Recovery

At night I use the Droid as a bedside clock, plugging its dock into the converter. When I unplug it Sunday morning, the plastic around the converter's socket has melted. Uh oh. Seems like my leaning tower of electricity has been as dangerous and ill-advised as it looked. It must have been the converter that overloaded the circuits, too, which means that the netbook is likely fried. If so, I'm SOL. Buying a new computer isn't in my budget. 

I check email on the Droid and find a reply from HP with detailed instructions for trouble-shooting the problem. Unfortunately, the sequence begins with checking the computer’s electrical adapter, which, of course, I can’t do if the converter’s bad.

Armed with this new knowledge, I search out electrical equipment suppliers and find a couple in Bantry. The HP computer dealer is in Bantry, too, so with the right converter, I can then go there for help with the netbook. First thing Monday morning, I call and find a store that has the right converter and agrees to put it aside for me. Peggy needs to go to the Gardai office in Bantry to find out about the process for establishing residency, so at least it will be a useful trip for both of us.

The store that has the converter told us they didn’t have one when we visited on Friday. The woman hands me an industrial sized box that easily weighs five pounds. OMG! I know they must make these things smaller. But it’s here and it has a grounded outlet and I desperately need it, so I shell out €25 and stagger out of the store with it.

Next we head to the computer store, a tiny hole in the wall on a side street. A geeky, skinny, unshaven guy listens attentively while I recount the whole story, at the conclusion of which he says, “I’m not an authorized HP dealer.”

I ask if I can just plug it in to see whether the problem was the converter. He agrees and I heave the monster onto the counter and plug in the (much lighter) netbook. I throw the power switch. Lights flicker. The HP screen appears. I whoop with delight. The computer lives! Peggy and I do a little happy dance and then chat with the guy for another 15 minutes about the state of politics in the U.S. and why he came to Ireland from England. Another friend for life.

The garda official gives Peggy the good news that residency requirements are rather fluid. She needs to prove she has enough money to support herself, somewhere between $5,000 and more than that, that she has health insurance, and that she’s a “habitual resident.” When she asks what “habitual” means, she’s gets a vague answer about mostly being in Ireland.

“Can I go back to the States?” she asks.

“Oh, yes.”

“How frequently?”

“Whenever you like!”

“Do I have to be here for a prescribed period of time?”

“No, not really.”

Imagine getting an answer like that in the U.S.

Peggy recounts this information over lunch in one of the charming cafes typical of the area. These pleasant eateries offer homemade baked goods, steaming pots of tea and wonderfully delicious lunches, always accompanied by ample potatoes. We are now in the habit of eating a large lunch and then cobbling together a dinner of snacks – cheese and crackers, popcorn, leftovers. The pattern suits me.

Across the room, the TV news draws my attention. We stop chewing and listen to the latest volcanic ash report. The anchor tells us that the situation remains the same, the possibility of takeoff once again pushed eight hours forward. Then she says, “The last time this volcano erupted in 1821, it erupted for two years.”

“Two years!” we barely shout at each other. All  heads in the restaurant swivel in our direction.

We stare at each other with dinner-plate eyes in stunned paralysis.

Finally I choke out, “Two years? TWO YEARS? Shit, Peggy, you may have already moved here. The bad news is that you’ve got a houseguest.”

I try to imagine what that would be like, but get stopped at the thought of our companions stuck in the U.S. with useless airline tickets. If this continues, what will they do? Will they get their money back? Be able to rebook? Fly out and have to turn back (as some flights have)? They must be insane with the uncertainty. Pack or not?  Arrange for children and/or pets to be looked after or not? I feel even luckier to have gotten in just under the wire.

It’s late afternoon by the time we arrive back at the lighthouse. I plug the converter into the outlet, the netbook into the converter and… nothing. Nothing! I freak out. How can this be? No. No. No.

I go across the room and turn on the lamp. I unplug the lamp and plug in the converter and netbook. Lights, action – thank god! So after blowing the second circuit on Saturday, I had plugged into a non-working outlet, further complicating the whole trouble-shooting process. Can this get any more bizarre? Luckily, it doesn’t and I’m able to get a little work in before it’s time to eat again.

When I arrived, Peggy commented that the Lighthouse guests seemed to be eating all the time. She speculated that the salt air was generating appetite. Whatever the cause, I’m experiencing the same phenomenon: an hour after eating a truck driver-sized lunch, I’m starving again. “Did we eat yet?” we ask each other.

