The Ireland Dispatches

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Almost guiltily I settled into my super-wide business class seat. Those passing through to steerage muttered, "So this is how the other half lives." "Frequent flyer miles," I sheepishly answered. The British are the masters at distinguishing class difference, and this flight was the epitome. I dined on exquisite curried tiger prawns, preceded by a medallion of smoked salmon sushi and a nice chardonnay. On linen, of course. My salad dressing came in a sealed glass jar. There were three knives wrapped in my napkin, which I thought was a mistake until next morning at breakfast when there were two. And I slept soundly (soft cotton eyemask—steerage gets cheap nylon ones), recumbent in a lounge chair with 5 different seat adjustment controls.

What I missed was company. In the rear my flights over have always been social, as the seats are too narrow to not nest elbows. Luxury breeds apartness. Even the stewards were distant, overly solicitous. I wanted conversation, but no one was near me.

The sun is shining in Ireland. Four o’clock Friday traffic in Dublin is identical to four o’clock Friday traffic in Seattle, so I had plenty of leisure to contemplate the sky. I found a Gaelic talk-radio station. I like the sound of the language. It is consonant-driven, not so extreme as Welsh, but it sounds like all the words have hard edges. It’s full of peculiar diphthongs that we never hear in English. I’d get a hint what they were talking about by the English names dropped in—string of hard S’s and K’s, "Julia Roberts", more tongue twisting sounds, "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire."

The low sun raked the Wicklow hills to the south, where I took a detour on an R road to enjoy the views. I tried to start working but I know from experience that shooting on the first day is useless. I’m just not here enough. That will come. It’s good to be back.

20 October 2000
Acoma, Co. Wicklow