Flying to Ireland
On Thursday, I sat fidgeting through my Italian class because I couldn't get my upcoming trip out of my head. I was returning to the Emerald Isle again this evening. After class, I bolted to catch the bus home and finish packing. My Ryanair flight only allowed 10 kilos for my carry-on so I did without a second pair of pants and my nice shoes. My flight was leaving out of Ciampino, Rome's secondary airport, so I took the metro to Termini and hopped on the connection bus that took me straight there. I was originally supposed to meet up with my Irish friend Sean until he told me he had to cancel a few minutes before my flight, and was coming back to Rome at the same time I was leaving.
A little bummed and confused as to what I was going to do for the weekend, my mind was busy with coming up with a new plan on the three-hour Rome-to-Dublin flight. The perpetually crying two-year-old English boy in the row behind me that already had a full vocabulary of swear words didn't help. Earlier in the terminal, he had been running around just having fun. I feel old when I say this, but when kids run around like that they're just bound to crash and hurt themselves.
Well, there I was reading a trashy English newspaper just relaxing and I see him out of the corner of my eye running on a course to just barely miss me. His foot catches mine and he goes sprawling, landing on elbow and knee. A moment before he started crying, I got the surprised and pain-filled look that just screamed “why did you do that to me” through his eyes. I felt terrible. Kind of. And said sorry to him and his mom and went back to reading my paper.
Turning on my cell phone is the first thing I do when my plane lands. Immediately it signaled a new text message, which was from Sean. It read “Legal trouble. Staying for the weekend. We'll meet up for a pint.”
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You are reading "Flying to Ireland", an entry posted on 10 November 2008 by Andy Steves.
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