We retire that night on the hopeful news that some flight restrictions have been lifted and that Nadine’s flight, in fact, is a go. Before I turn in, I check email and discover that Leah’s flight, too, is on. I go to sleep happy that I’ll be able to deliver good news to Peggy tomorrow morning.

Crash

Saturday dawns bright and sunny, another glorious day aboard our "ship." Being in the Longhouse, one has the same sensation as being on the water, just without the seasickness.

Aboard the SS Longhouse

We've been told that the gorgeous weather we've been experiencing - in the high 50s and sunny - is exceptional for this time of year, that normally it would be overcast and rainy and foggy and damp and, well, Irish weather. Peggy and I sit out on our deck for breakfast and soak up the rays. The Beatles line, "You get a tan from standing in the English rain," keeps running through my head.

I try to set up my Airport Express so we can listen to my iTunes music collection on a little boom box, but I don't have the right connector. I find another boom box next door and use my camera connector, but that, too, doesn't work. Instead, Peggy picks up the guitar and provides a better solution - a personal, live concert.

The music system in the Longhouse - Peggy on guitar..

Behind everything we do is the news, running nonstop so we can stay abreast of the volcanic ash situation. It's becoming apparent that European airspace isn't opening up anytime soon, despite the hopeful announcements by airlines that flights remain grounded only until a future time, usually about eight hours hence. We realize that 1) Cathy may not be back anytime soon and 2) our other companions - Leah, Carrie, Nadine and Kellie - may, in fact, not make it here.

Verizon quickly responded to my distress email and I managed to get my phone working on Friday. Note: I found the missing instruction sheet and it would have been of no help. Not sure how I was supposed to know how to change settings deep in the bowels of the phone, or why other people I know apparently have not experienced the same problem.

Thanks to the leaning tower of electricity, I have been able to get through almost all of my email. My jubilation betrays how stressed I've been over having been disconnected. I had left the States so confident about my connectivity plans - global phone, netbook, converter with Ireland adapter - that I had only told a handful of people about the trip. The others were simply wondering why the hell I hadn't responded to them.

Peggy suggests we go out for a walk, so I set work aside for an hour while we traverse the local environs. Peggy explains that the yellow flowers we see everywhere are gorse (furze, in Gaelic). In the summer, fuchsia will cover the stone walls and color the hills.

In the spring, gorse colors Rock Island (where the lighthouse is situated)

Everywhere we see exquisitely built stone walls - lining roads, cutting through fields, climbing hills. We try to guess, looking at them, what the area must have been like when it was heavily populated prior to the Great Hunger in the mid-1800s.

The lighthouse drive

View from the lighthouse drive

Stone terracing near the lighthouse

The backyard view of a lighthouse neighbor. Note the palm tree.

Peggy points out the tropical plants that dot the region and we speculate that the winter weather, although bone-chillingly damp, must be more temperate than that in New Hampshire.

Palm trees (left) coexist with evergreens (right)

After our walk and lunch, it's time for me to really get down to business. I set up the Ireland office of Blue Moon Communications on the deck, where I find an electrical outlet to keep the netbook juiced up and a view to keep me inspired. Digging into the to-do list, I realize just how far behind I am and vow to make some serious headway. 

Blue Moon Communications, IrelandAlthough the outdoor office is ideal in theory, the sun is so bright that my transitions lenses darken to a point where I can't read the computer display, so I have to give it up and return to the ship. Inside, I try to make tea but there's no power to the electric kettle. Here each outlet is accompanied by a switch that must be turned on for the outlet to work. I check the switch and it's on. Peggy finds an electrical box downstairs, flips the circuit and the kettle kicks on.

I settle into a big chair and get back to work. My back isn't pleased with this location, but I ignore it. About fifteen minutes into a copywriting project, the netbook's low battery warning appears. Strange. It's plugged in. I check all the connections - sometimes the leaning tower leans too much - but everything is seated properly. Thinking it might be the outlet, I switch with the lamp, which I'd had on last night. Nothing. Hmmm. Switch back and try the lamp. Nothing. Uh oh.

Peggy checks the electrical box again and discovers another circuit flipped that she must have missed the first time. Meanwhile, I've moved across the room and plugged into another outlet, but now the netbook has crashed and won't start.

This little HP Mini 110 netbook is really the best thing since sliced bread (or maybe since toast). It weighs only a couple of pounds, fits into my purse, and has 160 GB of storage and 1 GB of RAM. I bought it at the Verizon store for the ridiculous price of $29.95. However, the hard drive on it crashed within a week of purchase (during a power outage, of course; Verizon replaced it immediately). 

