I had been backpacking through Europe with my friends for a month and a bit and I was supposed to meet up with my family in Dublin. None of us had phones that worked abroad, so the only point of contact was this hotel I was supposed to meet them at in Temple Bar.
So I arrive into Ireland around 10am in the morning, after catching a 9pmish flight from Rome to London the day before, spending the night trying a)to get from one London airport to the other in the middle of the night, b)to get some sleep in Heathrow airport overnight when it’s seemingly filled with loud crazy people, and c)trying to reassure my travel buddy that we were not going to be knifed and left for dead in a dark alleyway someplace.
This means that, after saying farewell to my friend, I reach Dublin sleep-deprived, stressed from constantly reassuring others, and dirt broke. But I was going to meet my family and I could pretend that I was a kid again and not have to make any more decisions. Besides, here’s a country where I actually speak the language. Shouldn’t be a problem, right?
First thing off the plane I call the hotel to check in with my parents. But something’s wrong with the number and no matter how I try it doesn’t work. I end up locking my credit card from the different attempts, but I’m not overly worried. I’ll fix it when I get to the hotel. One trip to the information desk later and I have directions to the hotel as well as a better number with all of the necessary digits. I use some of my last pounds to catch a bus and arrive in sunny Temple Bar District ready to relax.
But, unbeknown to me, I turn left rather than right when I get off the bus. It’s a beautiful day and there’s tons to look at, but I just want to get to the hotel and put down my pack.
I walk down the sidewalk in a half haze, my bag seemingly heavier with every step. My sleep deprivation is starting to catch up with me and I’m feeling a little faint and my stomach is reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since lunch the day before.
I like to think that’s the reason why I walked almost a half an hour before realizing my mistake. But as I cross from Temple Bar tourist area to more seedy parts of town I know that I’ve got to have made a wrong turn somewhere. I use my very last piece of solid money at a pay phone to call the hotel and get directions back to where I should have gone in the first place.
This all means that when I finally get to the hotel I’m nearing the end of my rope. I’m exhausted, starving, and have absolutely no money to my name excepting some emergency travelers cheques hidden in my pack. All I want is a bed, a bath, and someone else to make decisions for me. At that moment that lobby is sacred ground, prettier than all the sights of Europe.
I smile beatifically at the receptionists, and tell them who I’m looking for. But the woman doesn’t smile back, she frowns and plugs something into her computer.
I lean against the counter, glad that I’m finally where I need to be.
“I’m sorry Ma’am,” she says searching through her database. “We don’t have anyone by that surname at this hotel.”
What? I think, unable even to verbalize under a wave of what is probably closer to panic than it should be. I have no money. I have no way of contacting anyone except by meeting them here. And under the exhaustion from a month of traveling my brain is unable to deal with a change of plans.
Something of that must of shown on my face, because the two receptionists both stammer and rush to check their other books. I sink entirely against the desk, wondering if I can stretch my reserve enough to last me for another three weeks until my return ticket. There’s got to be cheap hostels in Dublin, right? I might not even need the entire three weeks, maybe I can find an internet cafe and track down my parents and brothers via email? They’ve got to be here, right?
Speaking of which, what happened to them? They were supposed to arrive last night… did something happen? Did someone get sick? I was out of contact with them- anything could have happened. Anything.
Long moments pass. Minutes tick by on the clock and worry gnaws at my entrails. How much longer could it possibly take to search their records? I feel as if they’re just humoring me… as if they know well and good that my family isn’t here, that something terrible has happened to them, but they don’t want to give me the bad news.
My mind is spinning through different scenarios, and even though I know they’re all unlikely and impossible that doesn’t keep the blood from draining from my face.
I start to feel really sick as they talk to themselves in what sounds like dutch, although rather quicker and higher pitched than the dutch I’ve heard before. They keep eying me as if I’m going to faint on their overly bright blue carpet and I feel as if I might just oblige them. I just want to lay down… just get a little sleep. Put my head down for a bit. Maybe when I wake up everything will better…
“Found them!” one practically shouts in English. She blushes, embarrassed at her outburst, and rings my mom down.
From that moment, everything is better. My mom comes down with my brothers and all of them practically carry me and my bag up the narrow stairs with the energy of their greetings. I could have hugged the receptionist as an immense feeling of relief settles on my shoulders. I thank them profusely from my safe nest amidst my family.
Upstairs I sit back, not saying anything, content to just let the waves of words wash over me. That is, until my mom says something that both confuses and infuriates me.
“I was so excited to see you that I just had to go down and tell the front desk to expect you!” she bubbles, not noticing how still I have suddenly gotten. What the hell? All that time, all that stress, could have been avoided? Did they forget? Did they just not pay attention?
Were they just messing with me?
My mom gives me another hug, finally noticing my expression and mistaking it for embarrassment. “Oh I don’t think they minded, sweetie. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have any problems finding us.”