I'm sure many would agree that the traveling is the worst part of any vacation. First, there is the anticipation of reaching the destination. Sometimes there are hours and even days between point A and point B. It can be excruciating. Then there are timetables to keep, luggage to haul, lines in which to grow anxious or bored, small vehicles crammed with the eager, the tired, the crying, and the nauseous. Once, finally, at that destination, who really cares anymore? Especially if you've been up all night.
I was teeming with stress before I even packed my bags. There was little anticipation, just nerves. I wasn't worried about flying; I've done so many times and had just flown cross country the previous August. No, I can't pinpoint what had me so wound up, but I was, which didn't make for an auspicious start to a trip abroad.
So I started that first day of travel frustrated and stressed. I didn't like that, on a flight that connected three times, we didn't receive boarding passes for the second and third connections. I really didn't care for the fact that our seats would not even be assigned until shortly before boarding on the first flight. However, we made it to Montreal without a hitch. Thank God.
But, wait. We have to go through customs and check in, again, although we're connecting? This was the message I got from staff at Montreal although in retrospect I think we could have had a much smoother experience had we found Transfers. Instead, we waited in line at the Air France desk, time slipping before our flight to Paris was to leave. I was getting more and more stressed and when we reached the ticket counter, two things happened that made that wire snap inside of me: My sister and I would not be seated together on the international and longest flight because we checked in so late. What?! We checked in hours before our plane left Detroit. Second, we were not confirmed for the flight from Paris to Dublin. That did it. My eyes filled and I fell into a right sobbing fit. I manage to find my confirmation in my paperwork and pass it to a supervisor who moved us out of line while she checked on it. My sister was looking at me like I had grown horns and when everything was smoothed out and we finished checking in, the ticket lady pleaded with me in her very nice French accent not to cry anymore. She even let me carry on my luggage although it was slightly larger than permitted.
Then security. Okay, I'm good with the new security protocols at airports. Unfortunately, in Montreal they were essentially patting every other person down, even my sister, which took forever. In fact, a final call came over the PA for boarding our Paris flight just as we left security, and our gate was far away. Terrified, we ran until our hearts burst, pushing people out of our way, screaming that we were going to miss our plane, only to see a long line of people boarding and we were just fine, despite the fact that the announcement made it sound like the gate was closing.
Oh, that ash cloud? It delayed our flight to Dublin for six hours, but that's paltry compared to what people experienced in late April, so I won't complain more than this. We made it to Ireland. Yes!
Then we got the rental car.
Above are images from my first visit to Ireland in 2005 that I've briefly mentioned in a previous post or two. It was a significant trip for me because it was one of those rare projects that I had started and followed through to the end. For eighteen months I saved, and studied, and kept the fire burning. I booked the flight on my birthday then waited an agonizing five months more before I boarded the plane. I went alone which, I suppose, took courage that I never believe I possess. It was a dream come true, a moment that I set aside from all of the others in my life to pick up and revisit and re-dream. (My first such experience was the Horde Festival in the late 90s when I saw my then favorite band Blues Traveler in concert. I remember feeling how profound it was this dream realized. Then again, everything felt like a big deal when I was a teenager.) Why, then, wouldn't I want to go back?
Five years ago I went to the West. I flew in to Shannon and traveled for two weeks by bus to counties Clare, Galway, Limerick, and Kerry. Here are more images from that trip:
This set of photos was taken at Muckross Abbey, which I had found by accident. I had walked miles from Killarney to Muckross House and Traditional Farms then cut through the trees afterward to find the exit from the park, and there it was. It stands beside a lake, and compels one to simply explore in silence. Other than two men working among the headstones of the small cemetery nearby, no one else was present. I remember feeling anxious, a tightness in my chest, and not alone. It was eerie, and something I wanted to recapture the second time around.
This time I went to the East, to Dublin and its surrounding counties of Meath and Wicklow. It was a trip planned in six brief weeks that almost got curtailed by an annoying Icelandic volcanic ash cloud. I went with my younger sister, at my dad's urging. It didn't matter to him that I went alone last time and that I was five years older and supposedly wiser; to him, the world in 2010 was far different and more dangerous than that in 2005. So my sister and I imagined all of the pints we'd drink, the people we'd meet, the castles and sheep we would see. No doubt, this would be the best sisters holiday ever planned.
Um, well...
I can't seem to get my mind to settle on any one thing. I leave in a few days for a faraway place and I just know that there are some last minute details I need to attend, but for the life of me, I can't think of what. I'm either very efficient or lacking in the brain cell department.
Or maybe my brain cells are flying in too many different directions. In addition to the preparation for the trip, the job hunt, and the de-cluttering of my apartment, there are all of the things relevant to my future profession that I want to learn, like now. The most recent position to which I've applied includes caring for rare books and manuscripts that date back to the fifteenth century. This holds tremendous appeal for me, but I've only taken one conservation class. I need more practice. I want to order supplies from Gaylord, spread them out on my kitchen table, and damage a few books just so I can repair them. I want to research illuminated manuscripts, not because they are part of any job I've seen, but because they are the subject of a novel I'm reading and I will be seeing the Book of Kells very soon. I want to get my mind around all of the standards that govern the library and archival professions, because it's more than just knowing what all of the acronyms stand for; I have to actually know how to apply them to my work. And, I just want my work to involve these standards (my impatience for that first archival job is creeping closer).
Is it any wonder I can't figure out if there is anything left to do before I hop on a plane? Or maybe there is wonder. As a single, childless woman, the details of my life tend to be more manageable than for the amazing people out there who juggle marriage, parenthood, and mortgages. But it still stands that I refuse to focus.
GD, I better not forget my passport.
I'd like to believe that I am of a gentle nature. I don't lose my temper at the drop of a hat, I don't burst into tears if someone looks at me funny (not usually, anyway), and I rarely yell. I have a decent sense of humor (I really do!), and while working under pressure will jangle my nerves, I will keep my cool.
So why did I come semi-unhinged yesterday? Well, maybe because I'm human. But even so, the instigating circumstance wasn't exactly something about which even the most fiery of tempers would get upset. A client just wanted an explanation of the billing practices of a company my agency represents. She was exasperated and confused, but never rude. When I got off the phone with her, however, I shouted to the office all of my frustration, directed more towards myself and the company whose billing practices would confuse a genius than towards the client. I could feel my skin getting hot, my heart racing, and even my throat tightening up in a sure sign that the tears may fall. They didn't, thankfully. I should be old enough by now not to weep like a child over silly matters.
The scene was over within minutes and I was grateful that I still worked with family because they can tolerate such a show of temper in a way that professional colleagues likely wouldn't.
My mood pretty much disintegrated after that and I spent the better part of the afternoon and evening trying to figure out why I had gotten so upset. I think it was my inability to satisfactorily answer the client's question. I feel like I should know all the answers, like I should have the information at my fingertips and be able to interpret them for the client. I think that if I can't, then what kind of librarian will I be?
Of course, it's not really up to librarians to interpret the information they provide to patrons; but they should know where to find it and how to organize it in a way that makes sense to the user. They should not leave them more confused than when they asked for their help. And that's what I did yesterday. Suffice it to say, I tanked on that reference interview.
I know that most of the time I meet the clients' needs. I've spent the past seven years gathering and disseminating information to our policyholders, and seeing as I am in the insurance biz, that is not easy information to handle.
I will say, though, my outburst (shouted in a tenor I rarely ever reach) felt really good.
