Crash Landing - continued -- in transit

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-continued

My next and final flight boarded on time and left on time. The stewardess gave me a bit of a shock when she looked at my ticket and said, “This is American Express.”

“Yes, but this is the right flight number,” I said, pointing out the number on my ticket.

“Did you check in?”

“I checked in when I flew out of Denver. They printed off these tickets for me, and I didn’t know I’d have to check in again.”

“Well, let’s just hope your seat isn’t taken,” she said distractedly. “If it is, we’re not full.”

I wearily trudged to my 9A seat and stowed my carry-on in the overhead compartment, casting anxious looks at anyone and everyone who so much as briefly paused near my seat, afraid that they’d brandish a ticket with the legit 9A.

I was fortunate in that no one claimed my seat (perhaps it was the wild animal expression on my face that kept them all at bay), and a charming American Scottish writer plopped himself down in the seat next to mine. We chatted through the majority of the seven-hour flight.

My oaths mean nothing.

He ended up giving me a signed copy of one of his books, and I’m very excited to read it. From what he told me, it’s a book about a character similar to Michael from The Office – but written before The Office premiered on television. He was full of humorous stories and witty remarks, such as “I work for myself and the boss is an idiot.” He also gave me quite a few good suggestions to help me work on my French and improve my knowledge of Irish humor. Father Ted and Dave Allen would be good places to start for Irish humor, and reading French comics such as Astrix and Lucky Luke would make French more fun. I loved how easy he was to talk with.

Also, a glass of wine at 30,000 feet had made me a wee bit loopy. Conversation is generally easier when a wee bit loopy.

The barely palatable airplane chicken was doing a fine job creating intense intestinal angst, so I told the chap that the hour was catching up to me and I ought to get some shut-eye. He agreed and helped me find the button to set my seat back a few inches (it’s startling how hopeless I am at finding things), and our conversation lulled as I did my best to drift off. I would be in Ireland with George in the morning.

When I woke up an hour or so later, the engaging writer had disappeared. I scanned the plane anxiously, wondering if he’d run off because I’d been snoring, smelled bloody awful, or was just worried that I’d wake up and start to jabber at him again.

The sheer amount of torment one can derive from pure, unfounded conjectures always amazes me. He appeared when breakfast was announced (an unappealing flat muffin that I  turned over morosely and then stuffed in the seat pocket in front of me), saying he had moved to another seat because the one next to me wouldn’t tilt back.

Our plane landed in Dublin at 8:15 Thursday morning, a good half hour ahead of time. I was exhausted and looking forward to drinking a cup of coffee in the terminal and writing about my trip before I took the 12:15 bus to Tipperary and George. I rushed to the bathroom before getting in line for immigration, as I didn’t want to be panicking about a full bladder whilst answering the Gard’s questions.  Not that I was worried, or anything. The previous time I’d flown into the Ireland, the Gard had briefly glanced at my information, smiled broadly, and welcomed me to his green country. Why should today be any different?

It was different. It was so very, very different.

“And what are ya doin’ in Rland,” the Gard queried brusquely.

“I’m staying with my friend, George,” I replied as I handed him my immigration card.

“What are ya doin’ wit George?”

“I’m helping him out around the house and volunteering with his horses,” I said quickly, proud that I’d used the word “volunteering,” and expecting some sort of praise/kudos for the service I was rendering Ireland (even though my plans with George were entirely based off of our friendship).

The Gard’s eyes narrowed, “Volunteerin’?”

“I’m really just helping out,” I said, as I noticed my position had not improved with the use of the V word.

“A helpin’ hand, huh? Dat’s even worse.”

“He’s a friend and he’s sick and his wife is in Australia with her new grandchild -- so I told him I’d help him around the house while she’s away.”

“And what’re ya gettin’ in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Food and lodgin’?”

“Well, yes.” Fear began to creep into my voice and my mouth started to feel like I’d spent the plane trip from Philadelphia to Dublin sucking on cotton balls.

“Den dat’s work, and I’m afraid ya need a work visa for dat kind o’ stay,” there was finality in his voice that sent me into a state of shock. Everything I’d been dreaming for, saving for, planning for might end right here with this by the letter Gard.

“He’s a friend. I’m helping him out around the house. That’s all it is,” I did my best to clarify.

“Have ya a phone number for dis George?”

“No, I’ve never needed to call him before. I suspend my service when I travel because my phone bill is too expensive. I don’t use phones at all – just email.”

My hands started to shake as I found a few emails from George on my iPhone to show the officer.

“See? All the emails? They’re all signed “with love,” or “much love”, or “your friend.””

“Anyone can say dat,” he replied, entirely unconvinced. “Now, yer not goin’ to be carted off in chains, but ya do need to realize dat ya might not be comin’ into Rland today. Ya can’t just go around volunteerin’ like dat. Ya can’t come into dis country and take jobs away from da Irish. Dis George fella ought to hire someone to help him around da house and stop exploitin’ Americans. Dat’s slave labor, and I tought we’d abolished dat years and years ago. He’s just too lazy to hire someone, he is.”

“He’s a friend. I want to help. Please – please don’t send me back.”

“Have ya got his phone number?”

“No, I told you that I’ve never needed it.”

“Dere’s a plane for Philadelphia leaves at 11:15. You’ll be on dat.”

“I can’t go back.”

“Oh, why can’t ya now?”

