Thursday, September 15, 2005

Part Two: Sorry, Lady. You’re Just Not My Type.

After signing in and going through security, I waited by the gate, on a bench next to a woman. She was playing with a very cool camera phone, and I said so. Being the proud new owner of a camera myself, I was happy to talk about some of the new gadgets coming out—and it was an opportunity to speak in French. Turns out, we were both headed to Dublin. She is trying to learn English for work, and is going to school here.
Before long, the plane arrived and we jumped in the free for all that was forming at the gate. Now, here is why I don’t like to make friends in close quarters. She asked me for my phone number and told me that we should definitely get together next time she was in Paris (I had neglected to tell her I was moving to Caen). I smiled and mumbled that that sounded nice, but quickly changed the subject. So, of course, she manages to sit right next to me on the plane, and insists that I give her my number. I happily do so, except that it isn’t so much my number as a few random digits I quickly scrawled on a napkin. Then, feeling more and more like a completely insensitive ass, I pretend to be so tired, I must sleep…immediately. But after a while, she is moving in her seat, flipping buttons and doing her best to “wake me up.” So, I bite. We end up talking for the rest of the 1h30mns. flight. Thankfully, the baggage carrousel was insane and I lost her going through customs. She actually told me I would never find transportation to my hostel and that I should stay at her house for the night. Eeeewwwww! Now, I don’t say “eeeeewwwww” because she is a woman, or even because she is an old woman (okay, middle-aged [but there was already some tragic sagging). I just don’t like being picked up on by strangers—male or female. It makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable (I have issues, I know), and she was just too touchy, just too forward for me to do anything but run full speed towards the exit. I hoped into a cab before she could find me again. What is it about me? I know people who have had random conversations in airports that have led to lucrative careers, love, and a free place to stay whenever they’re in town. AAARRRGGGHH! Why do I always strike up a conversation with the assholes, creeps, and stalkers (that is a completely different story)?
I had to take a taxi because I only knew the name of my hostel—check me out: world-class traveler forgot to write down the address of where she was staying and paid 20 euro for a cab. I am at the world-famous Avalon House. It is a big, old brick building in a great neighborhood (Dublin, too, is divided into numbered neighborhoods, but I have no idea how it works). The people here are nice, very accommodating, and so far, I am the only person in my 4 bed, ensuite dorm. I’ve had the place to myself, I paid an 8 euro deposit for a giant locker, and fixed myself dinner in the kitchen tonight. There is a Dunnes grocery market just down the street.

*The "Fuck" airline in the picture is supposed to be RyanAir.
**No Kilkenny planes or passengers were injured in the taking of above photograph


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