It’s That Time of Year Again!

That wonderful, fabulous, magical time of year.

The time for snowflakes and ornaments and happy little elves. For wreaths tacked to front doors and light-bedecked pine trees. For claymation movies about reindeer, snowmen, and jolly old Saint Nick. The time for good food and careful searching for just the right gift. Time to be spent with good friends and family—those who are precious and beloved and dear to one’s heart.

England has some issues with holidays.

They barely acknowledge Halloween over here (as evidenced by the complete lack of decorations, pumpkin carving, costumes, or…anything else really). And England doesn’t do Thanksgiving at all. Since these two holidays (along with my birthday, orange crunchy leaves, and the ability to wear one of my two million scarf accessories), make fall so absolutely marvelous to my eyes, it makes me sad when they suddenly don’t exist. It makes the season feel a little empty and…foreign.

But England! Lovely, lovely England. England knows about Christmas.

I walked by Starbucks today, and there are snowflake shaped window stickies in the front window. And there are metallic red Christmas garlands across the top of their mug display. Tesco’s (my local grocery store) has had Christmas displays out Since October: the top shelves are lined with stocking stuffers and Christmas crackers. Large Santa and Rudolph plushies sit smiling in cardboard display cases at the end of aisles. There are turkeys (!!!) in the freezer section, and Christmas puddings in the sweets aisle. I found body wash (for him!) in a novelty container shaped like the Stig.

There is a pedestrian tunnel that runs beneath the street from the South Kennsington tube station to a place just down the street from the Pepperdine house that I walk through to get to and from school every day. The tunnel exists to allow easy access to the three museums located just down the street from the school, and there are three exits: the one at the end that is closest to my school, and two that the lead to street level near the Victoria & Albert museum, about halfway down the tunnel. Late in October, on my way home from a late evening class, I noticed that the trees outside one of these exit had been decorated with Christmas lights, thousands of them, enough to light the exit and the street outside, and it’s so pretty it makes me smile every single time I walk past. (This being grumpy England, I get strange looks from the people passing me in the other direction, who can’t fathom why some girl walking alone is grinning in an inappropriately goofy manner at a bunch of lights.)

Each major square and many of the major streets are decorated in some way for Christmas: Leicester square, Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden…all beautifully decorated with tons of lights and/or trees and/or garlands, etc. My goal before I leave London id to visit them all! Even the pubs are decorated. And I don’t just mean a few strings of lights; these people go all out. There are trees and ceiling hangings, windows completely blocked by lights, multiple garlands and tons of ornaments.

It is glorious!

Unfortunately the creeping approach of Christmas means it is that time of year again.

The time for stress and worry, for studying and memorizing and rewording of rule statements, for hushed conversations in the library, for frantic printing of outlines, for rainbow colored textbooks and supplements and commercial outlines and the coinciding overuse of highlighters and a sudden lack of tabbies, and for frantic phone calls home. (Be prepared, Mom, I’m topping up my mobile!)

Finals. Fast approaching, looming dark and ominous on the horizon. They are one week away, and I have a study schedule planned for each and every day between here and there that must be strictly adhered to.

Last year, finals blotted out Christmas entirely. I remember being somewhat surprised when a proctor for my final exam came in last December in a Christmas sweater. There it was, a week from Christmas day, and I had essentially forgotten all about it.

This year, the wonder that is London is preventing that. Certainly the nearness of finals mars the joy and warmth the season normally brings to my heart, but this year, the Christmas spirit is not to be defeated!

I just have to keep reminding myself: Be calm. Keep working. Christmas light tour in two weeks…

Thanksgiving: Just Like Chicken Soup, It Makes Everything Feel Better

As I sit here at 2 am, I find I am exhausted. I am physically tired, because it is late and I should be in bed, and this is only one of many such nights. But I am also mentally and emotionally and spiritually drained. The last year and a half hasn’t been the best of my life; law school isn’t pleasant. And in my exhaustion, I find myself dwelling far too much on the bad things in my life.

