Irish Adventure - aka Low Cost Airlines: You Get What You Pay For

Finally, could it be? Another update? Why yes it is. I suppose I've got a lot to catch up on, but I think in favor of actually doing that, I'll just pick out the highlights of the past few weeks, since that will probably be far more interesting than wading through a sea of verbosity pertaining to the majestic beauty of pretty much everywhere I go. In addition to that, I'm also going to cheat and use an adaptation a letter I wrote just a little while ago to cover the exciting parts of my Dublin adventure. So here goes!

The beginning of my harrowing adventure of getting to Dublin involved a 3km sprint/jog to the train station around 4:30 in the morning. (I think you've all probably realized that this has pretty much become my M.O. for traveling. Alexa asked me once I actually got to Dublin whether I'd heard of such a thing as a taxi, but quite frankly, I think that takes all the fun out of it.) I needed to catch such an obnoxiously early train in order to make it Frankfurt - about 4.5 hours away - in time to check-in for my Ryan Air flight at 10:15. Once I reached the train station, I was quite tuckered out, and was looking forward to taking a nice long nap until I needed to change trains. Unfortunately, this was not to be, since at the second or third stop, a large group of extremely drunken teenagers boarded my car and began yelling random things in German and English at the top of their lungs. I think my first mistake on this trip was engaging these totally trashed kids in conversation. Don't get me wrong, it was quiet interesting and entertaining, even despite it still being unreasonably early in the morning; the problem was that I either changed trains at the wrong station, or got on the wrong train at the correct station, on the advice of my new found, highly intoxicated friends. They were headed in the same direction as me, and from what I remember, the train we got on departed at the time I had noted on my scrap of paper turned itinerary, so I assumed it was the right one. Indeed, it did go to the right city, but arrived 10 minutes after my final connection to Frankfurt.

Now, Ryan Air requires passengers to check in at least 40 minutes prior to take-off, so I already knew I was going to miss my flight, since the next train would get me to the airport about 10 minutes before my flight, but that was alright, since I knew there was another one leaving in 12 hours, at 10:15pm. I thought I'd get a ticket for the next flight, and then just tour Frankfurt for the day. When I started looking for the Ryan Air check-in desk, I once again realized there was something terribly wrong - namely that there was no Ryan Air check-in desk. Finally, after asking several airport employees who all gave me rather confused looks in response to my question, one of them had a eureka moment and remembered that Ryan Air flys out of Frankfurt-Hahn airport, not Frankfurt-Main, where I was currently standing. Okay, no big deal; I just have to catch a local train to the other side of the city, right? Oh, if only it was so easy!

Twelve euros, 100km and an hour and half bus ride later, I arrived at the proper airport. When booking the next flight to Dublin, I assumed that there'd be little chance I could have my ticket from earlier in the day moved up and become valid for the later flight, since that would fall under the category of customer service, which is one of the non-essentials the low cost airlines have disposed of in the name of price management. I did, however, expect buying anther ticket to not be terribly expensive, since none of their tickets are terribly expensive. I had originally paid about 80 euro for my round-trip ticket. The standard fee for taking the next available flight? 75 euro!

So, after essentially paying for my flight twice, I was greeted with a 10 hour wait before my flight, in which time I could contemplate how ridiculous this whole situation was. 'Why not go see the city?' you ask. Unfortunately, 100km outside of Frankfurt, there is no other city. There is an airport, surrounded by farmland and windmills for as far as the eye can see. Ever seen the Tom Hanks movie, The Terminal? He had it good, being stuck in JFK airport. Frankfurt-Hahn is what I now imagine purgatory might be like. In fact, I began to wonder if that might not be the reality of it. I was there from noon until a little past 10 o'clock at night (mine, I believe, was the last flight that day), and there were about four or five people I saw just hanging around the airport that whole time, like me, but who apparently never got on a plane. Why else could they be there, other than to serve penance for their sins? I'm sure no western government with laws against cruel and unusual punishment would impose a sentence such as that upon any of their criminals. Okay, perhaps I'm hyperbolizing a bit, but only a bit.

