I obviously planned it to happen that way. No one can be that lucky, right? Well okay, maybe lucky is the wrong word. Still, if it hadn’t been for me, we wouldn’t have had such special treatment, not once, but four times!
It all started a couple of weeks ago, when Shane and I were on our way to Italy to spend Easter with my aunt, uncles, cousin and other relatives. Our flight was scheduled to leave Heathrow airport around 4 pm, if I remember correctly. And since we were flying into Milan, we were told that we only had to be at the airport one hour before our flight. We got there about an hour and a half before we were scheduled to leave and couldn’t believe our eyes. The airport was almost as busy as it was when I flew home for Christmas. We pushed and prodded our way to the British Airways check in counter. They only had one person working on our side of the airport. One. Instead of, oh I don’t know, having 10. But that would have made sense, since the Easter weekend rush meant the airport would be a mess, and the Brits don’t work that way. In fact, if they can avoid working on holidays, they will, even if they’re scheduled to come in. For example, it’s not uncommon for train drivers to not show up for work on holidays, and for services to be cancelled because there is no one there to provide them. But of course, none of this entered our minds when we were deciding what time to head to the airport on Good Friday. I mean, airports are open every day of the year, and long weekends and holidays are busy for them. You can’t blame us for assuming they would have the situation under control. But we were wrong. Again. You would think that we would be used to this stupid country and their stupid ways of (not) doing things. But what can I say, we like to give them a chance to prove us wrong. Anyway, after waiting in line for 40 minutes, just to check in, we made our way to the security point. What a nightmare. At this point, we had about 25 minutes to make it to our gate before it closed, and the line snaked back a good 40 minutes. When we got there, we asked one security guy if we would have enough time to make it to our gate. He just shrugged and muttered “jfdaslk”. Gee, thanks pal. After standing there for about two minutes, we started to panic. The line had not budged. Now, right beside us was a special line, reserved for those with first class and BA club tickets. We pleaded with the guard blocking the entrance to that line to let us through, and he finally relented. We ran to the checkpoint, and had to wait behind these old people, one of whom had brought a knife with him for his plane ride. A knife! What a moron. And when the security dude confiscated it, the old fart started to bitch and moan about losing his precious knife. Now either this man was a complete retard, or his head has been resting securely up his ass since before September 11. I wanted to punch him. He was making us even later. Finally, asshat and his wife sort of moved through the point. They stopped about two steps past the guards, blocking anyone who was behind them. We almost pushed them to the ground on our way to our gate. At this point, we had five minutes to make it before the gate closed. And the gate was all the way on the other side of the airport. So we ran. And ran and ran, almost knocking people over on our way. When we finally got to the gate, I thought I was going to pass out. I hate running.
It took me the duration of the two-hour flight to catch my breath. When we got to Italy, my aunt and uncle were waiting for us. And it was 24 C out. Things were good. We spent the entire weekend eating good food, catching up on gossip, and shopping. It was really nice, although next time we go, we’ll go for a bit longer. Monday rolled around a little too quickly, and before we knew it, we were back at the airport. This time, it wasn’t as busy, except for the check-in counter at British Airways. Before we were even allowed to check in, we had to show the caribinieri our passports and tickets. So we had to wait for about 15 minutes in this really long line, before we could make our way to the BA counter to get our seat assignments and drop off our bags. Don’t ask me why. None of the other airlines had implemented such security measures. Stupid Brits. We finally got home at about 7 pm. We unpacked, had some dinner, and passed out. Weekend trips are tiring.
Kenny arrived the following weekend, and we had a great time hanging out with him and showing him the sights. For his last weekend here, we had planned to go to Dublin (it was another long weekend in the UK). So, Saturday morning, we woke up at 4 am to be ready for the 5 am train. Our flight was scheduled for 8 am, and this time, we were flying out of one of the regional airports, Stansted. We got there around 6:45 am, and made our way to the check-in counter. Although there were tons of people there, the experience was nothing like our trip to Italy. We checked in within about 10 minutes, and then made our way to the security point. The line stretched from one end of the airport to the other. I thought we were going to miss our plane for sure. But then, a funny thing happened. Security guards would routinely walk from one end of the line to the other to make sure anyone whose flight was leaving within the next 20 minutes would be brought to the front of the line. Why didn’t they do that at Heathrow? Probably because they’re assholes there. But that’s just my opinion. Anyway, we made our way through the checkpoint, and stopped to get a drink for the plane. At Stansted, you can’t walk to the gates, you have to take a shuttle train. And the shuttle trains go to different terminals. So, for example, if you want to go to Gate 12, you have to take the shuttle that goes to Gates 1-20. You can’t take any other shuttle to get there. Well, guess what we did. I misread the boarding pass, and we ended up getting on the wrong shuttle. We made our way to the gate we thought we were boarding at, only to find that we were in the wrong place. So, because we couldn’t take one of the other shuttles to get to our gate, we had to be escorted by a security guard to our gate. This meant that a guard had to come pick us up and drive us across the tarmac to our gate. Once we got to our gate, they were just about ready to board, and we ended up at the front of the line. This was perfect, since Ryanair (the airline we were flying) doesn’t assign seats. Basically, it’s a free for all, and first on the plane gets the best seats, which we did. So, because I misread our tickets, we got the best seats on the plane. You’re welcome Shane and Kenny. J
Once we landed, we made our way to our hostel, which was a really nice family-run establishment. Our room had a tv and an ensuite bathroom, much nicer than some hostels I’ve stayed in. Dublin itself was really nice, even though it rained the ENTIRE weekend. I’m not exaggerating when I say that either. Regardless of whether the sun was shining, it would rain. It was terrible. But we had a great time anyway. We went shopping, and we all realized how old we’re getting, since what we bought were things for our homes (Shane and I bought some bowls and a cool fruit basket, and Kenny bought some mugs). If we had been younger, we probably would have bought tons of Guinness memorabilia. We did get some pint glasses though. Saturday night we had traditional Irish food (I ate a bowl of Irish stew that was bigger than my head; I only finished half of it) and we went to a traditional Irish pub, and mingled with the locals, many of whom were 10 sheets to the wind by the time we got there. They sang along with all the Irish songs the band was playing, and one guy kept grabbing everyone’s ass. Nice. On Sunday night, we ate at this American-style diner and had some damn fine milkshakes and malts. Mmmmm. On Monday, our last day there, we spent the majority of the day sitting in a park, since it was the first sunny day we’d had. It still managed to rain a few times though. Nevertheless, I took lots of pictures and we had a great time.
We made our way to the airport, and flew into London without many problems. Of course, once we got here, that was a different story. The train service we had to take to get back from the airport was cancelled because they were doing “repair” work. Bullshit. Remember what I said about train drivers wanting long weekends too? Anyway, so we had to take a bus. And the bus only made one stop, to central London. This is not where we wanted to go. It was precisely 45 minutes out of our way. So, instead of making it home in 45 minutes from the airport, it took us almost two hours. Fucking Brits.
I can only hope that when we come home in a couple of weeks, things won’t be so bad at the airport. I’m not holding my breath though.
See you soon,
S.