Today is Thanksgiving. And though I am exhausted, I have turned on the Christmas music and granted myself half an hour to sit down and remember all the wonderful things I have to be thankful for. Some of them are small, and some of them are serious, and some of them are probably silly, but all of them make my heart happy and my life better.  And that's something I need to remember!

I am thankful for my family. They are amazingly supportive, particularly my mom, who deals with my school-induced panic attacks with tons of reassurance and patience. (especially appreciated this time of year!) I love you, family!

I am thankful for the opportunity to spend this semester abroad. I have seen and done so many new and exciting things; been so many wonderful places. I am thankful to be living in London (in an English speaking country!), especially at this time of year, when Christmas is everywhere!

I am thankful for foreign accents, which make just walking down the street fun and interesting.

I am so thankful that my home is in America. I am have been very spoiled living there, which I never really grasped before now, but I feel that’s okay. I am so thankful to live there. America isn’t perfect by any means, but I do love my country.

I am thankful for my thick winter jacket! I hereby renew my claim that it is the BEST addition to my wardrobe that I ever made. I am also grateful for thick, homemade woolen winter accessories. I would be lost (or at least some of my extremities would be) without my hat, scarf, and gloves. For my new warm boots, which I LOVE. Ummm, and for my heater, and my lack of utility bills…

For cheerful Christmas music. For music in general really. My life is a musical; I’m never truly happy if I’m not singing, or listening to someone else do so. (On that note, they have some pretty worship songs here!)

For office supplies, particularly binder clips, tabbies, and sticky notes. And only slightly less important, R.S.V.P. pens. And my Jetstream pens! Also Sharpie liquid highlighters. I would be lost without these things in large quantities, and it is probably a little pathetic how happy I am whenever I make new additions to my collections. (I am especially thankful to be going office supply shopping tomorrow!)

For mail, and messages, and IMs, and skype conversations with friends and family back home. And, for all the ridiculous things that come with it, for Facebook.

For smiles and laughter.

For fuzzy soft animals that purr. And for the puppy I am going to buy myself after the BAR.

For coffee!!! (tastes not great unless it’s frufru, but a total life saver.) For Italian food. For chocolate. For Kraft macaroni and cheese! And for Pumpkin bread. Ph pumpkin bread, how I miss you!

For children on the tube, who are generally (amazingly!!!) well-behaved, perfectly adorable, and whose natural inclination towards fearless curiosity makes me smile (even though it also scares me a bit. Parents here seem to think the tube is safer than I think the tube is).

I am thankful that I am in law school. It’s not fun, but I am blessed by the opportunities it will give me later to help make others’ lives better. And I am blessed to be going to Pepperdine, which is probably the most Christian, least competitive environment I could have chosen for this challenging portion of my life.

I am thankful that Pepperdine is providing Thanksgiving dinner!

I am thankful for the fact that I do NOT get a Thanksgiving break, because God, in His perfect timing, granted me instead a week-long travel break at just the right time for me to go home and celebrate my Granny’s life with my family.

I am thankful for dear friends, new and old, who have made my life richer and lighter.

I am so, so thankful for God. For His forgiveness and mercy and grace. For His Word, His peace, His love.  For His presence, and the gift of never really being alone.  For His comforting hand, and the way He has made my life so very blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving! (and goodnight! ^_^)

I Have A Confession To Make…

First let me say that a career in law (and thereby the decision to attend law school) is definitely something I was called to. When you spend a year and a half floundering, it is unmistakably God answering prayer when something falls in your lap, and your acceptance of that gift opens five million sudden and “coincidental” doors. I don’t believe in coincidences. I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be, because I was called to be here. That said…

Law school serves two primary goals: to teach you the law in preparation for the BAR, and to teach you how to be a lawyer. It’s mostly a matter of changing how you analyze and think about things. But the longer I study law, the more I realize: lawyers, as a whole, have earned their dishonest reputation.

