The luck of the Irish
I'm blogging from the comfort of one of the couches in our temporary Dublin apartment (temporary-temporary, in fact - but more on that later). We've made it!
Of course we made it, you think. But in fact it was a close-run thing.
The final two flights of our 10-flight odyssey (Athens - Heathrow and Heathrow - Dublin) were fairly easy: short, and with a connection that meant we didn't get caught for being around 15kg over the baggage allotment (bless the generous Greeks who didn't seem to care how heavy your bags were!). However, Heathrow - that is to say, the UK- Ireland area of Terminal 1 at Heathrow - is... less than impressive. It's big, but it lacks seating, ambience, decent shopping facilities, and wireless Internet access. And rather like an enormous shearing shed, it appears to be mainly constructed of corrugated iron. On the plus side, the bathrooms were clean.
Our arrival in Dublin was fine. We met possibly the most cheerful and personable immigration official ever, and he decided that I could be trusted to present myself at the Garda station within a month to get a work permit. The only mildly unpleasant part was that he had to take my photo, which I was unprepared for. But I'm sure my mussed hair, sunburned nose and the bags under my eyes will provide sufficient amusement for him and his colleagues for some time to come.
Given British Airways' appalling baggage loss record - and the fact that most of the losses occurred on connecting flights in and out of Heathrow - we were pleasantly surprised to be able to collect our bags and leave the airport. So far, so good.
The trouble began when we turned up at our new temporary street. Where was #26? Well, no one knew. The cab driver tried and failed to help us, so we disengaged ourselves and decided to take a look on foot, hoping that the friendly locals would enlighten us.
Turns out the locals had no idea either.
But luckily for us, the two girls we asked for help took pity on us. First they waited with me and the bags while David went to look for the apartment building. Then, when he found it but couldn't get in, they invited us up to one of their apartments to use the Internet.
They probably figured we'd use the Internet briefly and be on their way. Instead, they didn't get rid of us until 2AM.
We had some trouble getting in touch with the people at the apartment block, and for awhile it looked like we might need to go to a hotel... out of town, because it was the Thursday before Easter after all, and everywhere l9cal and not hundreds of Euros a night was already full. A friend of theirs even volunteered to drive us.
But then finally David managed to get in touch with the people, and get in the building, and get the keys. And he came right back and we all continued to enjoy ourselves for some time after that.
So we spent our first night in Dublin meeting fun people and having a good time, then came home to a lovely 2-bedroom apartment - a temporary upgrade for the 1-bedroom we'd booked.
Really, we have the luck of the Irish. (I just wonder whose Irishness brought it - David's or mine?)
Of course we made it, you think. But in fact it was a close-run thing.
The final two flights of our 10-flight odyssey (Athens - Heathrow and Heathrow - Dublin) were fairly easy: short, and with a connection that meant we didn't get caught for being around 15kg over the baggage allotment (bless the generous Greeks who didn't seem to care how heavy your bags were!). However, Heathrow - that is to say, the UK- Ireland area of Terminal 1 at Heathrow - is... less than impressive. It's big, but it lacks seating, ambience, decent shopping facilities, and wireless Internet access. And rather like an enormous shearing shed, it appears to be mainly constructed of corrugated iron. On the plus side, the bathrooms were clean.
Our arrival in Dublin was fine. We met possibly the most cheerful and personable immigration official ever, and he decided that I could be trusted to present myself at the Garda station within a month to get a work permit. The only mildly unpleasant part was that he had to take my photo, which I was unprepared for. But I'm sure my mussed hair, sunburned nose and the bags under my eyes will provide sufficient amusement for him and his colleagues for some time to come.
Given British Airways' appalling baggage loss record - and the fact that most of the losses occurred on connecting flights in and out of Heathrow - we were pleasantly surprised to be able to collect our bags and leave the airport. So far, so good.
The trouble began when we turned up at our new temporary street. Where was #26? Well, no one knew. The cab driver tried and failed to help us, so we disengaged ourselves and decided to take a look on foot, hoping that the friendly locals would enlighten us.
Turns out the locals had no idea either.
But luckily for us, the two girls we asked for help took pity on us. First they waited with me and the bags while David went to look for the apartment building. Then, when he found it but couldn't get in, they invited us up to one of their apartments to use the Internet.
They probably figured we'd use the Internet briefly and be on their way. Instead, they didn't get rid of us until 2AM.
We had some trouble getting in touch with the people at the apartment block, and for awhile it looked like we might need to go to a hotel... out of town, because it was the Thursday before Easter after all, and everywhere l9cal and not hundreds of Euros a night was already full. A friend of theirs even volunteered to drive us.
But then finally David managed to get in touch with the people, and get in the building, and get the keys. And he came right back and we all continued to enjoy ourselves for some time after that.
So we spent our first night in Dublin meeting fun people and having a good time, then came home to a lovely 2-bedroom apartment - a temporary upgrade for the 1-bedroom we'd booked.
Really, we have the luck of the Irish. (I just wonder whose Irishness brought it - David's or mine?)
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