The Long, Long, Long Trip to Dublin

It took me 20 hours to get from Copenhagen to Dublin.  Sure, I could have taken a direct flight and have been there in two hours.  But that would cost more money than I am willing to pay.  So, opting for economy over convenience, I packed 3 days' worth of clothes and I embarked on my 20-hour trip to the land of the leprechauns, where I will be for the next two weeks.

I woke up at 3 a.m. on Saturday and walked to the bus stop outside my kollegium.  As I waited, a group of people from the kollegium were returning from a night of drinking.  I waved.

"Where are you going?" one asked.

"Ireland." I said.

"No bags?"

"Nope."

I took the night bus to Central Station, where I was promptly greeted by the remains of Friday night, which wandered like zombies around the streets (some actually dressed as zombies).  It's what they call -- and I really can't put this more politely -- an absolute shit-show.

To my disappointment bloodthirsty rage, the 7-11 was closed.  Fortunately, I brought a loaf of ciabatta with me for precisely this purpose.  I found my train on the schedule and walked down to the track where it would arrive to find a couple of policemen pulling a drunk off of the tracks.

Central Station in the wee hours of the morning.

The prettier side of the station.

A train to Odense arriving.

 Despite message boards that give confusing information, I boarded the correct train at 6.  Trains in Denmark are not particularly cheap, but they are comfortable, fast, and run on time.  Boarding the train, I found it perhaps a little bit too comfortable.  As in one could just melt back into the chair and fall asleep.  The reason for this, however, quickly became apparent when the stewardess came by and asked me to leave first class.

The DSB (Danish train company) logo.  It looks like a bumblebee in flight.  Or a train track disappearing into a black hole.  Or PacMan throwing up.

Going west on the IC-Tog.

  The train pulled into Vejle Station at 9.  I have no idea where it is geographically, or what town it is in.  All I know is that I can catch a bus to Billund Airport there.

No idea where I am.

I mean, I can't even see 10 feet in front of me.

 The bus drove on and on and on and on.  The fog had been pea soup thick all over Denmark since I stepped outside of my kollegium.  All you could see were marshlands and boneyards.  And all you could hear was this worrying metallic shearing sound.

WOOOOO SPOOOKY!

 And then, suddenly, they appeared out of the mist.

HERE BE GIANT CHILDREN.

 Billund is home to Legoland ("Lego" is Danish for "play well."), a dystopian totalitarian regime where the man of flesh is a slave to the man of plastic.  Where Playmobile and MegaBlocks infidels are crushed beneath the rectangular boot of the Lego Man as his cylindrical yellow face grins cruelly.

Checking in???

 The entire bus (and it was packed) emptied out at Legoland.  I was the only one going to the airport.
 

Legoland customs

Billund airport is maybe a long walk from Legoland.  It isn't very big, either.  Or very full.  In fact, it was practically empty.  Just me, the cops, and the snack bar lady.

Billund airport security

 I had left myself plenty of time between the train to Vejle and the flight to London-Stansted just in case anything went wrong.  But of course, nothing did.  So I waited.  And I waited.  And I waited.  For six hours.  I ate lunch.  Read about Hugo Chávez for class.  Walked around.  Watched a car race.  Watched the Simpsons.  Browsed the Duty Free shop.  Watched airplanes take off and land.  And then, finally, the plane arrived.

Ryan Air, an Irish budget carrier, is great.  It's cheap, they aggressively pack passengers aboard the plane (and God help you if you are slow), there is tons of in-flight advertising, and flights routinely land 15 minutes ahead of schedule.  I don't know what that says about maintenance, but at least they are on-time.

 A word about traveling in Europe: the plague is to be avoided at all costs.  Yes, the plague.  The term I use to refer to any communicable illness.  I was lucky enough to catch the plague in Denmark within my first month of arrival, so hopefully I have built up some immunity to it.  But frickin' everyone was dropping dead on the buses, trains, and planes here.  Ughh.