So I'm afraid I have another bad hard drive. OMG and what will I do if that's the case? I try to call HP, but the hold time is 12 minutes and I don't want to spend the $1/minute it will cost just to be told they can't help, so I email their tech service people and explain the problem. I look up local HP dealers and find one in Bantry, but it's already 4p and everything is closed until Monday. The despair closes in.

Evening

Peggy discovers a traditional Irish music festival in Ballydehob, so we put on our best jeans and head out. To get there, we careen down the snaking road through Goleen, with  four pubs, four shops, a gas station and a chapel, and Schull (pronounced skull), which boasts more than half a dozen pubs, a few blocks of shops and two small grocery stores.

Enroute, Peggy regales me with stories of Crookhaven adventures to date. Among them is meeting the Marys. When returning from a walk one day, Peggy came across two women with a small girl in a baby stroller descending the lighthouse's curlicue drive. Mary, her daughter Mary and her grand-daughter Sophia were on their way back to the house of Mary (senior), who lives about a quarter mile down the lane in a large white house with yellow trim.

When she learned Peggy's story, Mary (senior) asked whether Peggy was of Irish heritage. Peggy explained about the Cunninghams from Galway and the Sheehans from Cork. "Sheehan! I'm a Sheehan, too," Mary said.

"Cousin!" Peggy replied, arms outstretched for a welcoming hug.

"You must join us for tea," Mary said. So Peggy accompanied the family back to Mary's house for tea and exceptionally delicious chocolates.

There she learned that the husband of Mary (junior) is a professional yacht racer from New Zealand; that another of Mary's sons-in law, a barrister, is remodeling a huge stone house nearby; and that, in addition to cherubic Sophia, Mary (junior) has an equally cherubic son, Rory. A few days later, Peggy invited them over for tea and scones. Mary (senior) had been interested in purchasing the lighthouse property when it was on the market, so they were all thrilled to see what the world looks like from inside the glass box.

It is thanks to Mary (senior) that Peggy was able to retrieve me from the airport. When Peggy received my phone message, she couldn't reply by email because she had no computer (and couldn't call because my phone wasn't working). In a panic, she arrived on Mary's doorstep asking if she could use the computer. Mary graciously ushered her in, helped her with the computer (it proved to be difficult to get Peggy's email up and running) and fed her lunch so she wouldn't have to travel all the way to Cork on an empty stomach. As we arrive in Ballydehob, I wonder whether I'd be missing this event were it not for Mary.

We park and Peggy asks two locals about the festival. They point us to a pub halfway down the street. We step down into a small room with a few tables and a bar behind eight or ten barstools. All seats are occupied until two people leave and we take their bar seats. Several musicians sit around a table a few feet from us. As the music begins, people pour into the place. Just when the friendly elbow in my face convinces me that one more body couldn't possibly crush into the room, the door opens again and a couple squeeze in front of us.

I ask for an Absolut and soda, but all they have is Smirnoff, so I settle for Smirnoff, which is served in a juice glass accompanied by a tiny bottle of barely sparkling water. This could be a long few weeks.

The music is excellent. A bloke playing the Irish flute, who was introduced as a well-known musician and teacher, leads the group, which includes a couple of flutists, a fiddler, and a mandolinist, who holds the instrument but never appears to play. Peggy notes that it sounds like they are playing the same song over and over again.

Ellen, my flute teacher, suggested buying us Irish flutes while I'm here, so I study them. It appears that the accomplished fellow and another woman lean the end of the flute on their left shoulder. My neck hurts just watching them. The flute appears to be about the same length as ours, but thicker - about 2 inches in diameter, made of wood and featuring a combination of open holes and keys.

As the crowd continues to increase in density, we move up the street to The Whip, named for the signature move of a national wrestling champion who is memorialized in a strangely neuter town statue: the torso bears a striking resemblance to Mattel's Ken. The Whip is larger and we find seats at the back of the room next to a friendly couple who live in Cork and spend weekends in Ballydehob. Peggy asks about real estate in the area and hears again that the market has collapsed and that it's a good time to buy.

I order another vodka and soda and get the same measly drink I was served earlier. Given their reputation for drinking, the Irish sure are stingy on the vodka. I may have to switch to Guinness.

We notice that the musicians from the pub down the road are one by one joining the group here, including the mandolinist, who still doesn't appear to make any sound. The others play the same song over and over again.

