After the 2-hour drive to the airport, the two-hour wait at the gate, the nearly 3-hour flight to Pennsylvania, the 5-hour layover there and the 6-hour flight over the "pond," I was in Ireland. It was like a homecoming to look out the plane window and see that 40-shades-of-green patchwork landscape. A sigh.
If I'd had any doubt about actually being in Ireland, it was swept away after my first real conversation after landing. It was at the train station in Dublin, where I was going to catch a train to Drogheda, the first stop on the way to the first music festival I would attend. The information I'd gotten from the festival said there was a 1:30 p.m. train from Dublin to Drogheda, but there was only an 11:22 a.m. train listed on the board.
At about 11:00 a.m. I got worried and I asked two of the men by the gate about it. The conversation when something like this...
Me: Is there also a 1:30 train to Drogheda?
Irishman 1: Well, there's the 1:30 Belfast train.
Me: But I'm going to Drogheda.
Irishman 2: Well, you could take the 11:22 to Drogheda.
Me: I know, but I wondered if there is also a 1:30 to Drogheda.
Irishman 1: There's the Belfast train.
Irishman 2: Or the 11:22 to Drogheda.
Me: So what do you recommend I do?
Irishman 1: Well, obviously you should stay here with us and have coffee.
Irishman 2: And is that a harp you're carrying, now? Well, then you could play us some tunes and stay all day.
I ended up understanding that the Belfast train stops in Drogheda, but I decided to take the 11:22 to Drogheda anyway just to be sure. When I asked Irishman 1 and Irishman 2 if I had time to catch the 11:22 (since it was now 11:10), they said...
"Yes, of course. Plenty of time. But you'd better run."
Yep, I was in Ireland.
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