Jersey?”
We get to Galway and it immediately starts to rain. We look around and think, “what’s the big deal?” Sports Fan is overheard comparing it to Hoboken and someone scoffs at him. Guess we’re not the only ones from the North East, but we’re the only ones not enamoured. We ask directions and start walking towards the hotel down a sketchy block that looks like it was built in the ’70s. He keeps asking me if I’m sure we’re walking in the right direction. Truthfully, I’m not sure. There are no fucking street signs. I just followed the guy’s directions. “A quarter of a mile, he said. Keep walking.” We spy the hotel and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Check-in is easy enough. We forget that in Europe “0″ is the ground floor and we stumble around trying to find room 115 for a few minutes. We walk in and Sports Fan’s face says it all. I tried to save money because of my predicament, being laid off. It was a medium-priced hotel. It actually isn’t terrible. Slightly run-down. Not four stars. Kind of trendy in the decor, but it doesn’t look fresh and clean. It looks dingy. We both walk into the bathroom and sigh. There is grime in the sink. I think to myself that I need to start carrying cleaning supplies when I travel, but then again, they would be in the big suitcase. (That became the joke of the trip — whatever we wanted/needed would have been in the big suitcase).
We were hungry and tired, but the most important thing was finding Sports Fan some clothes before the shops closed. I asked a guy in the bar downstairs and he sent us to Dunnes, which seemed to be the equivalent of an H&M. Cheap clothes, sort of trendy. Sports Fan bought a hoodie and a t-shirt, socks and boxers. We couldn’t find a pharmacy or any place to buy a toothbrush, face soap, hair gel or other toiletries. We gave up easily, ready to eat and have a beer.
Finding food, though, was not as easy as we expected. We Googled, naturally. Best food in Galway, best restaurant in Galway, best pub in Galway. Nothin’. A couple of sites suggested The Huntsman Pub, which was out of the downtown area, so we took a cab there. If that is the best that Galway had to offer, I hate to see the worst. It was essentially bad New American fare. Now, I feel at somewhat of a disadvantage traveling as a New Yorker, and other New Yorkers have said the same thing, because I have such great food here. But really! I don’t even remember what Sports Fan got. I got the steakburger. Please, take my advice. In Ireland, do not order a steakburger expecting a hamburger. It is essentially meatloaf, in patty form, cooked through and cooked some more. It is awful. The Huntsman was not the only place we made the mistake of ordering it. Of course, we drank Guinness, and thank God for that.
We got back to the hotel, checked the lost baggage number for the first of dozens of times and went to sleep.