Peggy and I take our leave and rocket into the darkness. Did I mention that we negotiate all these windy roads on the LEFT? That we have to shift with ourLEFT hands? That we circle the frequent roundabouts CLOCKWISE? That both Peggy and Cathy have cracked their sideview mirrors on the rock walls lining the narrow lighthouse drive? That it's not possible for two cars to pass each other in the center of most villages - or on many stretches of open road, especially those that drop suddenly into ditches left and right?

We are always grateful to arrive home in one piece.

Morning

I wake up to the sound of surf on rocks and poke my head out the window. Below is sea, above is lighthouse, and across the bay lies the hamlet of Crookhaven, population 40. (In July and August, Irish vacationers swell the headcount to ~400.)

The Crookhaven Light was first lit in 1843. At that time, a Cottage housed the lightkeeper and his family. In later years, other houses were built adjacent for keepers of the Fastnet, a lighthouse visible from here that sits on Ireland's southernmost point, a rock of clay-slate surrounded by deep water.

The Cottage was renovated in 1999 and the Longhouse was constructed in 2008. The Cottage has on the first floor two bedrooms, bathroom, dining room, kitchen and another small room containing a futon and electric keyboard. The second floor consists of a single, large attic room with big skylights, furnished with two more futons. The Longhouse has two bedrooms and a bath downstairs. Upstairs a huge living area with kitchen is walled almost entirely by glass.

For the first two weeks of her adventure, Peggy hosted two couples in addition to Cathy. Now we are expecting four other people, including Peggy's daughter Leah. Peggy has promised Leah the other Longhouse bedroom, so I stay in the cottage because I don't want to move in a few days. Peggy and I luxuriate in the ridiculous circumstance of having our own houses. 

We watch the news and learn that the volcano is still spewing forth ash and European airspace is closed. Seeing stranded passengers juggling small children while waiting in never-ending queues or trying to catch a few minutes sleep on airport terminal floors, I realize how lucky I am to be here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peggy senses my anxiety about not being connected, so after breakfast we set out for a nearby town in search of a converter. After several stops, we find an electronics store in Bantry. The guy has a converter, but not one with a ground. However, we cobble together two adapters that will allow me to plug the netbook into the converter. I'm relieved and happy that I was able to solve the problem for only €7.50, although the klugy result - a stack consisting of three adapters and a converter - doesn't look pretty.

We take advantage of Bantry's Friday market to buy local cheese; a smoked goat cheese is especially delicious.

One of the purposes of this trip is for Peggy to scout locations for her future move to Ireland, so we stop at a realtor's office to check out properties. The realtors here post their holdings in their office windows; there isn't a central MLS as there is in the U.S.

Although we've been told that the real estate market here has collapsed, prices still seem quite high: cottages range from €300,000 to millions. One property catches Peggy's eye, a 19th century church just outside town that since 1988 has been used as a "centre for art, healing and dance." 

The realtor gives us the listing sheet and an article about the place that was published in 2004, when it was first listed for €600,000. The asking price is now €390,000. The church sits atop a hill amidst steep green sheep-dotted fields. The property, which also contains the ruins of an 8th century priory, is overgrown.

We park along the road and walk around the building, peering in a back window to glimpse an huge room with a kitchenette. Transforming the building into a residence looks daunting and the location feels isolated. We discuss whether Peggy needs to consider a more central location.

We head back to Crookhaven and I take in the picture-postcard scenery. Ireland's green hills are greener than any I've ever seen and divided by bright yellow gorse hedgerows or precise stone walls. I could spend a lifetime just studying the stonework.

The sheep - often sporting a splotch of bright pink or blue paint (a marking for vaccines? motherhood?) - peacefully munch grass and nurse their babies. There are not as many cows as sheep, but we see plenty of them, quietly grazing sometimes on impossibly steep hillsides.

Once or twice we pass what I call a pajama field, one featuring brown and white stripes. Upon closer inspection, we see that the white consists of long strips of plastic. Potato fields? We ask about it, but get a vague reply.

The coast is dramatic and, at the lighthouse, so similar to New Hampshire's that Peggy asks if the photo of Rye beach on my computer desktop was taken here. Both of us are struck by how undeveloped the coastline is: the few small towns are separated by miles and miles of farmland.

We arrive home and I rush to plug into my leaning tower of electricity. Phew, still in business, although now two days behind. But we're soon glued to the news, which is sounding ever more dire, and it's beginning to dawn on us that the flight stoppage could last into next week. Uh oh.

