Images courtesy of PokerStars (Danny Maxwell)
It was a nine-hour flight from Los Angeles to Dublin, but it felt like it lasted no longer than Hanukkah.
On Aer Lingus, an economy seat is reminiscent of, well, the economy. Horrible. A new low. I was wedged into my seat tighter than Phil Hellmuth’s play in 2009.
The space is so confined that if you do manage to fall asleep, you inevitably wake up spooning with your neighbor. Fortunately, I was seated next to my beautiful wife, who was really amused that I was forced to cuddle for nine hours straight.
Our flight attendant was a very nice young woman whose charming Irish accent provided cover for the crime that was their food service.
We took off at 9 pm LA time. We had eaten a light supper at LAX, but I decided to get the dinner service and see if it was decent.
The choices were a “lovely butter chicken” or “ravioli tomato”. I chose the ravioli. I did not choose well.
Maybe the butter chicken was “lovely,” but if the ravioli, gummy noodles encasing dry cheese filling in a sour tomato sauce, was any indication, the only thing matching the description of the chicken was the chick doing the describing.
The flight was a nonstop redeye, and so was the guy coughing behind us. I double-masked to make up for the mask that the expectorant-spewer failed to don.
When you’re driving at night, you fight sleep. When you’re flying at night, you pray for sleep. I turned to my wife to share this great insight, but she was dozing comfortably, having watched Bugonia and taken a Xanax.
The Internet was out, so I could not continue viewing Jonathan Little’s Tournament Masterclass on PokerCoaching.com. My game would remain the same. No quick drills to tighten up before arriving at Royal Dublin Hall.
Oh, well. I read my Kindle and waited for breakfast, which the Aer Lingus app trumpeted to be of the traditional Irish variety: eggs, sausage, potato, bacon, and tomato.
I slept occasionally and watched the little animation of the plane on the live map fly across the States, up through Northeast Canada, and over the Atlantic.
The next thing I knew, my fair bride and I were awoken by the thud of two small cardboard containers dropped on my open tray. We opened our traditional Irish breakfast parcels and pulled out very crisp wraps like short, stout burritos.
They were piping hot, which was promising. I took a bite, less promising. I think the predominant flavor was beans, but I’m not sure.
It wasn’t just crisp on the outside; everything inside was also crunchy because it had been dehydrated by lengthy, heated storage. Two bites and I was out.
Soon enough, we were landing, and as we circled, we could see that Ireland was indeed green and beautiful. I will admit at this point that I was excited to see this country, play in the Open, and, most of all, shower.
We landed early and pulled up to the gate pretty quickly. The optimistic ding sounded, telling us it was safe to stand and get ready to deplane. We did that… And then stood in place for almost half an hour.
Eventually, a voice informed us that for some reason we wouldn’t be able to deplane through the airbridge, even though we were pulled up to it. Stairs would need to be rolled up.
We were told to sit down and wait.
Many Irish people in the 19th and early 20th centuries had made the trek to America to escape famine, poverty, and persecution. They were greeted by the Statue of Liberty, upon whose base is inscribed the words, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
Now I knew how they felt.
Eventually, we were allowed to exit. We were out of the sky, and ironically, things were finally looking up.
More updates to come.
Have a great week.
