Dublin the Last

      The Book of Kells—Trinity college

      Never heard of it before?  Me either.  The Book of Kells, not Trinity College.  I ran across Trinity College in James Joyce and other such esoteric places.

      According to the official blurb, “The Book of Kells is an illuminated manuscript written in Latin, and containing the four  gospels. . . . It was created around 800AD by early Christian monks.  . . . It is widely regarded as Ireland’s finest national treasure.”

      “Illuminated” in this case means decorated with bright colors rather than doused in light, since it was done on calfskins, 150 of them.  Between the fancy calligraphy and the Latin, reading the larger-than-life displays was a task.  The Goodwife rented the audio and wandered around trying to coordinate what she saw with what was going into her ears.

      I didn’t think it was worth the trouble to get the audio, especially since my hearing was still compromised.  (Did I mention that I had a bad cold about ten days before we left on our trip that filled my ears with liquid?  Six weeks later, I have periods of normal hearing, which I am informed isn’t too good anyway.)

      I wandered around and read the information accompanying the displays.  As with any work of visual art, things made a lot more sense after someone explained the symbolism and all such things that I never notice just looking at it.

      Above stairs, there was something I did understand without elucidation.  It is called the “Long Room”, and it runs the full length of the big building.  The common folk are allowed to wander up and down the center of the long room.  On either side are huge, like 12 or 15 feet high, shelves full of books, many of them ancient.       

      Students and trained volunteers work at maintaining and preserving the old volumes.  In a room at one end of the hall, you can see them working, wearing white gloves and masks.  The busts are of famous people like Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope from the literary world and many scientists like Newton and Einstein. 

      Having drunk our fill at a fount of learning, it was time for a little soup to ward off the drizzly grey day.  Somewhere along in there, the Goodwife got the idea that she should visit a quilt shop.  The waitress spent about ten minutes on her cell phone trying to find the closest one.  There wasn’t one very close.

     I asked her where the tourist information place was.  That was much simpler, just down the street in the next block.  We found it no problem.  We needed to buy new LEAP cards so we could ride the train.

      Supposedly, there were over 600 places to buy or add time to our LEAP cards.  Except, not if you have a tourist LEAP card.  The tourist LEAP card, apparently, has a better rate than a regular one.  If you go to add time to the card, you pay at the regular rate.  Plus, you have to have some idea how much you are going to use it.  You pay by Euros, but you get charged by how much you use the card.

       On the train, you use your card to pass through the turn style when entering a station, and sometimes again when you leave, so they have an idea how much you used your card.  We tried two or three stations where there were live persons manning the ticket window.  They all advised us to find the tourist information office.  So we did.

     The two ladies that waited on us at the office not only sold us a card.  They had a surefire quilt shop we could find.  It was a ways off, but easy to find.  Just follow this street up a hill, past a construction site, turn left when we found something, I don’t remember what.

      As we stood pondering just what street we should be going up, another lady stopped to help us.  She sent us up the correct street, but at the top of the hill, we came to one of those pesky forks in the road that never get mentioned in the instructions.  A friendly policeman had never heard of the quilt shop.  He pulled his cell phone out of his hip pocket and soon had the address.

       It wasn’t as easy as the tourist ladies suggested.  It was on a side street somewhere.  We never found it.  We got sidetracked.  Trying to follow the policeman’s instructions, we passed two old churches standing side by side.  One church claimed to go back to Viking times.  Plus, it said free guided tours.

      We were the only ones in there, so we got our own personal tour guide, a walking history book, he was.  He told us all about the Vikings, coming and taking over Ireland.  Everywhere we went, including Denmark and Iceland, we ran into those rascally Vikings.  They came to Ireland to get women.  They decided to stay because the winters were a lot milder than where they came from. 

       When they converted to Christianity, they built churches.  This particular church had been built, destroyed, and built again about three times.  There is a modern addition, too.  When they were excavating to remodel, they stumbled across some signs of former buildings.  Some of those dig sites are preserved, a rectangular hole in the floor, fenced off so you can peer down and see what the excavators found.

      In other places there are stones etc. from former buildings, tying the current structure to past ones.  The church next door is a Catholic one.  During the English religious wars, Dublin converted to the Anglican Church. This was one of the few Catholic churches that were allowed to exist.
     That ended our quilt shop quest.  We were worn out and ready to find an eatery and head for home.  We tried to find an Irish meal, like corned beef and cabbage, but the waitress told us we would not have much luck finding that dish anytime except lunchtime. 

