From Dante to Dublin

Dante’s Inferno described the nine stages of hell. I used to think there were only seven, but that was before George Bush became president. If there is an airport to bring you between these stages, then surely it is based on London’s Heathrow.

To spend four hours there is a punishment not unlike that found in Abu Graib. The endless queuing is akin to water boarding and they even take your picture in a humiliating manner as a nod those human pyramids the American guards built.

I arrived at 5.30am after a long flight from Singapore. Most airports around the world appreciate the discomfort that passengers are in at this point and that many will not speak the local language and may not have travelled abroad before. So airports are usually high ceilinged, well lit and with directions in multiple tongues. Heathrow on the other hand, chooses to ignore the fact that its passengers come from all round the world and may be tired and grumpy. And you’d do well to find a sign that’s not in English and is useful for that matter.

My first task was to get from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1. This involves a trek down endless corridors, long queues for buses and several interruptions to have your body, baggage and dignity scanned. The picture taking is at least novel. Why they need to photograph travellers in transit is a mystery. A security fetish for the age we live in, I guess.

Once you have navigated the Orwellian world of International Transfers, you have the pleasure of arriving in Terminal 1. This should really be renamed “Terminal Cancer” and it conjures up the same feeling. The Irish flights go from specific gates at the end of a long corridor constructed from corrugated iron and Lego. It has the look and feel of a temporary structure that went up fifteen years ago and has been forgotten about.

When you finally get on the Aer Lingus flight to Dublin, you feel that you are back in Ireland. Modern Ireland at least, as most of the crew and passengers are Polish or Chinese. Dublin airport itself seems to be a never ending building site, showcasing a project that started in the boom times and now looks grotesque in the penny pinching era we live in. It reminded me that Ireland will be a great country when it’s finished.

I had only 48 hours to spare in the home country, so planning was essential if I was to cover everything I wanted to do. Visiting family and friends were at the top of the list, but just behind them came the practical things that I miss about home. Curry chips, Guinness and sausages just about sums that up. I had also managed to skilfully organise my trip to coincide with the final performance of Leeson Park Players epic production of “Blithe Spirit”. So that became the highlight of my trip, with apologies to the Lads who provided a thoroughly enjoyable Friday night in Dundalk (with special mention to the curry chips on the way home).

I treaded the boards at LPP for ten years, cornering the niche market in terrorists, farmers and village idiots. My proudest moment was when one of the grandees of the group came up to me after a performance and said “You do gormless better than anyone in the company”. But I’ve never actually watched a performance from the audience. It was a nerve-wrecking event. I’ve been in enough plays to recognise the nervous energy that can consume a cast and found that building in act 1.

My old mate Charles was playing the part of a sceptical doctor, which I’m sure Noel Coward wrote as a serious character. Anyone who has ever acted with Charles would know that he brings his infectious sense of humour to the stage. I’ve stood in front of 200 hundred people with him on several occasions and struggled to keep in the giggles when he diverts from the script and throws you one of his trademark cheeky grins. The cast this time weren’t as stoic and they erupted into a fit of giggles half way through act 1. I had to watch this section through gaps in my fingers. Thankfully, professionalism kicked in and we were treated to a rollicking second act.

Afterwards, I slipped backstage and took the opportunity to step once more onto a stage I last graced in April 2007 and which holds most of my favourite memories from my years living in Dublin. It was an emotional few minutes, partly blurred by the onset of jetlag and the nagging thought of a long flight yet to come.

The cast and crew party afterwards was a tame event when compared to the nights we used to have in the Northbrook Hotel. If there is one crime for which the Celtic Tiger cannot be forgiven, it is the money grabbing decision to convert this fine establishment into apartments. We used to party until morning there, often re-enacting particularly dramatic scenes from the play we had just completed.

The party venue now has a strict 1am closing policy and that hardly allows time to get merry enough to sing. We retired to Eddie Rockets for a fake American Dining experience and ended up drinking tea in the greasiest spoon that Ranelagh has to offer. I finished the night with two friends who are very dear to me. I had booked a hotel at the airport which was by now looking like a bit of an extravagance. At 5am the tiredness finally defeated me. I hailed a taxi and said my sad farewells. It’s never easy saying goodbye, particularly when you’re numb from lack of sleep.

As the taxi raced through the early morning gloom, I got to see Dublin in all its filthy majesty. A freezing fog hung over the City and the revellers left on the streets had their coats tightly held against the wind and rain. It can be a cold and miserable place, but the warmth of friendship makes you forget about that for a while.