Galway Post 2: Why Does Everyone Hate Signs?

Location: Corrib Village, Galway, Ireland

Date: Monday June 11, 2007

Time: GMT 22:00

Monday 11 June 18.00 Registration (Siobhan McKenna Theatre, Arts Millennium Building) 18.30 Keynote Introductory Address Judge Sang-Hyun Song 20.00 Welcome Reception at the Irish Centre for Human Rights

The disaster continueth. I was finally, finally able to check my bags in at Manchester, only to find they hadn't assigned us a gate (and this maybe 45 minutes before wheels up). So I wandered through the departure area, and as luck would have it, was fairly close to Gate 9 when told that was where I should be. I sat there and waited to board...and waited...and waited...and was suddenly jolted out of sleep by a flight attendant hollering "Final Boarding Call for Galway" about three feet from my ear (I'm not complaining...it was clearly done to wake me without looking like she had to wake me, and for that I am thankful). So I dashed for the plane, and thankfully people were still stowing their baggage and whatnot, so I didn't look the total fool.

I slept the hour to Galway, and then took a cab to Corrib Village, the residence all the attendees were lodged at. It was shockingly hot and humid. The cab driver was chatting with me as we drove, and seemed amused that I would "come all this way for a lecture."

A shot of Corrib Village at night.

Once at Corrib Village, I showered (7 hours on planes, plus 6 sitting in the airport--yuck) and put on some semi-dressy clothes to go to the opening lecture and reception. I took the River Path pointed out on the e-mail we had received, blindly trusting it to take me to my destination...

And thus commenced and hour and change of me wandering around the National University of Galway campus, in humidity which occasionally became mist or even rain. Also, I might add, in mounting panic. I'm hardly known for my ability to be on time, but I would have been, in this case, if not for getting late. I kept telling myself Well, maybe I'll miss the registration, but I'll make the speech and then Well, maybe I'll miss the speech, but I'll make the reception and occasionally I should really just go back to Corrib Village...if I can find it. There was not a single map to be found on campus, nor did I pass anyone who looked likely to be able to direct me (e.g. staff).

The silver lining, and it's not a small one, was that during this desperate wandering, who should I run into (almost literally--Irish sidewalks are narrow) but Emily from highschool! Now I must say, as I caught glimpse of her, I did think That looks like Em...I guess of all the people to run into, she'd be the most likely since I knew that her S.O. Brian was Irish. Nevertheless, I was relatively certain she was studying primateology in Toronto, and knowing that she was doing some sort of complicated mega-degree, I assumed she was still there. But no! It was Emily! Much more surprised to see me than I her, for the reasons listed above (tragically, I do not have a charming Irish S.O.). We exchanged the usual "Oh my God! What are you doing here!" Hilariously, though only in retrospect, she could not tell me where the Arts Millennium Building was, since she only used the gym on campus. But she gave me her number and we arranged to meet later in the week.

Finally, I found a sign (not even a map, mind you, just a sign) that pointed to the Arts Millennium Building, wherein I might find the Siobhan McKenna Theatre and the rest of the conference.

Arts Millennium Building

I scuttled in and picked up my rather snazzy conference package, containing, to my delight, a carry case and a copy of An Introduction to the International Criminal Court, and to my chagrin, a detailed map of campus. I missed all but the very end of Judge Sang-Hyun Song's introductory speech, although I did get to hear him speak later, at the Reception.

Judge Sang-Hyun Song (from the ICC website)

On the way to the Reception I met up with my "sponsor", as it were, Professor Williams. She'd been worried about my absence, so I was able to explain to her my "adventure" as we walked the few blocks to the Irish Centre for Human Rights. The Centre is, properly speaking, the host of the conference, although this was the only time we spent there, owing to its size. It's a pretty yellow building on a canal, right across from the gorgeous Galway Cathedral.

Irish Centre for Human Rights

Galway Cathedral

And then I walked home, couldn't get into Corrib Village (all the gates were locked) and so had to circumnavigate the entire, massive compound, and had dinner a la vending machine before collapsing into bed.

