#2

Do not fear, my friends, that you will hear from me as often as it appears you will thus far; I am so sensitive to my readers as to know quite well that were it to be so, your eyes would get as tired from reading not-quite-frivolous enough material, as your fingers would clicking “delete,” and your lips, from muttering “oh, that jerk again.” Nevertheless, as I have once announced the impending journey, it seemed appropriate, now, to narrate some of the particulars thereof...I’ve decided to write it in a sort of running diary style, I hope this suits.

I arrive at the airport in a not-very-good mood. I have, in my three months in Dallas formed, somewhat foolishly perhaps, an attachment if you understand my meaning. Being of the sort of who never allows his wisdom to dominate his emotion, I could not help but find much in this attachment to like, and much to find of the experience to miss. Although both parties knew the score all along, and constantly reminded each other of it, we faced the choice, fundamentally, of stagnating, or progressing until the too-punctual, and by then quite painful, end and both chose, again the latter. Nor did our knowledge of the end keep us from having quite a bit of fun.
Again, we knew the score. I am sure that I will feel better soon. But, as you will perhaps allow, it’s not the sort of thing to put one in the mood for trans-atlantic flight. The list of things to put one in the mood for trans-atlatntic flight are perhaps low (love of recirculated air, a need to maintain the same posture for a decade of hours , acid) but you can imagine, as I leave everything I know for nothing I do, how my awareness of this is currently heightened.

I arrive at the airport and check my luggage. “This is going through to Dubai?” says the woman at the desk. “Dublin,” I say. I begin to worry. They do have the same first three letters.

I am surprised by Lufthansa airlines. First of all, there’s an hour delay, something I had understood incorrectly, would be punishable in Germany by a quite timely execution. Secondly, the only thing the stewards and stewardesses are particularly “efficient” at is asking me, punctually every hour, whether or not I wanted tea. I don’t mean, of course, that I expected them to remember that I had refused tea, each time, the time previously, although towards the end my 7-8 refusals would be appreciably strong evidence of my desires where tea is concerned—they have many passengers to attend to—my point is more along the lines of the fact that on a flight which spans the night hours, it may be fair to say that in upwards of 80% of the cases, sleeping persons do not want tea, and it is unnecessary to be absolutely sure before moving on. One must, however, appreciate German joviality in the face of these hostilely dormant patrons. “Ho ho!” said the stewardess to me, as I tried, fitfully, to find a second groove to wear through the chair, “You are not sleeping sir, you are only pretending!” Yes, indeed fraulein. In the states we would call this “trying to fall asleep,” a state preceding the latter, which perhaps the punctual Germans are able to skip, but which is generally not aided by constant attention. “Good! Tea?” And so I killed her with my tray table.

No, not really.

It was actually a large book.
I am not, now that I consider on ‘t, a good airplane companion on the whole. Although generally I love to talk to strangers, and learn about other people’s lives, I fear conversations that there is no means of escape from. I once had a pretty young Grecian woman explain to me, on a two hour bus across Crete, how exactly the Zionists were going to leave this planet for one with more resources, taking with themselves the genetic code of all the ancient Greek monsters (Chimaera, Medusa, and so forth), to return eventually in evil triumph (My own Jewish leanings I kept quietly hidden, for fear of being slain in a way most undignified, on public transport in an island off the Greece mainland, by a 90 pound woman…but I wonder, too, if I’m so far being left out of this exodus party which sounds bitchin’). Taking my lesson, I have since not tried to engage my compatriots on conveyances in conversation, but in my defense, I have almost never been seated next to extremely beautiful women, with loose morals, who are heading to the same place I am. Indeed, the 70 year old Russian woman who is my companion on this flight is not only immune to my blandishments, but in fact, apparently unable to understand a single word of them. Although, of course, that might be a trick. And one I’ve seen before…
And she is given to gently caressing my shoulder, as I sleep, as indication, apparently, of the fact that she would like, once again, to urinate. Goddamn tea.
The Frankfurt airport is a maze of hallways. Streamlined, bare, and not in the least comforting. I feel somewhat better after being intimately patted down by a rather large German woman in a security uniform. After these tribulations, however minor, it’s just nice to be touched, you know what I mean? “Danke Schone,” I murmur softly, as I feel her strong hands cup my buttocks in search of tremendously concealed weapons. The look in her harsh, dark eyes could mean anything. It could mean desperation, a powerful soul, trapped in the unromantic body of a middle-aged customs official. It could mean love.
One thing here does strike me as strange. Although the security is, as I say, much friskier than in the United States, and at one point I am kicked out of a wing of the airport for what’s apparently a routine scan, at no point does anyone ask me for my passport. This makes sense to me. It does seem to be, in some ways, quaintly American to believing knowing a person’s identity protects you from them. That is, if my face matches my license, I am clearly Bill, and “Bill wouldn’t do anything like that. I know the man!” In Germany, evidently, they don’t care who you are. You’re just not going to get away with anything. I like their attitude.
I have still, however, now an hour from leaving, encountered very little bureaucracy. Anyone else think the Germans are, like Dell computers, just coasting on their reputation (or in the latter case, providing one of the largest inducements to random homicide ever mass-marketed…as anyone who has ever overheard me on the phone with dell technical support knows well)? Can countries (with the exception of Italy, where it is a way of life) just mail it in?

Oh well, I don’t care. I just received word by email, which I paid some 3 euros to check as the initial euro ran out while I tried with increasing desperation to get the mouse to work, that the residency office in Dublin will be open until midnight tonight so I will be sleeping in my dorm, and not in the street. A good thing, I say. What with all the zombies.

I arrive, finally, in Dublin, with my two large bags. They look sandy (no they don’t). The cab driver thinks I’m pretty smart, which is nice, because I’m still feeling down. He takes me to the college where I make it, eventually to my room. Which is nice! To all potential visitors: It’s small, but not too small. I could probably fit up to two sleeping bags on the floor, and the couch in the kitchen, although not a good place to sleep, is still a place to sleep. Our rooms are operated by key card, as is the front door. I hear that front door click and run out to meet the first of my roommates (who seem nice). I introduce myself, quickly, as the guy who just locked himself out of his room. I get security. Twenty minutes later I introduce more of myself. In the morning, I register. First sign that I’m playing with the big boys now: registration is in a large hall with giant oil paintings of such folks as Jonathan Swift and Queen Elizabeth. #2 the room is dominated by a large carved sepulcher. I don’t know who is in said sepulcher, but he is currently being used as a registration desk.
Here I be. With a couple hundred euro in my pocket, no means of contacting anyone I know(I’m writing this in a word document till I get my internet up and running), knowing no one anywhere here anyway, and about to get started. The next two days are registration, where I will have to confirm, presumably through a series of tricks, that I am in fact a person, and then the business of setting up a temporary foreign life.
It has been suggested that I move this whole thing to a blog, which I may do. I offer once again the option, to everyone out there, of getting off this train before it starts rolling in earnest—you may have changed your minds upon discovering that I’m not going to lose interest any time extremely soon. This is the last time I’ll ask.

And if not, join me next time where I’ll investigate (possibly) such questions as “who was the dead man I signed papers on”? and “children: why can’t they control the volume of their voices.”

From the Irish demi-monde, straight to your kitchen to whip you up a delicious meatloaf with all the trimmings,

Andrew MacTobolowsky