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.