This creates a problem for me. I am a Christian. I love my God, and desire, first and foremost, to follow Him. But ours is an adversarial system. And any system that encourages adversity inherently encourages a certain degree of dishonesty, manipulation, self-gratification, and a disregard for others.

Which brings me to my confession: I struggle with my calling.

I struggle with reconciling Christian principles with accepted law practices. I struggle with what lawyers generally perceive to be ethical. I struggle with a law system that seems to perpetuate injustices as much as it prevents and rectifies them. I struggle with the competitive, every-man-for-himself attitude encouraged in law school. I struggle with the fact that I have no idea what to do with myself after graduation, because I still have no idea what type of law I want to practice. And I struggle with the fear of making the wrong decision and getting sucked into practice at a firm whose ethics don’t match mine.

For the last year and a half, I have wondered and worried and stressed about how one can practice law and still remain faithful to God’s law. This week, my Negotiations class brought this issue to a head for me.

I am required as a lawyer to be a zealous advocate of my client. In and of itself, that’s not a bad thing. But what happens when my client’s desires clash with my own personal beliefs? To a certain degree I am protected from this by professional codes of conduct. I am, for example, prohibited from making statements that will result in a misrepresentation or fraud, regardless of what my client wants. But there is quite a bit allowed by the rules of professional conduct/ethics that is not allowed by my personal code of ethics.

According to my Negotiations text: “Ethics codes forbid lawyers lying in court but permit in negotiation what the public would consider lying.” Lawyers must decide “how far to go in gaining a negotiation advantage for our clients by misstating or not revealing information” “Shading the truth and telling lies occurs in almost every case.” And “the essence of negotiation requires even the most forthright, honest, and trustworthy negotiators to actively mislead their opponents.”

In discussing what is permissible and what isn’t, the text cites a case in which the plaintiff was injured in an auto accident. The defense attorney demanded an examination of the plaintiff by a dr. working for the defense. This dr. discovered a life threatening aortic aneurysm likely caused by the accident. The defense lawyer did not disclose this info to the plaintiff, however, and settled the case for much less than would probably have been required had the other side known of the plaintiff’s condition. When it was later discovered, the ct ruled the defense attorney had no obligation to disclose the info, even though it jeopardized the kid’s life. The defense attorney was only doing his job; he was a zealous advocate for his client, working to get the smallest settlement possible. (I’m sorry, what? And how can that man live with himself?)

And when the text finally addresses what to do in a situation in which the lawyer’s ethics clash with client desires, it basically listed two options: try to talk your client around, or withdraw. Neither of these are great options. Clearly I didn’t find this section of the book particularly helpful.

The commandment is “don’t lie,” not “don’t lie, unless you’re a lawyer lying on behalf of your client.” And I feel uncomfortable just withholding information that may cause my position to be misleading in mock negotiations for class! (to the extent that, after one such negotiation with a Christian friend who is also in my class, we had to have a little confession time afterwards just to make us both feel better about misleading statements and nondisclosures we had made for the purpose of the exercise) Flat out lying is right out!


I know it is entirely possible to be a Christian and a lawyer because I know several (and know of many more) people who have managed to reconcile their careers with Christian principles. But I struggle with what that reconciliation looks like for me in my life. Maybe I should start by crossing negotiations off my list of career possibilities. If nothing else, it’ll narrow down my options!

If You Want To Shut Down London...

Shut down the tube.

I have come to London at a “fortuitous” time. I have, in my time here, the chance to see something few tourists do: how to cripple the city of London—a tube strike.

(Quick definition: The tube, for those unfamiliar with London, is London’s equivalent of the subway)

Now strikes here are, apparently, very different from strikes back home. In my experience, when American unions strike, they walk out and don’t work again until problems are resolved. A perfect example: the writer’s guild strike. No writers, no new episodes of all our favorite shows.

