I had finally finished
shuffling down the aisle of our crowded international flight, and turned to
shimmy into my seat, my carry on catching onto arm rests and other passengers
in the process. It was my University Concert Choir’s third flight in the past
twenty four hours, and also my third time that day with a window seat. I
sighed, staring at the wing outside the tiny smeared glass, and shoved my grey
floral bag under the seat in front of me with my feet. Our tickets had been
bought in bulk, but also at random, so I had been sitting next to strangers all
day. I had the privilege of being by an elderly couple that were making floor
plans of how they theoretically wanted to reorganize their house, and a younger
athletic woman that was tapping her smart phone with her acrylic nails all
through the flight.
I hoped that the seat next to me would be empty. After we
left New York, the journey would take around five hours, and I was not sure
that I could handle any more awkward new friends. I also hated the window seat.
Flying generally makes me nervous, and the constant reminder of just how high
in the air we were barely helped. A middle aged man with fair skin and wisps of
red hair paused by my seat and moved in to sit beside me. His eyes were a grey
blue, sitting in his face that looked like it had not received proper rest in
days.
I stared at him, figuring I should introduce myself if we
were going to be in close proximity for the next few hours.
“Hello,” I began—casually, I thought. “How’re you?”
“Good.” He sighed back, “You?”
“I’m doing fine!” I smiled, embarrassingly. The man was
Irish, with a thick accent. I was ecstatic and could barely keep myself from
smiling. It was the first Irish accent that I had heard besides Gerard Butler’s
character in P.S. I Love You. I was
suddenly very nervous. This would be my first time spent with an actual Irish
person, and I had no idea what to say. I wanted him to like me, to think What a lovely young woman. I am so glad that
she is coming to visit my country. She is a representation of everything
charming and good.
“Where are you going?” I continued the conversation. I
wanted to seem interested, and I also waited in anticipation for him to speak
again.
“Dublin for my niece’s wedding” he replied, with a hint
of resentment. “I have lived in New York for twelve years and hardly ever go
home.”
I was taken aback. Of course people still immigrated to
America to Ireland. But why would he choose New York over Dublin? I hadn’t yet
been to Ireland—but it seemed so green and calm. The essence of serenity and
beauty sprinkled with sheep. I enjoyed New York on a basic level, but—
“New York is a fun place” I decided to say. “Do you like
it?”
“Busy, but I love it” he finally smiled, his eyes
creasing around the corners. I could sense his adoration of the city, for it
reflected mine for Columbus. Fine, perhaps he was crazy for wanting to leave
Ireland for America’s busiest city, but at least he was happy and had made a
home. I realized that I was weirdly dissecting this man, and was going to make
things uncomfortable if I seemed too interested. I didn’t want to ruin my first
interaction with an Irish person by being creepy, so I turned back to look out
of my window while we were still standing on the runway.
I soon heard another male Irish voice in a close
proximity. I turned my head to the right to see an older gentleman passing out
small chocolates wrapped in pink and blue foil. He gave a handful to my new
partner in flight, who turned and offered me some. How sweet, I smiled cherubically, I would never be so kind as to buy chocolate and give it away. I would
definitely eat it all because I have a problem.
I wondered if this was an example of the Irish
hospitality and friendliness that I had heard about. If it was an American man
in tube socks, jean shorts, and a button-up tee shirt with hibiscus flowers on
it, I probably would have been freaked out and declined even the most delicious
of candies. I unwrapped the chocolate and set it on my tongue, letting it melt
slowly in my mouth. I suddenly had the fear that the gesture could have been a
façade. What if the chocolate was poisoned and the man used his Irish charm to
get away with mass murder? Oh God, I
contemplated spitting the chocolate out. I turned to look at the man next to me
wondering if he would notice, only to decide that I was being insane and the
chocolate was already in my system anyway. If it was foul play, I was already
done for, and might as well eat the other piece to make sure that the job was
done right.
“Why are you going to Dublin?” my seat partner asked me.
I felt a shock move through my abdomen. He spoke to me without being provoked!
He didn’t sense my paranoia and alarming fascination with his accent.
“I am traveling with my University’s Concert Choir,” I
started, hoping that it sounded impressive and not juvenile because I was still
a college student. “We are touring the country to give multiple performances
over our winter break.” I then realized that it perhaps sounded pretentious. He
probably wondered if there was a need to spend thousands of dollars and fly
across an ocean to sing to strangers. I wanted to tell him that it was more
than that. That we wanted to build a cultural bridge with our music, and bare
our souls to a whole group of people that we hope would be touched by our art.
We wanted to change lives, even if for an instant, and maybe change our own as
well. I decided that the background explanation was a little too deep for plane
talk, so I bit my tongue and hoped that he would get it. He looked
unaffected—perhaps he didn’t.