“Because this is my life. I don’t have a home in Colorado. I have these two bags and that’s it. Everything else is sold or given away. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a car. I have these two bags and my plans.”

“I appreciate what yer sayin’ to me, but ya can’t just come into a country and volunteer, stealin’ work from da Irish.”

“I’m just helping.”

“Have ya got a return ticket home?”

“No, I’m going to Wales after and I’m taking the ferry. I’ll be staying with a friend in Newport. But I have other tickets.” I rummaged through my High Sierra and handed over copies of my tickets from London to Nice, from Nice to Frankfurt, from Munich to Rome, and from Naples to Istanbul.

“Is dere anytin’ else ya have to say before I put ya on dat 11:15 plane?”

“I can stay with other friends. Roisin in Cork would put me up – she’s a friend I met at a yoga teacher-training program in Spain. I already have plans to stay with James and I’m sure he would let me come earlier, if I needed to. Please, give me some time to contact other people.”

“No, no I can’t let ya do dat. As soon as yer trough, yer gonna scurry off to dis George fella.”

“I can stay with Roisin, please don’t send me back. This is my life. This is what I’ve been working for and saving for the entire year.”

“Have ya got George’s last name for me?”

“I know it’s pronounced “Duram”, but it’s German and I’ve never seen it spelled.”

“So, what yer sayin’ to me is that ya don’t have da phone number or da last name of a good friend? I find dat particularly hard to believe.”

“His wife’s last name is Mulcahy. Maria Mulcahy. They own Knockara Stables in Emly, Tipperary,” I desperately mentioned all the pertinent information I could.

“Come wit me,” the Gard said, and I followed in fright as he led me through a door to the right of the immigration booths and sat me down in a small white room.

“If dis bag checks out, maybe you’ll be fine. What’s in here?” he gestured to the locked compartment.

“That’s just full of my art supplies. Watercolors and micron pens and pencils and sketchbooks. I have an art teacher giving me challenges for each country I visit.”

It’s amazingly difficult to open a lock when you’re shaking too badly to hold the key.

“Dat’s fine. And what’s dis?”

“That’s a podcasting microphone. I interview people in every country I visit, asking the same 25 questions. It’s a cultural project. I have about 60 interviews so far from 7 countries.”

“What're dese?” he continued to rummage through my suitcase, spilling the contents over the floor.

“Those are my business cards. Gallivanting Grasshopper is my website for my travel adventures.”

“And dis?” he picked up a fat envelope with my name on it.

“That’s a romantic letter from someone I left in Grand Junction. He told me to read it on the flight over.”

“Oh,” he said, putting the letter back in my case. “Well, at least folks are still writin’ romantic letters. What’s dis picture?”

“George liked the picture of me in my backpack, so he asked me to print it off and bring it to him.”

“Dat’s fine,” and the Gard took my flight information and disappeared through another door, leaving me alone in the white corridor, trembling from fatigue and fear. He returned a few minutes later and the expression on his face gave me very little hope of things being, “maybe fine.”

“Let’s see if we can call dis George,” he stated as we walked back to his station at immigration.

“Look up Maria Mulcahy. You can probably find a number under that.”

“I see Knockara Pates. She has a pate company? Where is dat?”

“It’s on the side of the house.”

“And who’ll be runnin’ da company while she’s away? In Australia?”

“No one, I assume. I don’t know how to make pates.”

“I can poke a tousand holes trough yer story.”

“Please. Call George.”

And the immigration officer dialed my old friend. Lena, a German girl, answered the phone.

“Ask for George,” I told the officer.

“Yes, George,” the Gard began. “I’ve got an American girl here at immigration sayin’ she’s come to see ya. Now, what exactly is she goin’ to be doin’ at yer place?

“Yes, Aimee. She is my friend who has come to help me around za house.”

“Ya can’t prove dat. Anyone can say dey’re a friend.”

“Haf her show you her computer. You vill see all my mails saying, “vis all my lof”.

“I see you’ve got a pate business. Will she be helpin’ around da pate shop?”

“No, zat is my vife’s business and Maria is in Australia vis her new grandchild.”

“Ya can’t prove dat. Ya can’t just be takin’ people in to volunteer for ya. Dat’s work.”

“She is only helping. She is not getting paid.”

“Yer payin’ her in food and lodgin’, and in my mind, dat’s work. We have a difference of opinion, sir, and unfortunately, it’s my opinion dat matters.”

“She is not vorking. She has come to help me to stay alife. My vife is in Australia and I have Parkinson’s and diabetes and she is making sure zat I don’t die. Can I talk to Aimee?”

“No, she can call ya later if she likes.”

“You are an asshole.”

The Gard hung up the phone and looked at me.

“I’d be doin’ ya a favor.”

“You would,” I responded eagerly.

“I’d be doin’ ya a favor in keeping ya away from dat man,” the Gard sighed. “Dat’s da problem wit me. My boss said I should send ya home. I let a fella into Rland I knew I shouldn’t have two weeks ago who said he’d be out in a week. He hasn’t left yet.”

“I’m leaving in five weeks. I’m going to stay with my friend in Wales. It’s all planned.”

“No work, ya hear? Yer not to take any work while in Rland.”

“No work.”

“Now ya can go and write about da meanest man ya ever met in dis country. Enjoy your holiday, aldough I don’t tink ya will now.”

And he stamped my passport.