Here, for whatever reason, strikes don’t appear to work that way. The tube strikes have been only 24-hour strikes—two of them, one on September 7th, and one just yesterday. The strikes, as far as I can make out from BBC news, are in response to threatened job cuts. It shuts down pretty much the entire city. Skeleton crews run the least used portions of the tube lines, and the areas nearest Heathrow airport, but nothing anywhere near the city center (which includes anything near where I live, or near the school) is running.

And when I say that it shuts the city down, I really mean it.

More than 3.5 million people use the tube every day. Including me! When the tube shuts down, people have to find another way to get around town. The buses are one obvious (and thus, obviously overcrowded) method. Also, taxis. Or one could try driving, if one has a car and is willing to risk London’s notoriously bad traffic (which is obviously worse on a strike day). Here is a glimpse of the chaos that is a tube strike:

Normally, my trip to school takes me about 40 minutes or so, including the walk from my flat to the train, waiting for the train, riding the train, and then walking from the train station to school. On the day of the first strike, that 40 minute trip dragged out into nearly 2 ½ hours.

Luckily, I am located very centrally, so alternative means of public transportation are readily available—there are a bajillion bus stops nearby. The problem is that I am located centrally, so ¾ of London is also trying to travel the same way I am. Additionally, I live near King’s Cross. Almost everyone coming into London on national and international trains is coming through that station. And there is no tube. So they are getting off the train, with all of their luggage, and walking to bus stations—the ones I also need to use—in droves in order to get wherever else in London they need to be. I think I waited with several hundred people at that bus stop (when the normal average, in my best guesstimation, is 3-15).

And because 3.5 million people are all trying to get around without the tube, traffic is terrible. In some places it barely moves at all. And people are even more reckless when driving than usual. And far more impatient. The angry tension was palpable all over the city. People just walking down the streets were angry, glaring, and even pushier than usual. There are honking cars left and right. And they keep driving in the bus lanes in an attempt to bypass other cars. All of which contributes to the buses being very behind schedule. And the buses, when they did arrive, were very overcrowded. I’m talking, standing room only, push your way in and stand shoulder to shoulder to back to front, hands touching on the hand rails because there are so many people, overcrowded. There were practically fights on the rare occasion a seat did open up. It was…intense. So I wiggled my way into a corner, propped myself up between the window and rail, and read my text book for 2 hours.

The ride home was shorter, because class got out at 7 and most of London had either already made it home from work, or given up on trying to be out in public in the first place. So I got to spend the hour and 15 minute ride home sitting, for the first time, in a seat on the top level of a double-decker bus. I relaxed. I chatted with Stefani about our post-finals travel plans. “This,” I thought, “will be a much easier ride than the one to school.”

My friends here keep accusing me of jinxing things. I say, “at least it’s not raining,” and 10 minutes later it will be. I say, “at least it’s only sprinkling,” and immediately the skies open up. I’ve practically been forbidden to speak “silver lining” thoughts regarding the weather. I’m beginning to think there may be something to their accusations, because no sooner had I had this thought than our bus hit a bicycle rickshaw.

No, I am not joking. It really did.

We were pulling up to a stop light when it happened. Londoners are bad about stop lights and walk signs at the best of times. If the walk sign is red, but no cars are coming, or they are but you think you have time to get across, well then, go for it! Those walk signs are just suggestions anyway! Do it at your own risk, though, because cars aren’t appreciative of pedestrians in their way. They’ll likely stop for you if you really are in the way, but maybe not in time. And mostly, they assume you won’t be there by the time they reach you, so no problem! Who needs to slow down? And bus drivers drive like maniacs behind the wheel of a mini instead of a gigantic vehicle.

Combine all these factors with a tube strike and the resulting anger and impatience, and what you have is a situation that practically guarantees accidents.

