London/Dublin Day 4.2/5: Year-End Drama

We got off the Gatwick Express at about 4 PM Tuesday, 30 December, checked in for our Ryanair 5:30 flight to Dublin, and were instructed to “watch the screens” for gate information. The screens just said “Stay In Lounge,” so we shrugged, made our way through security and emerged into Gatwick South Terminal’s central core.

I’d heard a joke before that the British Airports Authority, no longer satisfied with its (self-recognized) achievement of being “the world’s leading airport company,” was now setting its sights on becoming “the world’s leading shopping-mall operator.” My first time on the departures side of Gatwick led me to agree with that assessment. Instead of the concourse design popular in the US and Canada, with food and shopping interspersed among open gate areas with plenty of available seating, Gatwick uses a core/finger design. Waiting passengers are held in the central core, where 30-40 shops and restaurants are situated to prey on the bored and cash-heavy among them; when the gate crew is ready (30-90 minutes before scheduled departure), TV screens signal passengers to proceed to the assigned gate, located along a barren finger extending from the core (an occasional vending machine is the only amenity you’ll find on the way). No announcements are made outside the gate at any time, so you’d better not fall asleep while waiting for your flight; should you be worried about this, the shops will be happy to sell you all manner of caffeinated beverages.

Ryanair didn’t put the gate opening on-screen until 30 minutes before departure; this set off a massive stampede toward Gate 109, at the end of the longest finger (of course), where we promptly found about half the passengers already waiting. These were obviously the Ryanair veterans. Those of us new to the process found a second surprise when we stepped outside, discovering that instead of Ryanair, the plane we’d fly on was marked “ÍSLANDSFLUG / Icebird Airlines.” This small airline out of Iceland leases several Boeing 737-400s to Ryanair (and other airlines), lending to the already sketchy feel of an airline I’d described as “making Southwest feel like first class.”

Those low expectations served me well on this flight. The pilot didn’t waste any time getting to altitude, taking an absurdly steep angle as soon as the plane’s tail cleared the ground. Perhaps that was why the flight attendants had refused to let us put any carry-on baggage under the seat in front of us; everything had to be placed overhead. When he leveled things off, the flight attendants circulated quickly, first with the “in-flight magazine” that was actually a catalog for duty-free shopping and Ryanair crap souvenirs (hey, guys, I’m more likely to buy a Ryanair toy plane if I’m flying on, y’know, an actual Ryanair plane), then with the pay-for-everything drink service (not even water is free on this bird). The landing, just like takeoff, was a bit fast, but since they got us off the plane safely, I decided not to complain too much.

The Irish immigration officers were great — two older gentlemen obvsiouly enjoying their job which, in that Ryanair-dominated wing of the airport, consisted mainly of waving cheap vacationers through with a smile. With that hurdle cleared, we continued to baggage carousel #2 and waited for no less than 45 minutes for two previous Ryanair flights to clear their luggage before ours came through. Meanwhile, three other carousels sat totally idle.

We caught the Aircoach into downtown (er, the “city centre”) and walked a few blocks to the Litton Lane Hostel. I’d read good things about it, despite it being only our fourth or fifth choice (New Year’s Eve was rather heavily booked by the time we decided to go). We started the check-in process and found out that there were no lockers in guest rooms — valuables could be locked up at the front desk, with everything else you took your chances in the 8-12 bed co-ed rooms. As we tried to digest this, a guy came in, asked the front desk if his girlfriend had come in, then ran upstairs. We heard some screaming and cursing, then he came tearing downstairs with a backpack; she came down a minute later, claiming he had just taken her bag with “everything” in it. Needless to say, my opinion of the security situation at this place was not high; it took us about fifteen minutes to settle in, decide what we were willing to risk leaving in the room, and get going.

If we weren’t the first people to pop out of that hole in the wall (as police interviewed the couple in question) and hail a taxi for the Burlington Hotel, we probably weren’t far from it. That four-star hotel served as JMU headquarters in Dublin, and while Gwen’s parents weren’t staying there (they were at a different hostel, which they weren’t terribly happy with either), her brother and my whole family were, so it was a good place to meet up despite its location about two miles southeast of downtown. We went downtown for a long-delayed dinner, then returned and took advantage of the Burlington’s WiFi network to confirm our suspicions: we were stuck for at least that night and the next, so I left the backpack containing my iBook and other electronics in Mom and Dad’s hotel room. After securing our belongings as best we could (cheap baggage locks in place, keys, wallets and passports in sleepwear pockets), we finally collapsed of exhaustion around midnight hoping to get some better news in the morning.

Fortunately, that news was quick to arrive. Meeting Gwen’s parents in the morning, we found out first (a) that they had located and secured a Brewery Hostel-owned apartment in west Dublin at €30/person/night, and (b) that even us deadbeats could attend the JMU band’s private performance at Dublin Castle that afternoon, simply by jumping on the companion bus as if we were fully-paid participants in that pre-packaged trip. With little time to waste, we checked out of Litton Lane and taxied over to the new place, then walked back to the Burlington and picked up the bus to the Castle.

The building now called Dublin Castle is really more of an administrative building with a courtyard, built on the site of the original 12th-century castle. That’s because most of that first building, the headquarters of British administration in Ireland, was destroyed in the Irish Civil War. By luck, the MRDs wound up participating in the final ceremonial event at Dublin Castle before Ireland took over the European Union presidency for the first six months of 2004; a spokesman from the Department of Foreign Affairs gave a short speech about the significance of this before turning the reins over to Dr. Rooney.

When the Marching Royal Dukes’ trumpets hit the major theme of their opener, the magnitude of the moment really hit me — this was my sister’s group, performing as honored guests at what was once the British Queen’s official residence in Ireland, and is now a symbol of Irish independence. This was, not to understate things, a long way from halftime at Bridgeforth Stadium. Now understand, I’m a proud Virginia Tech Hokie, and I’ll come to our Marching Virginians’ defense in the band-smack wars that accompany any VT-JMU football game. But I tried to imagine the MVs striking up “Carry Me Back” in that place, and I just couldn’t do it. The MRDs’ precision and single-mindedness, which sometimes seems contrived to me on the Harrisonburg Astroturf, fit perfectly on Dublin’s cobblestone. I couldn’t see the MVs matching up.

After the performance, I found myself suddenly traveling solo for a bit — Gwen’s family did their own thing for dinner, and my family was locked into a pre-paid formal dinner-and-dancing night at the Burlington. So I stopped into Burger King for a quick dinner, then hit an Internet cafe and called Heidi from a Temple Bar payphone before meeting back up with Gwen at the apartment. About three blocks west on Thomas Street, we found a promising-looking pub, ordered our first round of Guinness, and anticipated the New Year’s arrival. A long December and a long year was coming to a close; 2004 was coming to Dublin.