      We visited two or three castles during our stay.  The most interesting one was Dalkey.  Not that it was too much different from any other castle.  But our tour was conducted by three or four different people.  The first guy had us sit down and watch a short film.  Then he turned us over to an archer, dressed in costume and carrying a real live bow and a quiver of arrows.  He acted the part of the bowman/soldier and explained the ins and outs of conducting a war with bows and arrows.

      He handed us off to a maid, also in costume, who explained some of the domestic details of castle life, sleeping arrangements, cooking, bathing (once a year, maybe, usually in the Spring, right before a wedding).  She led us to the top of the castle walls where we could look at the village and see how the castle could protect the area.

     The maid handed us off to the physician, in this case also a female.  She was impersonating an actual woman who acted as the barber, dentist, and physician for the castle centuries ago.  She explained the tools of the trade, hair cutters, tooth pullers, bleeders, and the processes involved.  That included urinalysis.  She had a jar of urine (supposedly) which she held up to the light, analyzed the color, the smell, AND the taste.  Gross!  I know, it was fake, but still.

      They had to be tough to exist in those olden times.  No wonder the life expectancy was about 40 years.

      When we first got to Dalkey castle, it was nearing noon.  They wouldn’t be open for tours until 2 p.m.  We took a walk up the coast.  It was sunny but chilly.  It would be the nicest day we were there.

      

     The other castle was one that had been modernized and lived in.  The man who lived there died without heirs, so somebody took the castle over and turned it into a museum to try to preserve it.

      In downtown Dublin, we saw huge grain elevators, tall white cement tubes just like in our neck of the woods.  They were standing on the grounds of the Guinness Brewery.  Sure enough, they hold the barley used for brewing.

     We didn’t make the brewery tour.  We bought tickets for the “Hop on, Hop off” bus tour, which takes you all around downtown Dublin.  The double decker bus travels down the narrow streets.  At corners, you could stick your hand out of the window and grab a lamppost. One of the drivers referred to the bicyclists darting in front of him and crossing the streets against the stoplight as “coffin-chasers.”  No kidding.

    To make the most of the bus tour, you need to get an early start, which seemed beyond us.  After tourist season, the busses don’t run past five or six o’clock.  That doesn’t leave much time to get off and look at something.  It does give you a good look at the city and gives you some idea of what you would like to see.                

     Speaking of Guinness, one of my goals was to drink a Guinness in Ireland.  I have drunk a Guinness in England and in America.  I always suspicioned that the Irish don’t send their best product abroad, especially to England.  I shared that thought with a bartender who sniggered without assenting or denying.

      After a few sips of the brew, I confided quietly to the Goodwife that there were better brews in Colorado.  Of course, I have been spoiled by the explosion of microbreweries  we have here.

     We finished off our Ireland stay on a cold rainy day.  We rode the train along the coast line past Dalkey again and on farther.  We turned around in a small village where we ducked into an antique store and fell into a conversation with the proprietress who was having a slow day due to the weather.  She was lamenting the modernization of her small community with the ticky-tacky apartments they are erecting.  The modern harbor was forced on the community against the majority will.  It attracted tourists, though, so she was reluctantly admitting it had been a good deal.  Like nearly everyone we talked to, she wanted to talk politics, American politics as well as Ireland politics.

      We did have a good time in Dublin.  I think we would have liked Ireland better had we left Dublin and got out into the country.  Can’t blame anybody for that except the tour arranger, me.

       Saturday morning found us standing at the bus stop at 7 a.m. waiting for good old 720 or 721 to take us to the airport.  The ladies at the tourist center showed us the way to take the city bus to the airport, but it involved riding to the center of town again and changing busses.  I decided it was better to pay the blue buggers and not have to change busses.

     We reached the airport and searched for WOW Airlines.  Iceland here we come.

Irish Washer Woman

    Laundry list.  It was on our agenda to wash clothes the last couple of days in Copenhagen.  It didn’t happen.

     We entered Ireland with the clothes on our back and suitcases full of dirty laundry.  Breakfast came with our bed-and-breakfast.  Sort of.  Thirty years ago when we visited the United Kingdom, breakfast was the real thing, eggs boiled scrambled fried or poached; beans; various kinds of toast; stewed tomatoes.