So we feel a bump, hear a noise, and then there is a LOT of yelling for a few minutes. Thankfully, the only casualty was the bicycle/rickshaw/cart thing, but there was a whole lot of unhappiness going on. Surprisingly, when the light turned green again, the bus just left. No reports to file? No questions? I wonder still if the bus driver left because he was supposed to, or because he just didn’t care anymore, at that point on that day, about what he was supposed to do…

This last strike wasn’t quite so bad, probably because people knew little better what to expect. Traffic was marginally better. People’s attitudes seemed to be better. The buses weren’t quite so overcrowded. Honestly, I think more people just stayed home. I sure wanted to! Slightly better or not, tube strikes are still extremely inconvenient. And there are at least 2 more scheduled for next month.

This leaves me with only one thing left to say: Dear tube workers on strike, Striking once a month is not a very effective way of pressuring the city into giving you what you want, but it is an extremely effective way of messing up a lot of people’s schedules, holding up traffic to a ridiculous degree, and all around irritating a whole lot of innocent bystanders. Please stop!

Ireland, Part 3: Can't See The Rainbow For The Rain...

Our final day in Ireland involved sleeping in, so I was all set to love it from the get go. We intended it to be a lazy, low-key day, and the fact that the church we’d chosen to attend didn’t start until 11:30 was a wonderful blessing. We got up early enough to go get breakfast (at McDonald’s again—they have the best porridge ever!), and then made our way to church. Which was…not what we expected.

The church was located in the city center, so it was near to our hostel, but it was in a rather shady part of it. The building is set in a converted garage or shp front or something (it’s a little hard to tell), and there was an awful lot of graffiti on the nearby walls, but the interior was surprisingly nice, and the people were amazingly friendly. Even better, the preacher (who being Irish, spoke with an accent that was way fun to listen to), gave a convicting sermon on being meek. Which, I, apparently, am very not. But I want to be! His insight into that portion of the Sermon on the Mount was new and interesting, and I found I really liked the way he described what meek really looked like, and what that meant for people today.

After church, we decided a little sight-seeing was in order, so we took a wuick trip to Dublin Castle. Then we made a brief stop at the Beatty library, where they have some old illuminated Persian poetry books on display. And finally, Dublin’s crown jewel: Christ Church.

The church itself is lovely, and the fact that the choir was singing when we walked in only made our trip better. We wandered around inside for a bit, then took a trip downstairs in to the crypt (where we really didn’t see any tombs, although there were an awful lot of gold treasury type things behind glass to look at). I found out that the Hallelujah chorus was written in Dublin in the 1700s. and was first performed at Christ Church by the Christ Church and St. Patrick’s choirs.
After sight-seeing we made an attempt to look for yarn for my mom, which failed miserably. Apparently the stores are closed on Sunday, because Ireland is primarily Catholic. The on shop we did find open on Sundays had closed 20 minutes earlier, and the people inside calmly informed me nothing else would be open until Monday. So that was frustrating. Because if I hadn’t missed my plane…

Sunday was also my introduction to Europe’s football madness. There was a soccer game in Dublin on Sunday, and everywhere you looked, people were celebrating the fact with supportive team gear. There were hats, scarves, braids, face paint, flags, capes, flags worn as capes, and a hundred other forms of team paraphernalia every which way. Everywhere I went, I felt like Moses parting the red sea. It was insane!

Ireland, Part 2: For the Beauty of the Earth...

On the second day of our trip to Ireland, I woke up ridiculously early. Ridiculously early meant leaving the hostel at 6:15 and trekking about a mostly empty Dublin looking for someplace that might be open and serving something breakfast before our tour. What we found was McDonald’s. Another staple of American life, which I have not been into since leaving home, though I have missed it (never mind that there’s one right near my flat. I have been resisting!).

