BACK FROM A CONFERENCE IN IRELAND

It’s been ten years since I travelled abroad. I am older, the world is less peaceful, and airplane travel has not gotten any easier or more comfortable. There have been many serious accidents and near misses, mechanical problems, overcrowded airways and understaffed airports. For example, last summer I was to go to Wales for a conference, but the Global Tech Outage happened two days before. I was so relieved I could just stay home and write a long essay on George Herbert that was due by the end of the summer.

The world has felt like a scarier place beginning with the plague of Covid, then the Russian invasion of Ukraine (a war still going on), and then Hamas’s brutal attack October 7th, 2023, on a peaceful Kibbutz and a music festival and all the horror that unfolded in Gaza and the whole Middle East in what seems an unending cycle of war and death. It’s very difficult to feel safe in our world and I am not alone in feeling this. My friends and students tell me It’s hard to go out and just want to stay in. Like bears hibernating in the hope that spring‘s renewal will come.

For six weeks during May and June I debated whether to go to my John Donne conference in Ireland. Was it just my ordinary anxiety before travel or an intuitive gut feeling? I’m never sure whether my gut embodies true wisdom opr whether it is the result of having been born upside down in a difficult breach birth after the concentration camps were liberated, or from growing up with a messianic father who was always prophesying doom.

At a conference during June on George Herbert in Toronto, I consulted with three long-time friends who are close to my age and regularly go abroad for conferences. Two encouraged me not to go (one had just pulled out of giving two papers in the UK) but the third (an Anglican priest, no less), said “ you must go,” as if it were a divine command! My son, who always says, “do what you want mom,” now said I should just make up my mind. It’s not that I’m an indecisive person. I’m not passive, but it’s sometimes hard to know what I want to do when there are arguments for and against. My father used to say I’d make a great judge; now, I wonder since I always tend to see “both sides now,” to echo Joni Mitchell’s beautiful song about life. Yes, clouds get in my way. I have always had to think about things. I remember how much that upset my dear husband when he asked me to marry him and I said, “I have to think about it.” Of course, I married him, and stayed married. And yes, I went to Ireland on July 7th for the meeting of the John Donne Society at Galway, where I would give a paper on “Love and Devotion: John Donne and Leonard Cohen.”

I had a wonderful time there with my friends and wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I heard and discussed great papers, learned so much, renewed and grew friendships. I danced like a wild young girl on the deck of the Corrib Princess during our Friday night dinner cruise. And that was all great, but the travelling part was a problem from the start and made me feel old.

I splurged on Premium Select (not first class, but much better than standard economy), with its promise of semi-reclining seats with leg rests, a glass of sparkling wine, and special food. Well, the seats reclined just a little (was it really more than normal?), and the lower part that should support the legs lifted them only a bit. To rest your feet, you had to lift a little rectangle that was down by the floor, which was impossible to reach with a seatbelt on. I couldn’t get comfortable, but told myself to shut up and appreciate this special luxury. We sat and waited… and waited. The engines were on but we weren’t going anywhere. After a long time, the pilot came on: “There is a problem with communication that has to be fixed so we can fill out the paperwork for departure.” This is NOT what you want to hear after airplane accidents! I looked at the little paper telling us of the special service we could look forward to. Where was the “welcoming sparkling wine” that might calm me down? Another forty-five minutes or so passed before they finally said communication was restored and we’d be on our way. Only, we weren’t. We were so far down in the line of airplanes to depart it would be at least another hour. Meanwhile, we were freezing in our section of the plane! (I was told they were trying to control the temperature—and to hope for a different plane on the way back). Finally, we got to Dublin the next morning. Nice landing. Safe.

