MUSINGS Come fly with me


Come fly with me

Diary of a homebird
Ciara Galvin

Travelling is stressful, and those who say it isn’t are lying (or in Business Class).
Of all my trips abroad, the short-haul ones have always been more stressful than the six, seven or even 22-hour journeys. One word – Ryanair. The stress slowly creeps in as you do your level best not to accidentally rent a car, buy a set of luggage on the Ryanair website or misspell your name at the online check-in.
But hey, you remind yourself that a week away lying in the sun will be worth it.
Spending an agonising hour going through the rigmarole is not so rewarding when it’s your parents who get to lie in the sun for a week.
By anyone’s standards the roomies (Mom and Pops) are well-travelled souls. I myself was a spoilt teen who jetted off with them to visit my brother in Dubai and also my sister in Australia.
So when they decided to take a trip to Portugal recently, I assumed it would be no bother for them, considering my sister had done the ground work with booking flights etc. This was not the case. After a long week at the office, I was looking forward to scooting out of work to put up my feet at home. But before I could leave the office, I was tasked with checking the roomies in online ahead of their hols.
Despite a complete breakdown in communication over the details I actually required from them to check them in (“No, no, your passport number. The digits at the top of the bloody passport.”) – I finally managed it, much to the amusement of my colleagues who overheard the agitating phone call.
Just to ensure that no mishaps would occur and that the roomies would not be handing over an extra €140 to Michael O’Leary for the pleasure of using his printer, I made numerous duplicates of the all-important boarding passes.
However, the night before their departure I realised my efforts were futile. “Come here little pet, what time are we flying at tomorrow? You have all the details don’t ya?” the male roomie enquired. I told him I would ring the pilot the following morning in Knock just to see what time he was planning on taking off. The female roomie then pondered, “So what do we do when we get to the airport, Ciara?” I bit my tongue.
By the grace of God they arrived on the other side, and I survived the week ‘running’ the house.
I shouldn’t be too hard on them. In fairness, the dreaded Ryanair flight once saw me holding up a queue of irate passengers while I ransacked my suitcase in order to negotiate its snug fit into the luggage tester. Thanks to my travelling companions who donned my pyjamas as scarves and shoved dresses and other garments underneath their coats we finally made it on to the plane.
Still, in retrospect, the next time the roomies mention holidays, I’ll be suggesting a travel agent.

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old still living with her parents.