I will stop here for a moment to discuss the…novelty, I guess, of European McDonald’s. At home, McDonald’s is a slightly cheesy, often low-class, cheap restaurant. They do the plastic and vinyl seat thing. In Europe, McDonald’s is a thing of beauty. They are several stories tall (this one was 4), have table service (mostly you get your food at the counter, but they clear your table for you when they notice your done, or bus it after you leave), and are very trendy in their decorating schemes. No cheesy yellow and red here! I swear, there’s hardwood floors in there! And this one had a chandelier. No. Joke.

Anyway, yes, breakfast of porridge and sliced apples obtained, we headed off to our tour’s meeting point. Our tour van was a bright, turqoisey color that would be hard to miss even in a blackout, and our tour guide was a wild-haired Irishman named Cat (“but I also answer to Santa Clause, Werewolf, Hairy-Face…whatever you want.”) whom I swear is Gandalf’s brother or something.

(Photo taken by Tyler Fouche)

After hopping into our van, joined by a loud contingent of mafia playing Spaniards and a couple other odds-n-ends, we set off for Limerick.

(Photo below taken by Tyler Fouche) Limerick is a very cute little town, in which I saw my First Ever Castle: St. John’s Castle. It’s located right next to a bridge and the Shannon River, and was quite lovely in its castle-ness. Cat dropped us off and drove across the bridge while we wandered around taking pictures and posing in front of the castle doors. The setting was very picturesque, and even included two lovely swans swimming about the castle’s base. After taking a million pictures (because my FIRST CASTLE!!!), we set off across the bridge.

The bridge is apparently very special. Legend has it that if you are single, and cross the bridge by hopping on one foot, you will have good luck with the opposite gender. Tyler and Tracey, being newly married, really didn’t feel the need to participate, but Hannah and I did definitely tried it. That bridge, which isn’t really very long, seems about a million times longer when you are hopping across it, let me tell you! And neither of us were very good at it, really (meaning we so didn’t make it all the way by actually hopping—there was definitely some cheating via skipping, switching feet, and walking with really big steps involved), but it was fun to try! We also got a quick glimpse of an old stone abbey (the first church in Limerick), then it was off to the real point of the tour: the Cliffs of Moher.

There are no words to describe the cliffs. Beautiful, gorgeous, and all similar synonyms certainly apply, but this is really one of those times where the English language doesn’t have the words to portray how truly awesome the cliffs are. It’s no wonder they form the backdrop of famous scenes from a hundred different movies. I am in awe of God’s creation. His sense of beauty is clearly beyond imagining, and I feel so blessed that He created such beautiful places and then chose to gift me with the opportunity to see some of them. I just wanted to stand there and have a devo all day!

Obviously, we spent ages taking pictures. The fact that it was cold and so windy that the strongest gusts nearly knocked me over really didn’t bother us much under the circumstances. There’s a wall a bit back from the edge of the cliffs, so you can’t get to close and fall over, so we weren’t too worried about it. And the view was so fantastic…

We headed up the path a ways to O’Brien’s tower where the view is even better. And for two Euros, you can climb to the top of the tower for an even better view. Best of all, it is possible to climb up on the roof of the stairwell, and get a completely unimpeded view all the way around. Now technically you aren’t supposed to (oops! We honestly didn’t see the sign until after the fact), and it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do with winds as string as that (yeah, couple of scary moments there). But it was…so worth it.

We spent about an hour or so at the cliffs. It wasn’t enough time to hike down to see the puffin colony that lives there (Sad! Next time I’m in Ireland, puffins. Your cute little selves are definitely on my to do list!), but it was more than enough time to take millions of pictures, and just…marvel.

By this time, we were starving, so we headed off to Doolin for lunch. Our tour guide took us on a brief detour to the harbor for a different view of the cliffs. We spend ten minutes taking jumping pictures on the shore (Hello, Atlantic Ocean! We’ve never met face-to-face before!), and looking at the Aran Islands, which are visible from that point (first language on these tiny islands: Gaelic!). Lunch was a yummy seafood chowder at Fitzpatrick’s pub, where we ran into Stefani and her friend, who happened to be doing a similar tour!