     Not anymore apparently.  Breakfast now means continental breakfast, pastries, bagels, cream cheese, that sort of stuff.  Or something like you will find in many motels in the USA, a toaster, assortment of jellies and jams, some fruit, cereals with milk, coffee and tea.  No waffle maker in this B & B. 

      Fortunately, for me, we had found a small jar of peanut butter in the grocery in Copenhagen.  Wrapped in a plastic bag, it made the trip to Dublin intact.  If we had had to carry our luggage on to the plane, it probably would have been trashed when we went through security.   

      One of the advantages of staying at a B & B is getting to meet the homeowner.  Robin came around as we were eating breakfast.  He knew of only one self-serve laundry in the area.  It was outside at a convenience store-gas station.  He discouraged us from going there.  It was outside.  There was really no place to sit.  We would have to stand outside while our clothes washed and dried.

      Robin said he could show us some laundry services that would do the washing and drying for us.  I had found one on the internet via my tablet.  Robin said he knew right where it was, not too far.  He even offered to drive us there in his car, but we would have to find our way back on the train. 

      I said it would be best for us to go on the train so we would have some idea how to get back on the train.  If he took us right to the place in his car, we would be lost souls when it came to finding our way home, no dropped breadcrumbs to guide us.

      We knew where the closest train station was because we walked past it while searching out our supper the previous evening.  It was five or six blocks away.  The laundry was pretty heavy, so we emptied my wheeled bag and stuffed it in there.  Clicking and clacking down the sidewalk, we went to the train station.

     Riding the train is, to me, preferable to taking a bus.  The train is roomier, nicer, especially if you are carrying a bag.   Train stations don’t move around, are easier to find.  You have to use your boarding card to get into the station, rather than showing a conductor or driver before you get on the bus when your hands are full of stuff.

      Robin confirmed what Google maps told me about the correct station to dismount.  It was only two stops from the station where we boarded.  The laundry was two or three blocks from the train station.  We found it with no problems.

      The lady weighed our dirty clothes.  She took our bag, said we could leave it and not have to lug it around while we waited.  She would put our clean, folded clothes in the bag, which would be ready for us when we returned.  It would be about two hours.

      What was there to do for two hours, we asked.  She pointed across the street intersection, saying there was a print museum just down the block.  We could while our time away there.

      As she spoke, she was making change for the bills I had given her for payment (Ireland uses Euros).  She handed the change in coins to the Goodwife.  “Hey,” I said, “Don’t give it to her!”

      “Oh, just habit,” she returned, laughing.

     “Your poor husband.  Does he even get an allowance?”

      “He gets what he deserves,” she said with a meaningful glance.

      “I think Ireland must be filled with female chauvinists,” I ventured.  There ensued a wide-ranging discussion of politics, Irish, American, world, to the effect that women could probably do better than the men had.

       We departed for the print museum, which was one of the most interesting places we went.  It had old machinery, printing presses going way back.  There were woodcut letters and blocks, inkpads used in the old days, line-o-type machines, all the way up to a rather complex press that was used up into the 1980’s when computers and laser printers put the old mechanical inventions out of business.

      The museum was free.  I’m not sure what supported it, but a group of old guys keep the machines in running shape.  They meet on occasion, maybe weekly or monthly, when they get together and work on the old stuff, sometimes actually printing with some of them.

      The day we visited, there were three or four retired printers on the premises.  One guy was a mechanic who was tapping a new screw hole in the metal of one of the printers.  All of them had made their living in some aspect of the print business.  They were willing to discuss anything with us, not just the printing business. 

      A worry is what will happen to the machines and the history when the old retired guys are no longer around.  Will there be a younger crew willing to come in and learn from the older fellows?  Nobody is showing up, yet.

      Other topics included organic farming (the Goodwife mentioned that I raised organic grain), and of course, politics.  We took our leave of the printers and mounted the stairs.  I thought there would be more printing stuff, but no.  It was a women suffrage collection, highlighting the heroines of the Irish suffrage movement.  It included many editorial-type cartoons.

      Attached to the print museum was coffee shop that seemed to be a gathering place for the locals, including the retired printers.  We partook of a pot of tea and a roll, and our two hours were up plus some.  Time to return to the laundry.