I have actually drawn up a list of proposed regulations for European public travel based on my recent experiences.

1. Plague victims will be barred from all flights.
2. Children under 3 will be barred from all flights.
3. Children who insist on crying will be fed mini-bar bottles of Bailey's.
4. People who allow their kids to play noisy cell phone games while the rest of us are trying to sleep will be ejected at 30,000 feet and made to fertilize the English countryside.  Although I guess just confiscating the phones would work, too.

Bye bye, continent...

A North Sea oil rig.

England

 London-Stansted is not Heathrow, but it still has more going on than Billund.  It's much more commercialized, and much more understandable since, you know, everyone speaks English right off the bat (or should I say Cricket bat?  Yeah, that was bad.  I'll go stick my head in a jet engine now).

The British have adopted many things from the U.S.  One of those things is obnoxious airport security.  I was questioned rigorously at customs:

"How long are you going to be in the UK?"
"An hour.  I'm going to Dublin tonight."
"How long are you going to be in Ireland."
"A couple weeks; I'm traveling around."
"I'm sorry, what is it that you do?"
"I'm a student.  I go to college.  Tourist."
"I'm sorry, what is your business in Dublin?"
"I am going there.  On vacation."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand.  How long are you going to be in Ireland."
Mentally rechecking my entire itinerary.
"Dublin until the 2nd.  Galway until the 5th.  Cork until the 9th.  Back to Copenahagen on the 12th."

My God, I'm a 20 year old kid with a backpack.  I know everyone gets the same treatment but come on.  No wonder the Irish hate those guys.

The bloody English searched my bag and found dangerous materials such as toothpaste (in retrospect, this makes sense for Britain), which had to be put in a baggy and re-scanned.

After that ordeal, I waited for an hour and grew increasingly concerned that my plane was late and that the airport was not acknowledging it.  Then I remembered that I was an idiot and that I had flown into an earlier time zone.

When the plane did arrive, I was fortunate to be at the front of the line.  Because apparently I needed a visa stamp on my ticket.  I had to go to "Desk 150" to get that.  And Desk 150 was not only back at the main terminal.  It was on the other side of security.

 I ran.  I ran ran ran ran ran ran ran.  Like there was a bear on roller skates behind me.  Nobody knew where Desk 150 was.  Not the airport people.  Not the cops.  Nobody.  Finally I found some 20-something baggage guy who was like "no problem mate."  I took out my ticket, got that sucker stamped, went back through security (of course), and then called on all my inner strength to run back to the gate.

I felt my lungs giving out as I approached the gate.  "Hold that plane!" I yelled.

I've never missed a plane yet!

I would like to thank Coach Hays from high school, without whom I would be like Tom Hanks and sleeping in an airport.  WWXC 4 Life!

Because, no joke, I made that flight 2 minutes before the gate closed.  Sweating, exhausted, and tired.  I sat down and slumped against the window.  When the steward came by, I said, "Just give me the biggest glass of orange juice you have."  It was 3 inches tall.  Frickin' airlines.

But I made it to Dublin, and that was the most important part.

The beautiful green Irish countryside!

Not as cold as I expected out here...

English-speaking country, my ass.

On the bus into the city.

Ferris wheel!  You can see this from the air.

Dublin was one big Halloween party.  Literally everyone was wearing a costume.  Except me.  I checked in at the hostel, quickly surveyed the room I was staying in (a 24-bed mixed room), left my backpack behind the counter, and walked outside to this: 

I would have really loved to go join in the festivities...but...I may as well have been dead.  So, I gave in.  I went to a fast food restaurant (to be fair, it was a Subway, which isn't that bad) and ordered a sub and a Nazi Cola.  I sat down right there on the sidewalk and ate my meal.

Then I walked on my aching feet until it was quiet, and I found a small bar.  "Where's your costume?" a girl outside said.  I shot her my "I will kill you" glance, walked inside, downed a Guinness, and promptly went home and collapsed on my bed.