Arrival

Ryanair offers cheap airfares and, occasionally, very cheap airfares - like €4 from Paris to London. I can see how they do that. In addition to being militant about baggage weight and charging astronomical fees for those who flaunt the regs - e.g., Cathy's $400 overweight baggage fee - the seats provide barely enough room for even my short legs. The plane's interior is plastered with advertising and the attendants spend the entire flight hawking wares up and down the aisle: newspapers and magazines, food and drink, perfume and smokeless tobacco. Each parade is preceded by a short commercial delivered by over the intercom by a staff member who could only be on commission to be so enthusiastic.

We arrive in Cork and I confirm my suspicions that Cathy will not be meeting me here on her way back from Amsterdam: her flight has been canceled. She had arrived with our host, Peggy, on April 3 and decided to spend a few days in Holland. Her flight was scheduled to arrive an hour after mine so she had offered to give me a ride to Crookhaven.

I try to call Peggy to see if she's heard anything from Cathy, but my global phone doesn't work. That's annoying. There was a small instruction sheet that I discover I've left at home.

Thinking I'll send her an email, I open the netbook, but it's out of juice. Got that covered. I whip out my electric converter, only to discover that it's not designed to take a grounded plug. Oy. Now that's going to be a huge problem. But in the meantime, at least I can send an email from my Droid, which will work on the free WiFi even though the phone isn't functional here. I peck out an email.

I herd my luggage over to Starbucks and get a €3 tea, only to discover I have no way of carrying it while wheeling these two obstreperous bags. I push and shove and drag the cases to a table and sit. A news crew is filming stranded travelers. Later, the producer edits the story's soundtrack on her laptop at a nearby table. The airport is emptying out.

I regularly check my email, but find only spam. Then I spot some payphones. I wrestle the luggage across the terminal, read the instructions, and have no success. There are three phones and each responds differently, but none with a completed call.

I sit back down. A while later I see another person at the phones, so I go over and attempt to call again. The guy slams down the receiver in disgust. I now have an international operator who asks me for the number that I've just keyed in. She places the call but there's no answer. I don't trust that she's gotten the number right. I try again, but the phone is dead. I try another phone. Success! I leave Peggy a message explaining the situation and telling her that she'll have to contact me via email.

I haul the luggage to a sandwich shop - the only option other than Starbucks - where I meet a young woman from London who wants to be there instead of here. She's living a vagabond life that has taken through Asia, largely, it seems, on the kindness of strangers. I give her a protein bar.

Back at my station by Starbucks, I read Peggy's email: "I will pick you up, just tell me where to meet you." As I type the response, I hear myself paged. I'm directed to a phone and there, on the other end, is Peggy, on her way to meet me at Starbucks.

Three hours later (and six hours after I arrived in Cork), we're enroute to Crookhaven, f;lying along the skinny, impossibly windy, hedgerow-lined, ravine-bordered tracks the Irish call roads. I'm trying to take in the bucolic scenery and listen to the adventures to date, but all I can think about is the fact that I'm totally screwed without a converter so I can work on my netbook.

Finally we stop before an even narrower lane and Peggy puts down the windows. "Pull in the mirror," she says, and we fold in the sideview mirrors to squeeze the car between rock walls that lead up a rutted, curving incline. Just when I think we're going to rocket out over the wall and into the sea, we turn sharply down the drive and see ahead the lighthouse and the amazing glass box that's now home.

Travel Unravel

A fitful night of packing dreams in which I play whack-a-mole with all the things I need to carry: as soon as I jam the last thing into the bag, something else appears that needs to go. Arrive at Logan and Verizon netbook can't connect to Verizon WiFi, so I waste an hour delving into five voice mail layers (twice) to get to a person at Verizon who can help. I eventually do and she does and I'm online in time to get a quick bite to eat and hop on the plane.

Carried over the Atlantic on the constant crying of an 8-month-old and his frazzled parents. They are trying so hard and so lovingly to quiet him, but he's having none of it. I'm exhausted and try to drown him out with a favorite tune mix, but it's no good. I end up checking my watch every 30 seconds to see if we're there yet.

When we land in Dublin, I ask an airport employee whether I'll need to go outside security once I have my luggage to check in for my next flight. He tells me, oh by the way, that I probably won't get on the next flight, since all flights were being grounded due to volcanic ash. I think he's kidding. He's not. An Icelandic volcano is wreaking havoc with the airspace. "Upstairs is bedlam," he warns.

