DUBLIN (AIRPORT) - Highlights of a 3-hour layover in Ireland:
- Got a bit worried about finding the airport when my view out the airplane window featured miles and miles of green grass and a few tiny white buildings scattered about. Nothing to suggest a city, much less an air traffice control tower and runways.
- Taxiing to the gate, I saw a small herd of cows grazing alongside the runway. Gotta love Europe!!
- In the ladies restroom in the terminal, I spotted an ad for a nearby hotel described as being located in the "airside retail park." Sounds like a lovely, picturesque venue, doesn't it?
- Walking toward my connection gate, my path took me up a flight of stairs in the terminal..a flight of wooden stairs!
- The "transfer hallway" was something out of a fun house. With each right- or left-handed turn, the hallway became substantially narrower until the corrider was no more than 30 inches wide! Fat Americans need not apply.
- Instantly I was swept away from the glass and steel of Terminal B and transported into the rich, dark wood and even darker beer of the Ol' Sod at The Gate Clock, a fabulous pub in the airport.
And this is where I sat for an hour, nursing not a Guiness, but a latte. (Gimme a break, it was 8:30 am Ireland-time).
I love international terminals! The bookstores, coffee shops and souvenir stores all look the same no matter if you're in Chicago, Dublin or Sydney. But the dark or light or freckled faces! and the lilting, gutteral or twangy voices!! Fantastic! One of my favorite low-cash entertainment venues used to be O'Hare's Terminal 1. The dramatic hellos and teary goodbyes were better than any Hollywood flick. Of course, that was a wonderful way to spend an evening until bastards turned the numbers 9 and 11 into a horrific date of infamy.
But I digress.
All eyes glance up periodically, digesting the numbers and letters that flicker across the arrival and departure boards. More than once I've seen someone glance quickly at the monitor and break into a dead run for a departure only moments away. These situations, however, are reserved almost exclusively for Heathrow Airport in London, also known as Heart Attack Central.
Two older gentlemen sit at the table next to me, sipping Guinness from small glasses. I think they're speaking English, but I'm in Ireland and this native tongue is a totally different animal altogether. The clock reads 10 am local time. I wonder what time their bodies say it is?
Best t-shirt seen today: "Mumbassa Univ. 98"