I did eventually make it to Dublin, but only after I'd realized that with the amount of time it took me to get there, it may have been quicker to take a train from Konstanz to Paris, take the Eurostar to London, hop on another train there and take it to the west cost of England, and finally take a ferry from there to Dublin. But nonetheless, I made it.

I'm not really sure what preconceived notions I had of Dublin, but whatever they where, they weren't accurate. I think I was expecting it to feel more home-like because of the English speakingness, but at the same time, more exotic than it ended up being. It was really quite the reverse. Though I could understand most people, I realized that it doesn't really matter what language people are speaking, since I don't really talk to strangers any more in English speaking locations than I do elsewhere, so I guess there was a sense of alienation that dawned upon me. I don't really feel that in Germany, probably because I don't expect to understand and take part in a lot of conversation with people, primarily because of the language barrier, but here I did, since I had expectations that weren't met. I really have no idea where I got the notion that Dublin was a pretty city, since everything I've ever read by Irish authors seems to portray most every city in the country as being rather dreary. I guess they nailed that one on the head. This is not to say it's a particularly ugly city (Flint, I'm talking to you!), just that it's really nothing to write home about (though I did indeed do just that). Perhaps I should give it another chance when I have more time to really explore it. I think my limited stay, further impinged upon by the flight fiasco, really didn't give me time to properly experience the city, so although I won't renege on my first impressions, I will put them out there with this disclaimer.

There was one particular incident that really was a lot of fun that I'm glad I got to take part in. On my last day in the city, Alexa decided that I needed to try Guinness in Dublin, since according to her, it's better there than anywhere else. As we were walking down some little street just off the main thoroughfare, we passed this postage stamp sized pub, in which two guys where playing banjo and guitar, while another was singing along with them. We walked inside, each got a pint, and sat down to listen to the music. Apparently the fellow who was singing was one of the patrons, and all the guys in the place were taking turns singing. After he'd finished a few more songs, he came over to me and informed me that it was my turn to provide the entertainment. I told him I didn't know any Irish songs, to which he replied that that was alright, and seeing as I was an American, some Britney Spears would do just fine. I told him thanks, but no thanks. A few songs and about a pint later, I suddenly remembered that I did know an Irish song: "Whiskey in the Jar" (Thanks Mr. C!)

After thoroughly butchering the song, I had many an Irishman patting me on the back, either because they were impressed by the fact that I even knew the song, or because they were simply too drunk to care how badly I sang. Either way, I found myself the receiver of about six or seven insta-friends. Of these guys who started talking to me, apparently one was some sort of Irish dancing champion, while another was a handball champ, another was a boxing champ, and a fourth had played for Ireland's (national?) soccer team. I was never really able to ascertain whether these were indeed big name sports stars, or if they might have played in the minors of their respective sports at one time and enjoyed augmenting their stories for greater listening pleasure.

The week after these particular shenanigans, I traveled down to Camogli, Italy (near Genova), to meet up with Sanjay, his parents and his aunt for a weekend vacation. Though it was a wonderfully pleasant trip, it involved far less ridiculousness, so I'll keep the record of that trip for my personal notes. I should, however, have much to report on in the next few weeks. This Wednesday evening, I'm going with Kurt, my housemate from Flint, to Vienna and then to Prague over four days. The following week, I'm flying to Cairo to meet up with Brandon, and we will be gallivanting across the country, investigating historical sites, talking about the cost effectiveness of Zeppelin air travel, and generally being dorktastic. I will update as more excitement occurs – hopefully this will not involve such excitement as getting detained while crossing international borders and being forced to do complex mathematical problems while doing handstands, but who knows. (I jest Mother, I jest. Don't worry!)

Alright, time to grab a döner kebap!