      Our lady brought out my suitcase full of clean folded clothes.  I thanked her.  “I know why you sent us to that museum.  You wanted me to see that suffrage stuff,” I told her.  She apparently didn’t know the suffrage collection sat atop of the print museum.  But she wasn’t taken aback.

    She heartily agreed that I, and every other man, needed to see it.  She then confided us in a bit, saying she was 51 years old and didn’t have much prospect of getting a better job than the one she had.  She was tired, but too young and too poor to retire.

      She didn’t stay down for long.  She asked where we were staying and how we found the laundry.  She said we could walk to our B & B.  “Just go straight down this street and you will come right to the street where your house is.”

      “Straight down the street” means something different in Ireland.  Not very many streets go straight.  You will hit a fork in the road, and you are left with Yogi Berra’s advice, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

     I was fairly certain we could find our way, but I was towing the bag full of clean clothes, so we opted for the train station and the six or seven blocks we knew over clickety-clacking a mile or more.  We had clean clothes and had experienced quite a bit of local color.  We were ready to see something else in Dublin.

Dublin

     “Where the heck is the bus stop?”

      We were in the airport in Dublin, having freshly arrived and cleared the passport check.  That part was easy.  Much faster than in Denver where you work your way through Disneyland-type back-and-forth chutes for thirty minutes.  The hardest part in foreign ports was figuring out we had to be in the “all others” line instead of the EU (European Union) line.  Those in the EU line got through much faster, just like in the grocery store where no matter what line you get into, it moves the slowest.

     I had done my homework.  After lots of looking, I finally put my trust in Trip Advisor, which had what seemed the best, most frank reviews for hostelry and transportation advice.  Making arrangements for this trip fell to me. 

     The Goodwife knew something about Japan and where we should go, and she made the arrangements for that trip.  For this trip, I was pressed into service.  The alternative was to light on foreign soil with no place to lay our weary heads.  Not a pleasant prospect for old folks in October.  Besides, some travel advisors suggested we may have to prove we had at least our first night’s lodging in Ireland before they would let us out of the airport.

     Trip Advisor recommended getting a LEAP card, which would allow us to travel on the city busses and the railroad.  Unlike the Brit Rail pass, which you have to buy outside the country, you can’t buy a LEAP card until you get to Ireland.

      Somehow, we missed the city tourist information center, which is there in the airport somewhere, a lady at the downtown office assured us when we visited her office to renew our LEAP card.  Had we found the information center, they might have informed us as to where we could catch a city bus.  Or that to get where we were going, we would have to take one bus to downtown Dublin, and catch another one to get to our lodging.  Or that there were four or five private bus companies vying for our business, none of which accepted the LEAP card.

     After three or four inquiries from various people in the airport, some people sitting at a desk doing some kind of promotion sent us to a Dart store, something like a 7-Eleven store stateside. 

     Sure enough, the young gal at the counter sold us three-day LEAP cards.  We would actually be there for four days, but all the info said you could add time at any of 640 ticket offices throughout Ireland.  Yes and no to that.

      “Where do we catch the bus?”

      “Oh, just go across the bridge and down to your right.”  The “bridge” is an enclosed walkway spanning seven or eight lanes where busses, taxis, private cars, and various shuttles load and unload folks using the airport.

      We had already been there looking for a place to buy the LEAP card.  With LEAP card in hand, we returned.  Having done my research, the Google maps site said to take either bus 720 or 721 to get to the stop closest to our bed-and-breakfast.  Sure enough, along came a bus 720, but when we asked if they accepted a LEAP card, the driver told us “no, we do NOT take that card,” sort of implying that we were real cheapies.  Well, yes, we are cheapies.  Otherwise, we would not mess with YOUR dang bus, either.  We would be taking a taxi.

     We stood there waiting for the city bus that DID take a LEAP card to come along.  None ever did.  A second 720 bus came along.  Where can we catch a city bus, we asked this driver?  “You have to go about a hundred yards that way,” he gestured towards the direction he had come, again with some disdain, as if I had asked for directions to a house of ill repute.

     We walked at least 200 yards “that way” and found no bus stop.  We crossed the eight lanes of highway during a slack time because we saw a city bus stop over there to unload passengers.  Another bus came along, neither city bus nor the blue busses with the snotty drivers.  “No, we don’t honor LEAP cards.  You won’t get on a bus over here,” the driver said, in the same tone as the blue bus drivers.