After lunch we took a trip to the Burren. The Burren is a place with flat rocks and cliffs, and spongy grass, near Galway harbor. It looks a lot like the lava fields in Hawaii might in a bajillion years, when things start to grow there again and the rocks are worn smooth by the weather. It’s beautiful too, in a strange sort of way. The tour of this area was wonderful. We saw a lot of the Irish country driving around here, including a bunch of B&Bs, and the ruins of several old penal houses. There is some kind of superstition about these houses, apparently, because the locals won’t knock them down. They might put a cow inside them, in hopes the cow will do so, but they themselves will not destroy these houses. In fact, one guy even built himself a new house, with a pretty new lawn, and actually left a carved out hollow space in that lovely new landscaping around the ruins sitting in his front yard.

Our next stop was Corcomroe Abbey, an old stone abbey built in 1142 (the third oldest building I’ve ever been in!). The abbey is roofless now, but the towering stone walls are still standing, and the interior is full of interesting old tombs. It’s no longer used as an abbey, but the graveyard outside is still in use.

Our final stop was Dunguaire Castle in Kinvara. It was a beautiful little castle, set on a small hill at the edge of the water, and is the coolest castle ever because they hold authentic medieval banquets there twice a week! There was even one scheduled for the night we were there, and we wanted to stay, but we couldn’t.

Ireland, Part 1: The Day That Went Not As It Should Have

According to Stefani, we should have known it was going to be a bad day when Stef got groped by a drunk man while we were waiting at the bus stop. And really, she’s right. I mean, there we were, at 3:30 in the morning, freezing, and waiting or a night bus that may or may not actually get us to the Victoria station bus stop on time, and suddenly there is this man. He was creepy, and definitely sleazy, and so intoxicated that when he appeared suddenly between us, I thought I was going to get drunk off the fumes. And then Stefani is glaring and stepping back and saying “Excuse me, no.” And the creepy drunk guy is laughing and apologizing and walking away, but…

Yes, that should have been our first clue.

But then our bus miraculously got us to our stop with 3 minutes to spare. And we managed to (run fast enough to) catch our airport bus on time at the stop down the road. And then we made it to the airport by 6:00, with just enough time to make it through security. So it was looking like our day was turning around. Only no. It wasn’t.

Because England has issues. Instead of putting the visa/passport check at the gate or near security, as everyone else in the world does, they put it at the check-in gate. Which is literally a 15 minute walk (minus the wait to get through security) from the gate where our plane took off. Only we didn’t know that. And the board said those on our flight were to “proceed to the gate.” So we assumed the passport check was ahead of us.

Wrong!

“I’m sorry,” said the lady checking boarding passes for passport stamps. “We only have 20 minutes left until take off, that’s not enough time for you to go get you boarding passes stamped.”

What does that mean? we wondered.

Apparently it meant that we would have to go back to arrivals and book another flight to Ireland. We were escorted (why? Who knows.) back to the arrival part (through a shortcut that cut our fifteen minute walk down to three) and left at arrivals. Why they couldn’t escort us to get our boarding passes stamped, and then escort us back, I will never know. We still would have had plenty of time to make the plane had they done so. But apparently “it’s Ryanair policy” and that’s that.

So Tracey, Tyler and Hannah went to Ireland, and Stefani and I set about figuring out a way to join them.

There was another flight leaving at 9:15, but from another airport in a different part of London. The rebooking costs were already going to bankrupt us, a taxi ride wasn’t really an option. And the bus booking offices weren’t open yet. So we booked ourselves a 1:10 flight leaving from the airport we were already at. Which left us with 7 hours to kill.