He's right on all counts. There are thousands of people milling about under displays that list flight numbers, destinations and CANCELED after them. My destination, Cork, doesn't say canceled, but it's later than most of the others (I have a 3-hour layover). Does that mean there's hope?

I try to get to the Ryanair ticket counter. I can't get near it so I ask an airport official about the Cork flight. "All Ryanair passengers over there," he says, pointing to a mass of people. Turns out it's a line - or queue, as it's known here - of unfathomable proportions.

It begins halfway across the airport, snakes up and down five or six times, ends at a rope so other travelers can cross the terminal, and picks up again a few yards away. An airport official periodically escorts half a dozen people from behind the rope, across the open area (which is actually clogged with travelers and luggage and strollers), and lets them in another roped off area to continue the wait.

I get in line. I haven't been to the restroom. I haven't eaten. I don't have any water. I have two pieces of luggage on wheels that want to go in separate directions as I drag them behind me. We stand and stand and stand. The line inches ahead. After two hours, I have traversed four of the up and down snakes. I'm beyond exhaustion. My flight-swollen feet are trying to bust out of my shoes.

An official appears, breaks open the barrier corralling us, and shunts a number of us towards a counter where helping people wait. "Cork?" I ask. "Counter 6," he says. Counter 6? Where the hell is that? I find it. An agent stands behind the counter helping one person. There is no line.

The huge queue was only for people with canceled flights and the Cork flight hasn't been canceled. The gate closes on my flight in 20 minutes. I speed down to security. There's a logjam. An official appears and sends half a dozen of us to the other end of the terminal where there is no line. I'm hurrying to get shoes off, plastic bag with liquids out of carry on, laptop in its own tray. I forget to take off my jewelry and set off the alarm. I'm wanded and dejeweled and wanded and sent back through the detector.

As I reconstitute myself I look for the gate number on the board pass scrunched in my hand - no gate. "Where's the gate information," I ask the attendant. "Look at the display," she says.

I bolt out of security searching for a display. Ah, there's one. Cork flight: gate 211. 211 - where is that, England? Good god. Now I'm on the move, flying along people movers and down corridors, breaking into a jog as the seconds tick by.

I arrive breathless at the gate. Panting and gasping, I ask the gate agent if the flight is boarding. He's not impressed with me. "Not yet," he says. And then, glancing at my boarding pass says, "But you're on Ryanair. This is Aer Arann." What? I have the wrong fucking flight? "Where am I supposed to be?" I ask, my voice framed in desperation. "I have no idea," he says, now clearly disgusted. "Check the display."

Oh my god. So now I have the wrong gate, wrong flight, wrong airline. And my flight closes two minutes ago. I peal out of gate 211 frantically searching for a display. All the ones I find list only the flights for the gates in the immediate vicinity. Finally I find one that lists flights airport-wide. Sure enough, there are two to Cork and mine is at gate 103. On the other side of the airport.

Mustering my last erg of strength, I sprint to gate 103. As I burst onto the scene, I find a serenely calm and quiet seating area of passengers with no gate agent to be seen.

Can this be it? Not even boarding after the gate is supposed to be closed? Or did my flight leave already and are these people waiting for the next one? But the display shows the right flight number and departure time. I finally ask the fellow sitting next to me if he's waiting for the Cork flight and he is. I made it.

As I queue up waiting to board, I can feel the blisters swelling on my feet. Although I don't want to jinx the thing before we're actually airborne, I'm already grateful for not having to spend a volcano's age in Dublin airport.

Launch

Tomorrow I fly to Ireland and tonight I'm stressing about getting work done, bills paid, birds cared for and, mostly, how to get nearly three weeks of gear into a 33-pound bag. Has there ever been a more compelling case for the development of a transporter? The stingy weight limit is thanks to the Dublin-Cork commuter airline, Ryanair, which last week became internationally notorious for announcing their intention to charge passengers for use of the bathroom. The bathroom? I may be using my bladder to carry socks.

I suspect this spectacular destination - the lighthouse property at Crookhaven (see http://www.crookhavenlighthouse.ie/index.html) - will not be done justice by photos. Nonetheless, I'm trying to squeeze my Nikon DSLR into the 22-pound carryon Ryanair allows (including purse, by the way - what? my purse alone weighs 20 pounds!).

Peggy, our generous host and benefactor, said that her friend was charged €300 ($400) for overweight luggage. I'll let you know if I blow my entire travel budget before I've lifted off the Logan tarmac.