The first time I flew overseas, I was 19 and flying with my working class boyfriend from Brooklyn, which meant we were already connected before we stepped foot on the plane. His older brother had a union job at Aer Lingus, the Irish airline, because of his Irish roots. We'd been regaled with funny stories at their local bar in Bay Ridge about the comic misadventures of the shanty set, a colloquialism derived from the derogatory term for low class Micks who're "Shanty Irish", as it relates to their less-than-stellar housing situations. Irish "on the dole" live in sponsored housing just like here, called "Council Flats"; a mindset reflected in their cumbersome responses to international flight, as well.
We'd already heard from his brother Doug about the neighborhood guy he booked on a cheap flight as a favor, who'd stuffed as many American-made jeans as he could into a bunch of garbage bags that he crammed into the plane's overhead compartments, only to be foiled by the physics of storage that found his loot exploding into the aisle before being escorted off the plane by security, because illegal contraband is in violation of several international laws. He'd sheepishly explained to them that good jeans were hard to find in Ireland, and at the late 80s price of $10-25 a pair (depending on the buyer), he'd be sure to make a killing that'd sponsor several flights back and forth.
Ya, right? It was true, too. Levi's jeans were a thousand times better than the tacky, cheaply-made, thinly-fabricated knock-offs available to foreign markets at the time, with their poorly placed pockets and overly long pants legs that scraped the ground to become tattered around the cuffs rather early on. They just didn't look right, especially on Europeans. We'd been, in a word, "prepped" for our experience beforehand, and our fellow fliers did not disappoint us on this first, uniquely Celtic crossing.
After being seated, I'd already seen the most handsome Catholic priest in collar I'd ever seen in my life; a beautiful blond boy barely in his 20s, young-looking like us. Whew...Irish clergy were different. His brother Doug had a nice surprise waiting for us, too. He'd tried to bump us "up" into First Class, but the stewardess told us Brian Dennehy, the well-known American actor, had already been seated there, as she handed us a couple of Mimosas. Ah, best to be careful about it, then. With that, we were already plugged into local gossip. She said it was being told that Mr. Dennehy was looking to buy a pub in Dublin (the big stars do that as investments, like Bono from U2), and a potential deal that could be so financially favorable was to be supported by all of us, especially if we were keen for an economic boost, which we were.
As nervous a flier as I can be during long flights with turbulence, I'd never felt safer than I was on that flight, bolstered as we were by a large gaggle of nuns seated in coach with us. Surely, G-d won't knock us out of the sky with this many clergy on board? And you know what? He didn't! It was a smooth ride until the prop plane trip to Amsterdam, but even the weather gods can't do much about that. Like my first time to Italy, I swore as we left on our returning flight from Galway that I'd be back to Ireland, and I'm proud to write that I kept my promise, even at great expense to myself. Would you expect any less? I wouldn't. To you and yours on this special Irish holiday month, and for every day after. Be safe.
