Tuesday–Wednesday, October 15-16

We had an auspicious start to our trip as this vibrant rainbow greeted us as we awaited our first flight at Syracuse’s Hancock Airport. When I shared the photo with Alison in Belfast, Northern Ireland, the friend we were headed off to see, she told me they were waiting at the other end of the rainbow. Santo said to tell her he’d be looking for the pot of gold, which brought to my mind the old ditty “Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold.”

Alison and I met almost exactly 46 years ago, in the fall of 1978, the beginning of my junior year abroad at Trinity College in Dublin. We lived on the same hall in Trinity Hall, a dormitory several miles and a 15-minute bus ride south of the college. The hall had a common kitchen were all us girls hung out, cooked, chatted, laughed, and got to know one another. Alison’s roommate and friend from home was Josie, a Catholic from Belfast. Alison was Protestant and the two met at a camp for youth from both sides of “the Troubles” could come together. They became fast friends. Both were sent south to the Irish Republic to study to keep them away from the Troubles and safe for their college years. Alison returned to Belfast after graduation.

Alison and I have seen each other 4 times in the past 46 years. Every time we meet it is as if no time has passed since those heady days in our cozy kitchen in Trinity Hall.

Alison married her husband Maurice (pronounced here as Morris) in 1992. I married Santo in 1993. Both our husband are somewhat older than us. Both are teachers. Both love grocery shopping and gardening. We both have two children, a boy and a girl, hers just a few years younger than mine.

As we waited, I observed some families with young children and recalled our travels with Viktor and Natalia were young. Natalia had an awful fear of flying, among her other anxieties. She needed to sit right next to me, by which I mean joined tightly from hip to knee. In preparation for take-off, she insisted that I grasp both of her hands in both of mine as she leaned into me, trembling with fear and emitting periodic small, soft screams. It was as if she were trying to create an umbilical cord between us so I could absorb her fear.

Our first puddle jump was to Philadelphia where we had a 3-hour layover, time enough to enjoy a truly fantastic Philly cheese-steak at a sit-down restaurant at the airport. We sat on high stools at a two-sided bar and got to know some fellow travelers, the couple across from us who were headed to Brussels via Amsterdam, and the woman next to us who was headed to Barcelona for an annual trip to meet up with a group of twenty friends for a week at a “party house” in a rural area about an hour from Barcelona.

On the long flight to London, I watched a film called Ballywalter, set in a small community just outside Belfast. It was wonderful to hear the familiar Northern Irish accent, so uniquely different from a Southern accent. I looked forward to spending two weeks hearing more!

London’s Heathrow was massive, well-organized and exhausting. London’s famous fog was so dense when we landed that even the jet-way from the plane to the terminal was filled with a light, hazy fog. The air was close and warm, not the refreshment we needed after 6 hours on a plane. We walked over a mile just to get to the shuttle that would take us to the British airways terminal for the puddle jump to Belfast. The shuttle was warm and sticky for the ten-minute ride. In Terminal 5, we walked another mile to the gate area where we passed through an automated checkpoint. We placed our passports on a scanner, then faced a camera which scanned us for facial recognition. Once a match was made, the gate opened for us to pass through. After that there was the usual security check, again scanning our passports then loading our hand luggage on a belt and passing through metal detectors. The air was still close and warm as we hiked to our gate area. We did not know our exact gate, so stopped at an electronic board which noted that our gate would be posted at 8:25. It was 8:29. Hmmm. We continued a bit further to the next board. Now it just said that our gate would be in area A. We knew that. We needed a number. Our flight was to depart at 9:15. It was now 8:45 and we still did not know our gate number. Hot, tired, frustrated, we stood staring up at the screen, nervous that we could possibly miss our flight. Finally the number appeared and luckily the gate was just behind us.

The plane brought welcome relief as the air conditioner was on full blast and blowing white mist from vents all along the length of the plane. Ahhhhh. It was now 9 am. We had left our house exactly 16 hours ago and woken up four hours before that. Neither of us slept much on the plane but felt OK when we landed in London. The ordeal at Heathrow brought home how truly tired we both were. It was so nice to know we would be met at the airport by Alison and Maurice!

Belfast airport was small, and after we grabbed our suitcases, we were able to just walk out. No customs, no security check. We had not been checked in London because it was not our final destination. And in Belfast we had only flown from London so were treated as domestic travelers. Already natives on Day One!

Alison and Maurice were waiting just outside the wide swinging doors, quite the welcome sight. We had found our pot of gold!