Galway Post 1: Adventures in Air Travel

Location: Terminal 1, Manchester Airport, UK
Date: Monday, June 11, 2007
Time: 09:30 GMT

Although relatively painless, the first—and longest—leg of my trip was not a painless as I could have hoped. I was not packed when my parents arrived at the apartment this morning (yesterday morning, in fact) as I had been holding off any potential anxiety about the trip by my signature method of ignoring its existence until the last minute. I slept in; I had breakfast and drank my coffee; I faffed about on the internet until an hour before they came, and then I dashed about my disaster-area of an apartment tripping over bags and discarded cook books in a panicked attempt to shove everything in my bags. When it was finally done and we were a black away, I realized I’d left my pill case on the couch. Cue more running and gasping and profanity hissed at inanimate objects.

At the airport I had lunch with the parents, and my good mood was restored; actually, a little too restored, as I was fairly giddy and traded entirely inappropriate barbs with Mom and Ron, laughing so hysterically that most of the Swiss Chalet was looking askance. Ah well, I’m long past being embarrassed by my booming laughter, and mostly I just take a perverse pride in it

Mom had strongly suggested I pre-book my seat, or at least do it when I got my boarding pass, but as usual I made a half-hearted attempt to follow her sage advice and then failed to follow through. I got a window seat, but since the Thomas Cook staffer mentioned that the flight was far from fully booked, I wasn’t concerned and decided to risk the window seat. (Generally, you see, you want an aisle seat when you fly alone, so you needn’t bother—or talk to—your aisle-mates when you need to powder your nose.) Well, true enough that the flight was not full—there were plenty of passengers with three seats to themselves, stretched out and sleeping. My row, however (15, right over the wing of the Boeing 757) was occupied by a family of five, including one toddler. Now, thankfully they were British children, and therefore shockingly well behaved, but I didn’t get more than 20 minutes of sleep on the trip (I was planning on sleeping the whole time) and nearly injured myself waiting for an opportune time to excuse myself. Also, just before takeoff the sweet mother offered me a Werthers (presumably for my ears) and I was caught unawares, stuttering out and “Oh! No, but thank you so much,” that I felt was less than gracious and which irked me for a good 15 minutes. Generally I can tell when someone is making a genuine offer, but my knee-jerk reaction is to demur, and I worry that I might offend people out of latent shyness

On the up side, the meals were edible. Dinner was a Lilliputian roast beef dinner, with a doll-sized Yorkshire pudding I was honestly sorry to eat. I asked the slight attendants beforehand if the dinner had mushrooms in it (meaning, “is it mushroom-stuffed-mushrooms-in-mushroom-sauce,” not “was it once stored in the same warehouse as some mushrooms”) which elicited a brief panic from the cabin crew. Breakfast was equally amusing, a fusion-cuisine marvel of “Streaky Bacon Panini” which reminded me strongly of the Two Fat Ladies

The family and the cabin crew were returning to Manchester, rather than setting out from exotic Canada, and I fell in quickly with their accents and speech patterns. I speak like a Brit anyway, in terms of colloquialisms and sometimes syntax, which I blame on a childhood of East Enders, Coronation Street, Are You Being Served? and so forth. Of course, I don’t want people to think I’m mocking them, so I stamped down on the impulse to say sentences like “Is she not keen on the breakfast?” or “Do you fancy a pillow?” as well as, of course, calling people “love” more than necessary. I shudder to think how much I’ll absorb the speech patterns in Galway, and what I’ll have to stamp down on by the end of my week there.

Arriving in Manchester, I was terrified by the total lack of signage telling me where to find Aer Arann departures, but I finally figured out it was directly above me. Mush good it did me—there was some malfunction in the baggage check equipment, and possibly because of this I cannot even check in until 11:05, and that means that instead of catching a nap in the six hours I’m, I get to spend the first five trundling my suitcase behind me, unable to sleep or shop, and the last one in a mad dash to get through backed-up security and to my gate on time. Part of my concern about that comes from the fact that I’m concerned my luggage—carry-on and checked—might be over the Aer Aran allowance. If I had time, I’m sure I could figure out a solution, but I’ll be pressed and I am not looking forward to any potential nasty surprises.

As a final note on this day’s Comedy of Errors theme, the pounds my mother gave me this morning, which I foolishly assumed had recently been exchanged at the back, must have been holdovers from a previous trip as they were rejected with extreme bemusement when I tried to use them to get my brekkie. The problem—that they were too old—had to be explained by the patient lady behind me, since the cashier just handed them back with a puzzled “I can’t take these” as though I had tried to pay with Canadian Tire Money. Thankfully they took Visa. Plastic is the universal language, and I’m reasonable fluent, thank god.