A. Ask an Irish bookie.
Here on the frigid Emerald Isle, where the green rolling hills have been buried under several feet of unseasonable snow, whether or not it will be a Whi
te Christmas is not determined by the icicles dangling from every tree, but rather by the booking office. It states, in no uncertain terms that it will be White Christmas only if it snows on the actual day, regardless of the fact that the country is experiencing the lowest temperatures in 70 years. The odds currently stand at 4/1 of a single snowflake falling from the skies over Dublin on Christmas Eve (one assumes within the direct line of sight of a booking agent). The odds extend to 5/1 for Christmas Day itself.
te Christmas is not determined by the icicles dangling from every tree, but rather by the booking office. It states, in no uncertain terms that it will be White Christmas only if it snows on the actual day, regardless of the fact that the country is experiencing the lowest temperatures in 70 years. The odds currently stand at 4/1 of a single snowflake falling from the skies over Dublin on Christmas Eve (one assumes within the direct line of sight of a booking agent). The odds extend to 5/1 for Christmas Day itself. The odds of my making it from Austin, Texas to Belfast, Northern Ireland felt considerably higher as I started off early Monday morning. I shudder to think what bookies would have made of my attempt to land at both Heathrow and Belfast City, as my itinerary boldly stated, when the latter was closed outright, and the former was operating at about 30% when I started out. By the time I got to Newark, the flights to London both before and after had been cancelled, but mine was still on the board, flashing "on time."
It was there that I met my Boston sister and brother-in-law (also making their way to Irela
nd for the family Christmas, though flying direct to Dublin) who got me into the Continental Presidents Club thanks to their status as people who fly a ridiculous amount and only on Continental. Have you ever been in one of these special club rooms in airports? I was amazed. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't the parallel-universe airport I experienced upon entering the unassuming sliding doors right off Gate 120. Here I was, thinking I was a sophisticated world traveler and had no idea that if you had enough money and/or traveled enough on the same airline, you could bypass the long line at Starbucks and the drafty chill of the terminal and instead settle into a comfy chair in a well-heated lounge, surf the Internet (free), while sipping on wine (free) and nibbling cheese, crackers, fruit and chips (free, and I hear some club rooms have a much more interesting spread). Maybe I should have cynically expected as much. But until Monday night at Newark Airport, I was a total innocent in the ways of elite airline travel.
nd for the family Christmas, though flying direct to Dublin) who got me into the Continental Presidents Club thanks to their status as people who fly a ridiculous amount and only on Continental. Have you ever been in one of these special club rooms in airports? I was amazed. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't the parallel-universe airport I experienced upon entering the unassuming sliding doors right off Gate 120. Here I was, thinking I was a sophisticated world traveler and had no idea that if you had enough money and/or traveled enough on the same airline, you could bypass the long line at Starbucks and the drafty chill of the terminal and instead settle into a comfy chair in a well-heated lounge, surf the Internet (free), while sipping on wine (free) and nibbling cheese, crackers, fruit and chips (free, and I hear some club rooms have a much more interesting spread). Maybe I should have cynically expected as much. But until Monday night at Newark Airport, I was a total innocent in the ways of elite airline travel.The glass of wine surely did wonders for the flight across the Atlantic. We landed in the eerie dark of a northern European morning. (Seriously...it's weird when it's full dark and 8 a.m. Weird in a primal, visceral sense that makes me empathize with pagan sun rituals.) Heathrow was not the bustling crush of humanity it so often is. In fact, as I made my way to Terminal 1, more and more of my fellow travelers veered off until I was literally the only one winding through the security line switchbacks to get to the guy who takes your in-transit picture and checks on the infrared camera to make sure you don't have a raging fever.
- Him: Where are you going, then?
- Me: Belfast
- Him: Good luck with that.
The odds were steadily climbing as I rolled my bag to the other side of the barrier and joined a short line of other Terminal 1 hopefuls. The lady at the desk took one look at my ticket and waved me through. Two steps later, a guy asked my destination and sent me back. "Belfast City is closed." Sighing, I rolled back, only to be sent on by the lady again. "bmi 84 is going--and it's Belfast International that's closed, not City. Not yet." I tried not to feel the envious eyes of the other people in line as I, and I alone, wheeled my way into the terminal.
Heathrow Terminal 1 is a place I have spent some time. United flies out of there along with all flights to the British Isles and Ireland. So, between visits to family and and my two years in the Middle East, I have become somewhat familiar with Terminal 1, especially the Pret a Manger and the Giraffe Cafe. Let me tell you, on Tuesday morning, Dec. 22, it was a mere shell of its former self. A few pitiful forms stretched out on chairs (who knows how long they'd been waiting?) Some dads and kids browsed in the shops. There was no line at the Pret a Manger (a miracle in and of itself) and the departures board had a long list of red "cancelled" notices with just a sprinkling of "on times" or "delayed" in Christmas green.
bmi 84 was most definitely going out, a fact I hardly counted on until I was actually walking down the jetway. I had a window seat and a prime view of the few planes landing (mostly big 777s from faraway places) and even fewer taking off. So I was hardly surprised when the pilot came over the intercom and announced that, right as he was about to start the plane, he was told that Belfast City had closed (this was shortly after an announcement that we would be taking off, but he wasn't sure if we'd be able to land once we got there. None of us knew if this was a joke or not, though he assured us we had plenty of fuel...) The whole plane groaned in unison, but no one suggested we de-plane. bmi 84 was most definitely going. How long we had to sit on the runway was another question entirely.
Turned out to be only about 45 minutes--the best 45 minutes I've ever spent grounded. There's nothing like the prospect of spending multiple days in the confines of Terminal 1 to put a delay in perspective. Belfast City re-opened; we took off amid merry cheers, and landed into a startling red sunset over an arctic Ireland buried under at least two feet of snow. There were TV cameras waiting for us in the arrivals area, and a lot of families, like mine, relief warring with disbelief on their happy, holiday faces. I got interviewed by a radio reporter who asked me if I minded the delay.
- Me: Mind?! I feel like I've won the lottery!
- Reporter (somewhat taken aback): Oh? And why is that?
Because, dour British person, that's how it feels when you beat the odds, thread a very narrow needle of international air travel and slip into a country on the only plane that's landed in three days. Driving back to my sister's house in the suburb of Ballynure, the fat full moon looked especially stunning rising over the snow-blanketed hillside. I don't care what the bookies say, it looks like a White Christmas to me.
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