OVERSEAS TRAVAILS
By Don Gordon-Brown
For most of my life, I’ve only ever been to places that always close down – from Shorncliffe to Ipswich and old Brisbane town. So it’s fair to say that I was literally gobsmacked by the sights that enthralled me on my very first scheduled afternoon in ancient Rome.
I just couldn’t believe that I was seeing, for the very first time, the famous Trevi Fountain, below right. And I just had to give my camera to my travelling partner who took the photo, top right, of me standing at the top of the historic Spanish Steps.
And to snap away at the centuries-old facades of the city’s historic heart... okay, okay, enough!
Some of the more widely travelled among you who have actually been to places that never close down might have sussed out already that the photos at right are not of the Trevi Fountain or the Spanish Steps. They are, in fact, pictures of a backyard pump and some beachside steps taken at a quaint little seaside village a 32 Euro taxi trip from Dublin Airport.
Let me explain how this happened, because I want your input later as to who has to shoulder the blame for my being in rustic Rush, and not romantic Rome.
It started out okay, taking a flight from JFK Airport in New York after my Ho and I had spend eight days in the hood with my Harlem rappers, gangsta and numba runner nigga mates. But that’s another story for another day.
We were en route with Aer Lingus to the Italian capital, and had to change planes in Dublin early the next morning to start an Intrepid tour of central and northern Italy.
We were fashionably late into Dublin; even more so after the terminal walkway to our new departure gate appeared to get there by the Ring of Kerry. Our luggage had been forwarded, so we made good time to get to the gate the same day, only to look up at the departures board to see our flight to Rome was DELAYED. Now please remember what I just said there. DELAYED!.
Not BOARDING. Not FINAL CALL. Not CLOSED, which is international terminal language for YOU’D BETTER START RUNNING AS IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.
No, the board said DELAYED, so we stopped in our tracks and I said to my girlie: “Why the rush? Let’s have a cup of coffee.”
We steered our way into an adjacent cafe, found a seat where we could see the departure board, and waited patiently while the cafe staff forgot our order. My partner refreshed their Irish memory to get things under way.
After enjoying our cup of coffee, and hearing nothing over the PA, we decided it might be best to go to the gate and see what was happening.
We found the gate and milled about with all these other passengers who seemed to know what they were doing – and more importantly, where they were headed. Soon after, the PA announced that a certain flight to somewhere exotic – but definitely not Rome – had changed gates. All the people around us changed gaits and left us alone.
Something is wrong here, we thought, an idea compounded by the fact that on the departure board, our flight to Rome had just changed to DEPARTED. Not TYRES BEING PUMPED UP or WINDSCREEN BEING CLEANED. Just DEPARTED!
We could be in trouble here, I told my babe.
We ran back up to the main terminal level, where some cute Aer Lingus staffers told us our plane had in fact DEPARTED, and where the bloody hell had we been because our names had been called out for ever and ever and the only reason the flight had been DELAYED was because we had been delaying it.
Well, they didn’t say bloody hell but they did make it clear that their schedules had gone to putty because it has taken forever to find and remove our luggage in the hold. They subsequently lost half of it for a week by sending it inexplicably on to Germany but the discomfit that caused is also a story for another day.
What’s worse, they didn’t believe one word of our defence that at no time had we ever heard our names being called. I mean, really! Is there anywhere in Europe where people wouldn’t stop and take notice if they heard the British Prime Minister’s name being called repeatedly, seeing he’s so much on the nose? Exactly. But come to think of it, we hadn’t heard any announcements in the cafe at all.
We finally made our way back to Check-In – ever tried to exit a departure lounge the wrong way?– and the sweet young colleen there made us feel very foolish before finally finding two seats on the next morning’s flight.
No major harm done, we thought. We’ll miss the first day in Rome, but we’ll stay at an airport hotel or in the city overnight and cut our losses. Wrong! The sweet young thing at the tourism counter couldn’t find us a room in any of the airport hotels, or anywhere in Dublin itself. She tried a few nearby towns and just as she was about to start on the suburbs of Belfast, she found a cute little B&B at the aforementioned Rush. Nice little town but without quite the history or allure of Roma, of which we got to see a suburban train station for about one minute the following afternoon.
So who caused this debacle that had left us without a single, unforgettable moment from one of the great world cities? Was the DELAYED sign a cunning Aer Lingus plot to keep this paper’s junior travel reporter in Ireland for an extra and rather expensive night?
Or was he just a hopeless and inexperienced tourist who couldn’t cope with the vagaries of wearying world travel. Just unable to read the signs!
I’d like your input. If you agree with me that the sign that said DELAYED was not only contrary to internationally accepted airport terminal nomenclature, but totally and very unreasonably misleading, where it was only human nature for anybody with even half a brain to think they had heaps of time to catch the flight, then email me RIGHT NOW to: theygotitterriblywrong@theindependent.com.au, and I’ll add it to the legal portfolio for when we make our claim for full restitution from Aer Lingus. Personally, I’m looking at an all-expensed paid, pointy-end-of-the-plane trip back to Rome for both myself and my Ho/Girlie/Babe.
If you think I stuffed up big time, then email: morningprayersinfo@revolutionarycouncil.gov.iran.
Footnote: We made sure we were very, very early for the next morning’s flight. We had a coffee at the same table in the same cafe and couldn’t hear a single word, if indeed any announcements were made while we were in there. Trouble was that even when we sat in the main departure area and could hear the announcements, we couldn’t make head or tail of them anyway. They were in Irish English – and who can understand that?