     Where in the world do we catch a city bus?  He didn’t know, probably a lie.  By this time, I was muttering profanities I am ashamed to admit I know, profanities unfit to print, barely under my breath. 

     A few inquiries later with no better results led us back to the stop where we would buy a ticket from a temporary agent who couldn’t tell us where to catch a city bus, either, and we caught the next 720, which I knew at least would get us close to where we needed to go.

     With ticket in hand, this driver was much more pleasant, helped us load our luggage in the bus belly, asked where we needed to go.  It was getting on to four o’clock and we had been up since six a.m. to catch train and plane and bus. 

     Catching the plane had been an adventure.  We got our boarding passes by plugging our passports into the machine in the kiosk.   Travelling economy means doing everything yourself.  EVERYTHING, from making your reservations, getting your boarding pass, handling your luggage.

     In Denver, we got our boarding pass and took our luggage to the ticket counter.  The ticket agent didn’t miss a beat, asked us if we had baggage to check, assuring us there was no extra cost.  In Denmark, the kiosk was supposed to give us luggage tags, but that choice wasn’t available.

      We worked our way to the ticket counter where the agent said we hadn’t paid for luggage, which we knew, but hey, they checked our luggage in Denver.  Besides, the sign said that due to a full load of passengers, they were offering free luggage check for those willing to turn loose of their baggage.

      “Well, okay,” she said.  “Your bag is oversized,” she informed the Goodwife.

     “We had no problem with it in Denver,” she retorted.

      “Well, they may be lax there, but we’re strict here.”  Without further comment, she tagged our bags and put them on the conveyor.

     Unfortunately, our airport ordeal wasn’t over.  We found a place to stand in line and get a roll to eat while we waited for our boarding time.  We reported to the proper gate, where there was no place to sit and wait.  There were two gates side-by-side.  We would find out that both gates were for planes headed to Dublin. 

      There was only one lady at the desk.  She had no PA system.  She was making announcements by yelling, first in Danish, then in English.   I understood her to say the flight was delayed for 45 minutes, which she confirmed when I inquired.  Trouble was, it wasn’t our flight that was delayed.

     We heard our names called by someone who DID have a PA system.  Returning the single lady at the counter, I showed her our ticket.  “That gate,” she pointed.  “You are very late for your flight.”  Which we were.

      We hurried down the stairs to the ramp.  Crewmen waiting at the door of the plane gestured to us to come on.  We hurried down the skyway and entered the airplane, the last to do so.  We barely got to our seats when the stewards went into their safety demo, which they did the old-fashioned way instead of us watching the screen on the seatback in front of us—an older airplane.  The plane started moving back, and we were on our way, a little red-faced for having delayed a plane full of people.  But we made it.

      At last, we were on a bus headed where we needed to go.  The bus driver let us off at Ballsbridge Hotel, which wasn’t our hotel, but I knew from my Google maps study, it was near our townhouse on Merrion Road.  We set off walking.  In a few blocks, the Goodwife balked.  We don’t know where we are going.  Well, no not exactly, but I know we are in the vicinity.  A lady came along.  “Excuse me, can you tell us where to find Merrion Road?”

      “Oh, Ballsbridge turns into Merrion Road,” meaning it becomes Merrion Road.  She didn’t know where the townhouse was, but she was sure that the street we were on would become Merrion Road in a few blocks.  On we went.

       A few more blocks, carefully watching for street signs, which in Dublin might be on a sign post, or the side of a building, or not at all.  No Merrion Road.  We stopped and discussed, maybe without the “dis”.  It wouldn’t be the first time today we got some bum advice.  Would this turn into Merrion Road?

     An older gentleman in hat with umbrella stopped.  “You look confused.  May I help you?”  Well, yes, you may.

     He had heard of Aona Townhouse.  He walked by it often, but he wasn’t quite sure exactly where it was, but we were on the right street, and on the right side of that street.  “See that stop light?” he pointed.  “Just go a couple of blocks beyond that and you will see it on your left.  You can’t miss it.”

