When Irish eyes are...crying?

The thing everyone has been asking me is, "How was your flight?" as if this plane ride was somehow different than any other extended amount of time in a vehicle of mass transportation. I mean, it was a flight, it was long, but it was fairly uneventful, almost anti-climactic. It was really only notable for the amount of times I totally lost it before I even got on the plane (three, at last count).

Can I just say that I am not a graceful crier?

There is a picture of me somewhere at the age of two or three, peeping between the bars of my crib with my face screwed up, eyes bright red and marvelously puffy, just screaming my poor little lungs out. My crying face has not changed a bit since then.

Faced with the possibility of crying myself through five airports in a week, I imagined myself getting quite good at crying, maybe even being able to control it. I would shed a small, graceful tear in Buffalo before breezing through JFK and Shannon Airport with aplomb, making little jokes with the immigration officers and generally conducting myself with dignity.

Instead, I found myself openly weeping at Burbank, Chicago Midway, Buffalo-Niagara International, JFK and Shannon. I did the full face-screwing not once, but three times in Buffalo: once when saying goodbye to my father via phone, once when leaving my mother, and once in the restroom while trying to convince myself that now would be as good a time as any to completely lose it.

And on top of it, my brain had disappeared. I considered myself a fairly smart kid, resourceful, able to get myself through various situations with something approaching competence. But that day in JFK, I was barely able to pay my overweight luggage fee and find the right gate. My luggage seemed overly complicated, full of straps and hooks and wheels that all must be configured in very specific ways in order to keep the bag rolling, upright, and closed. I’m actually a little surprised that my large case didn’t fly open in the middle of terminal 4, sending underwear and other necessities scudding down the concourse.

Somehow, I did manage to pull it together and get through customs dry-eyed and with some semblance of maturity. No doubt there'll be more tears as the week passes and as I'm forced to actually move to Dublin (next Wednesday, actually) -- and aren't you lucky? You get to hear all about it!

I promise, the next entry will be somewhat more cheerful, but I feel like I should write down everything, you know, not just the positive. Moving is hell in itself, but moving to a foreign country? Even scarier, even if I have been on this side of the pond before.