Mostly we read or napped. For awhile we chatted. We made plans to eat brunch once we got through security a second time (silver lining anyone?), but we would be unable to do that until they opened the check-in for our flight at 11:10. Which still left us with 5 hours. Eventually, after time crept by slowly slowly, the board showed our check-in gate number, and we lined up with several hundred other people to get our boarding passes stamped. Only they only opened one gate. For everyone on our flight. Half of whom were also checking bags as part of this process. We were in the first 3rd, and it took an hour to get through the line.

Obviously brunch was right out. We got through security, trekked to our gate with half an hour to spare, and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. Our flight, of course, was late, and an hour after take-off was scheduled, we were finally boarded and ready to go. Alright!

But the plane wasn’t moving. What…? Eventually, the captain kindly informed us that about the time they were ready to close the doors, they discovered that a “small but critical part” on one wing was broken. “We’re in communication with a storage place nearby,” said the captain, “and we’re trying to get a spare part so we can fix it as soon as possible. I’ll let you know as soon as I know more.” Only the storage place didn’t have the part. So they decided to send a plane from Dublin to come get us, and made us leave the plane. “We’ll board again at 3:50,” they told us.

At this point I was exhausted. Stefani was exhausted. We were supposed to have been in Ireland either 5 or 1 hours ago, and we were still sitting in an airport in London. So we did what any girl would do in this situation: we called our moms.

Which made me feel a bit better, for all that international calls use up a lot of my cell’s minute allotment, so the call was short. Then it was back to the gate, with the intention to board a plane…that didn’t show up for another half an hour. By this time, obviously, our whole flight was frustrated. When the plane finally did arrive, minutes before they started boarding, the airline changed our gate number, and this seemed to be the end of everyone’s patience. The nice orderly queue that once existed was abolished in favor of hoard mentality, and the airline employees were hard pressed to keep order while checking our tickets.

Four hours after our flight was supposed to leave—10 ½ hours after Stef’s and my original flight—we finally got into the air. The flight itself is a little blurry, I think because Stefani was sick and I was getting a headache, and we kinda napped through it, but eventually we landed in Ireland. Our potential troubles weren’t over yet though. Stefani still had a three hour bus ride to the other side of the island to meet a friend, and I still had to figure out where in Dublin Hanna, Tracey and Tyler were at, and how to get to them. Worse, Stefani’s bus was scheduled to leave 15 minutes after we got off the plane, and we still had to get through customs. So we ran. And ran. And ran some more. I swear, I will never complain about an American plane terminal again! None of them are so badly spaced out as European airports, and for no apparent reason, either. I mean, I understand Phoenix or Honolulu being huge and maybe requiring a tram to get from one end to the other, but let’s be honest, there’s just not that many flights in and out of Dublin. There’s no reason for that layout!

Fortunately, customs wasn’t busy, and there was no line at all. A quick stamp in the passport (my favorite one so far; it’s green!), and we were racing through the airport to the bus terminal. And then running to the far end of the bus terminal to Stefani’s bus stop. And, just as they were closing things up, we arrived. For the first time all day, something went right. I waved at Stefani once the bus driver checked her ticket, and took myself off to find a local bus to the city center.

I met my three friends at a pub near our hostel (where the waiter took ou picture behind the bar), carting my back pack and looking more like the walking dead than a weary traveler, at nearly 8 in the evening, more than 12 hours after my original arrive in Ireland time. But though I was exhausted, hungry, and nearly dying of a migraine…I was doing those things in Ireland!!! And let me tell you, Ireland is beautiful. Even Dublin, which feels more like a less crowded London with wider streets, was just lovely. There’s this river running through the middle of it, and bridges crossing it all over the place, and I just love it there!

(Pub photo courtesy of Tyler Fouche)

So, excited about the rest of my trip (especially for the bus tour scheduled for the next day) I snagged a quick sandwich (Subway! Like McDonald’s, you have settled yourself all over the world, and the yummy familiarity of my favorite turkey on wheat—my first time in an American restaurant since leaving home—was a marvel to me in that moment) and took myself off to bed.