    Uh-oh.  I’ve heard that before. But nothing to do but keep on.  Sure enough.  Ballsbridge did turn into Merrion Road.  Near the stoplight was a bus stop, the one we should have gone to.  Finally, we found the place, two or three blocks beyond the stoplight.  I reached to ring the bell, but the door opened and Robin greeted us.  We visited awhile and he showed us to our room. 

     Gratefully, we stretched out on the bed.  A rest and then find a place to eat.  We had had enough for one day.

Denmark 3

      “Ammonia?”

      I was puzzled.  Our host in Copenhagen is a scientist involved in energy production and storage, including storing wind energy during times when demand is low while production is high.  We were touching on that subject during a conversation that was mostly about politics.

     “How does ammonia work?” I asked.  As usual, I didn’t think of the questions I should have asked until a long time after the opportunity was gone.

     John explained how ammonia, nitrogen, increases plants’ efficiency in converting sunlight to food and fiber through photosynthesis.  I knew that, from using anhydrous ammonia as fertilizer in the days before going organic.

     He went on to explain that excess electricity can be used to extract nitrogen from the atmosphere.  Most (if not all) ammonia used by American farmers comes from oil, as do many other fertilizers.  The question I should have asked is, how is nitrogen extracted from the air?

       A google check shows two or three methods.  One involves lowering the temperature of air until the gasses turn to liquid.  The various gasses turn to liquid at different temperatures, which allows the elements to be separated and collected.

      Anyway, the excess electricity generated during the slack demand times is (or will be) used to produce nitrogen fertilizer.  Since petroleum is not used in the product or the process, the overall carbon footprint is reduced.  It’s not exactly a battery, which we think of as an energy storage method, but if the point of renewable energy is to reduce use of fossil fuel, it works.

     Fossil fuels may be necessary to generate power during peak demand or when wind and solar aren’t keeping up, but that use is offset by growing plants that extract CO2 and produce oxygen. 

     Yes , Denmark is a green country.  In the next two or three years, all vehicles in Copenhagen will be electric, no carbon emitters allowed.  Already, 48% of Denmark’s electricity is provided by wind power, most of the wind towers in the sea.  Solar panels top some roofs of buildings, but we saw no solar farms covering many acres as we are beginning to see in the U.S.      

     The plan is for Denmark to be carbon-neutral by 2030.  The push for clean energy seems to have produced a minimalist tendency among the populace.  I’m basing my judgment on three kitchens I observed.

     When you look at the kitchens, you see no “mod-cons” (British for modern conveniences).  Where is the refrigerator?  The dishwasher?

  

    There they are, behind cabinet fronts. 

     Microwave ovens are apparently not exactly verboten, but apparently, eschewed.  I never saw a single microwave.  The man who provided our first breakfast used a microwave in the back room to warm up our pastries.  I couldn’t see it.  I heard it.

     One of our hosts confessed to keeping a microwave in his garage. Something you didn’t want anyone to see?  The other was a bit disdainful at the mention of such a device.  Hmmm.  I always thought a microwave was super-efficient at heating things, more so than conventional methods.  Wouldn’t it be a useful tool in reducing energy use?

      Becoming green also seems to be pushing a tendency, maybe not exactly towards vegetarianism, but away from beef.  Pork and fish are still okay.  We did see ads saying, “Isn’t it time to quit?” like anti-cigarette ads, only they were accompanied by pictures of meat.

      We suffered no shortage of meat, especially fish.  We had some great meals.  The beer was good, too.

     Our stay in Denmark really was the highlight of our trip.  Staying in a private home, getting to know folks beats staying in a hotel.  You get to see how the common folk live.  Staying in a hotel and visiting tourist sights brings you in contact with people involved in the tourist industry.

      Nearly everyone we met spoke English, including the workers in a local pizza shop and the neighboring grocery store.  They were patient with us as we fumbled with currency and the change as we tried to pay for our purchases.

      We scheduled our departure from Denmark for Monday morning, a mistake.  Monday morning is a zoo in Copenhagen, too.  Our hostess decided the best way to get us to the airport on time was via train rather than to try to drive us or go by taxi.  She took us to a nearby station, helped us purchase tickets through the machine, and saw to it we got on the right train.

     Airports are airports.  They are not conducive to happy traveling.  We managed to get on the right plane (we were the last ones on and nearly missed it due to not understanding the announcement) and off to Ireland where we would negotiate another airport and be all on our own.