Welcome to Dublin. I should have opted to stay the night, but thought I’d make life easy. So much for easy.

We returned to the gate twice in Chicago, once for the navigation systems, once for a possible problem with flight controls. Both were switched out but required altogether a couple hours of mechanics on and off the plane. When we finally got airborn, we were a very excited group of people.

Of course, that meant the two hour layover I was to have in Dublin was gone and I had to be rerouted. Not to worry, they had already put me on a flight through Frankfurt with Lufthansa. Wait! That gate was just closed! So then it was back to Aer Lingus to be routed through London to Prague. I would only be seven hours late.

So I waited in line for twenty minutes only to discover I was in the wrong line.

“But you’ve got tons of time,” said the man behind the desk in a cheerful brogue. And who wouldn’t rather spend all of it standing in line? Lesson 1: Irish departure boards aren’t telling you where you gate is, they are telling you which line to stand in for check-in.

And now here I am, wondering how American I look. Everyone else looks like me, except they seem rather relaxed.

My watch is still on Seattle time, and according to its steely little face, I officially began this journey 24 hours ago. I like to travel, but I think the threshold has been hit and now it’s turning painful.

I finally contacted the school to let them know my flight plans changed. The student stumbled a little bit in his English before saying he would write me a message if something or other. I was eager to know how he was going to send said message seeing as how I don’t have a phone that works and airports are not yet civilized enough to have wi-fi. Even Heathrow—I am duly dissapointed.

I’m looking at Starbucks, advertising “Fresh Filter Coffee.” Funny, in Dublin (where I most undoubtedly should have stayed!) I was instantly pointed to the nearest Starbucks because “Americans always want Starbucks.” I laughed and assured him I’d rather avoid it. I didn’t mention I’m from Seattle.

I hear a fantastic cockney accent behind me, a refined British over the speakers and an American two rows down. It’s funny, but you can reciognise some Americans in their air as much as in their accent. We make ourselves comfortable in a fairly barbaric manner compared to the cool politeness of the reserved British. I feel bad being comfortable, but I suppose so long as I’m respectful, its probably okay. I shouldn’t have stepped over that short table, I suppose. I’ll keep that in mind.

Ah, travel. I used to come alive in airports—but then, I didn’t use to spend so much time waiting on and in planes that I went delirious. I’m there now. On the flight from Dublin to London, I could feel myself starting to talk as I drifted in and out of shallow naps. Everybody else seemed spry and I caught a few weird looks. Hope I didn’t say anything too shocking in my delirium.

At this point I’m simply relying on God to make things happen. That was easier when I was fresh and awake. Now I’m exhausted, sleepless and hungry and stuffed all at once. Still at His mercy. Even moreso at His mercy.