The plane started to move and we took off, quickly
reaching the point in the sky where we were free to walk around and utilize
electronics. The backs of the seats in front of us had small, individual
screens where we could watch television shows, movies, read books, or play
games. I fumbled in my pocket for my headphones and decided that I would
distract myself with a movie. I shifted through the selections, suddenly very
conscious of what the man next to me would think. Would he scoff at me for
watching Tommy Boy twice in a row? I
knew he wasn’t paying attention, but I worried that he would shift his eyes to
see which movie I selected, or would nonchalantly turn to see Chris Farley
ripping David Spade’s coat in a motel room. I slyly turned my eyeballs to look at
his screen, while keeping my head forward. He had a small map of the world
showing, with a tiny plane flying over the Atlantic Ocean, headed towards
Ireland. How did he know how to find that? No movies for the flight? This guy
meant business.
I decided to watch the movie anyway, hoping that any
thoughts from the man regarding the film would be in appreciation of my
timeless sense of humor. A little while later, a flight attendant came by to
give us complimentary drinks. I hesitantly asked for an apple juice, knowing
that I would have to use the restroom a short while later. Inevitably by the
end of the movie, I definitely had to go, but realized that the man next to me
was fast asleep with his head tilted back, slightly snoring. I did not want to
wake him, and decided to try to hold off going to the bathroom for a little
while longer. On a normal day, I tend to use the restroom about every hour
because I hydrate incessantly, as a singer. I knew that I would drive this guy
crazy if I actually used the bathroom five times.
I decided to wait until he woke up to use the restroom,
and then I would get out too. I did not have to inconvenience him. He would
think, How thoughtful of her. She waited
until I had to go instead of climbing over my lap to get to the aisle. It
was a decent plan. Although the pain started to swell in my bladder, I decided
to wait.
The man woke up not too long afterwards to utilize the
facilities, and I eagerly followed. I struggled to retain my balance in the
cramped bathroom stall, and was equally challenged to find out how to flush the
toilet. I found a grey button and pushed it, only to hear the loudest flush
that I could ever imagine. I jumped backwards, hitting the locked restroom
door, covering my ears. My faces reddened with hints of tears in my eyes, for I
have always had an irrational fear of loud noises and often cry on the spot if
I am not prepared for them. I looked at myself in the mirror, realizing that I
looked ridiculous. I couldn’t go back down the aisle looking like I had been
crying in the restroom. I wiped my eyes and ran my fingers through my tangled
hair, while giving my reflection a few exaggerated smiles. Good. No one would
notice that the toilet almost gave me a heart attack.
I got back to my seat before the man next to me did, and
I decided not to drink any more beverages for the remainder of the flight. I
glanced at his screen and realized that we were practically halfway there.
Feeling sleepy, for my whole choir group had hardly slept in a day’s time, I
decided to lean against the window and try to sleep. I positioned myself as
close to the wall of the airplane that I could, terrified that I would wake up
on the guy next to me’s shoulder. And he would probably have just let me sleep
there. He seemed like the type, too nice and Irish.
When I woke, the flight attendants were busy handing out
meals that resembled breakfast food. Because of my Celiac Disease, I was given
a special gluten free meal that consisted of a rice cake with honey, and an
apple. I turned to see the man next to me eating eggs and a biscuit
voraciously. I dipped a piece of the clumped dried rice into the honey packet
and stuck it in my mouth, trying to convince myself that it couldn’t be that
bad or else they wouldn’t serve it. It was.
The attendants quickly came back to gather our trash, and
I faced my fears to use the restroom once more before we landed. I nervously
asked the gentleman if I could get out, and he let me through without any
embarrassing complications. I plugged my ears before I pushed the grey button
this time, and glided back to my seat optimistically. We were almost in
Ireland!
The plane landed roughly, bouncing all of its passengers
from side to side when the wheels hit the pavement. We raced down the runway as
I finally willingly looked out of my window to see grey sky and green grasses
surrounding the terminal. We were here. I was about to breath Irish air.
The plane finished taxiing and we all stood up to stretch
and grab our belongings. We began to form a line in the aisle to get off of the
plane, and I watched the man next to me move up through the aisle while the
other passengers in front of us took their time to organize their bags. I had
said nothing to him, or he to me as he left. I knew that I would never see this
man again. I contemplated yelling for him, telling him to have fun at the
wedding but decided against it.
I held the handles of my carry on in my hand as I made my
way into the airport to go through customs. I was finally in Ireland, and had
successfully had multiple conversations with an Irish person. He had given me
the little bit of confidence that I needed to walk the Dublin streets and
converse with locals, and I was thankful for that. I smiled to myself, moving
slowly through the plane, realizing that I never even asked his name.
Jordan
