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3
Feb
THE BIG FREEZE
is all the anchors on Sky News and BBC news could talk about in January, and pretty much the only headline newspapers could come up with. The day I went to London, it hadn’t snowed, but it was below freezing. Not very much below freezing, but I will give them that. It had snowed the day before, a whopping inch or so.
I understand they’re just not used to that sort of weather in the UK and Ireland. I also have never seen roads freeze in New England the way they do in Ireland — wow, is that some crazy black ice! But also… I’m pretty sure that’s because we get on that salt business in advance. Snow may not be a frequent occurrence, but by no means should an inch of snow on a Thursday mean that kids get out of school the next Monday. Political parties were calling on the government to declare a national emergency. But, listen, I was there this time last year, too. I remember slipping in the snow on the way to see Frost/Nixon with my German friend. I remember it being big news that London had gone all white. So… I just have trouble buying the whole but we’re not used to this thing. You get snow now: get used to it.
I voiced all of these irksome things during my stay, which I probably wouldn’t have done normally, if it weren’t for the fact that this flurry delayed my trip from Dublin to London by 18 hours. What was supposed to be a half-hour hop-skip over to the next country turned into an outrageous expedition, because Gatwick Airport ran out of de-icer. (Various other public transport options went wrong too, but I’m over it now).
We finally arrived in Stansted at midnight; from there we would have to take a 45-minute train into the city centre. But before that, I would have to stand in line for an hour at the Non-EU/EEA Customs gate. While my boyfriend flew through with his EU stamp, I stood without about 30 people as we all inched forward after a very long day.
The victims were college-aged girls such as myself, who came armed with suspicious backpacks and ponytails. When it was finally my turn, around 1 AM, I smiled and handed the customs agent my passport. He compared my ugly passport picture to my ugly early morning face and snapped, “Are you traveling alone?”
“No, I’m also traveling with my boyfriend.”
“Well where is he?”
“He’s… uh… he’s Irish. He’s right there.” I pointed to my boyfriend, who looked exhausted and hungry just beyond the gate.
“Can I have your return ticket?”
No one had ever asked me for a return ticket before. ”I… think my boyfriend has it?”
“Well go get it.”
I ran past the gate, thinking nana na na na na I’m in your country, and my boyfriend told me that they were in my bag. Panicked, I ran back and pulled out the crumpled sheets from beneath my book. The agent scowled at me again.
“When are you going back to America?”
“January 17th,” I said.
“And where is that ticket?”
I blinked. Who the hell has tickets anymore? Isn’t the whole force of airlines moving towards ticketless flights these days, or else limiting check-in until 24 hours in advance? I shook my head and said, “Um, I don’t have that one on me…”
“You should have that on you at all times, madam.”
I just widened my eyes, not really clear why he was so concerned when I would be leaving Dublin, when I had my evidence that I was leaving London right in front of him. Let the Irish deal with kicking me out, you take care of your own. For about five minutes he stared at my passport and flight information, while I exchanged secret irritated looks with my boyfriend, who had been waiting just beyond the gate for an hour. He finally let me enter the country, and I immediately wanted to leave. On the train in, I realized he hadn’t even given me a stamp.
I did leave that Sunday, and on the way back in, the Irish customs agent opened my passport and asked the reason for my entry. Before I could really say, he took a second look at my picture page.
“Hey… you know, I think I’ve had you before?”
I frowned in disbelief. ”Oh, really?”
“Molly Siobhan, that’s not a name you hear too often with Americans. I swear I just had you the other day.” He flipped through my pages quickly and beamed, “There, that’s my stamp!”
“Ha! Wow, really? That’s so strange.”
“Yeah, you just never see that name Siobhan spelled correctly coming from America.”
“Yeah, no one knew how to say it growing up.”
“Well!”
Fingers crossed that that’s the response I get tomorrow, and again when I come through with a work visa.