But that was just the beginning. An hour’s taxi ride took me to the train station in Dublin where I needed to get a train across Ireland to Galway. The fastest train to Galway would be two and a half hours. I got my ticket, queued up and stood till they were ready to let us on. I was at the head of the line, so didn’t expect a problem, but once at the train I saw that the cars were pretty much full. Just getting on the train was tough, with a heavy carry-on and another bag with my laptop. It had a narrow entrance with steps and no one to give me a hand. I would have to keep going through the cars dragging my stuff until I found a seat that wasn’t reserved! It turns out that most people reserve their seats online ahead of time, but if you are flying, you don’t know whether your plane will be delayed, or how long it will be to get through the airport arrivals and to the Dublin city center train station. I could NOT find an unreserved seat. Bilateral lumbar recess stenosis has plagued me for decades, deriving from a childhood accident. The further I went, the more I hurt, and the more angry and anxious I became. This was not the fun trip so many friends had promised me. The line from Leonard Cohen’s Song “Treaty” went though my head: “I’m tired and I’m angry all the time.” WTF, I came for this? Finally a seat, but then what to do with my bags? I looked up at the narrow high shelf above the seat and sighed. But then a nice looking middle-aged man with smiling blue eyes said, “Can I give you a hand? You’ve got a powerful voice! I heard you coming down the isle!” I smiled, “yes, I’m an actor.” Only in Ireland.

We arrived several hours later at Galway. The train stops are very brief (AI controlled?), and if you don’t get your stuff and get out quickly, the doors close. The city center of Galway seemed cool, lively and enticing, but I needed a cab to take me to Dublin Village where I and most of us in the Donne conference would be staying. When I got there, I saw how isolated this “Village” was—just a set of interlocking dorm buildings—away not just from the town, but even the sprawling University of Galway campus. Beautiful, but I’d been led to expect it was “just across” from the Hardiman Center where we would meet. How was I going to get there when not only was my back bad, but my left foot was so painful I couldn’t put any weight on it (had I twisted it in my anxious sleep?). Always planning for worst case scenarios, I had, thank God, brought a drugstore cane.

For dorms, these were nice—four or five tiny bedrooms with ensuite baths, and a living/hanging out room with a kitchen. My group was nice. No students (but students were certainly visible and sometimes audible late at night). I kept thinking, I’m too old for this. In my nice clean minimalist room, I found one thin rough cotton towel (12”x 30”)—and two rolls of thin toilet paper. On the mirror was a printed notice to be careful of water use even though they get tons of rainfall. I felt trapped here, not just because of the size of the room. I heard there was really nothing around our dorm buildings to walk to! Where will I get my tea? The toothbrush I forgot? FOOD and WINE! There were no restaurants around---I’d been told in my last inquiry before travelling here that if I wanted to eat (IF?) I should eat in downtown Galway before coming up to the Campus. NOT my idea of a good time, particularly as a New Yorker! I felt put in my place as a spoiled American consumer!

To go anywhere and get back, I had to order taxis. It wasn’t just the expense, but the inconvenience. Once I asked where in the campus I might expect the taxi to find me: “in the little parking lot with disability signs.” By the end of the conference, I’d had it. There was so much that was wonderful, and I ended up having a great time, but I could not physically retrace my long winding journey back to the Dublin Airport. Months earlier I asked the conference organizer if there were taxis I could take to or from the airport: “We discourage that,” was the discouraging answer. Now I ignored her. My well being was worth whatever it would cost. I booked a cab. The nice, handsome young driver was excellent, careful and attentive. He told me how he had two kids, but he and his wife were separated, how he’d had his own restaurant, but lost it with Covid. I shared a bit on my end, told him I was much older. “No, you’re not old!” Suddenly I felt the conversation swerve: “don’t you want a man now that your husband has died”? So comical I had to laugh as he dropped me off in Dublin.

Finally I’m home, after a long flight characterized by a shortage of staff (though not in First Class) and other things. I had to track down the two guys attending to the rest of us. They were sitting in the back. I told them the bathroom was almost out of toilet paper and they were no more towels. Their comment: “We appreciate your kindness.” Me: “OK, but will you replace the toilet paper?” Them: “We appreciate your kindness.”

What a trip! Yes, I’m glad I went. So happy to have been with my beloved friends, to have made new ones and enjoyed so many good things, just celebrating being alive. But frankly, the thrill of overseas travel is gone.