Christmas on Inishmore, page 4
Reading the message again, Emma shook her head to clear her mind. A sexy time? That wasn’t on the agenda at all. She hadn’t even considered that there might be men in Ireland until this very moment. But of course there would be men there, just like men were everywhere, in every country of the globe. Huh. That was an interesting thought. It wasn’t an entirely unwelcome thought, but it was a weird one, nonetheless.
Emma put the idea out of her head and settled back into her seat, diving into her book. It felt like her vacation was already beginning—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d held a paper book in her hands, rather than just scrolling through an e-book on her phone or tablet. The feel of the book under her fingers, the turning of the pages…it was a real treat.
“If this is analog life,” she said to herself under her breath, “Then maybe it’s not so bad after all. Maybe.”
When the captain came on the loudspeaker to announce their impending descent into Galway, Emma jolted awake. She pulled the mask off her eyes, sat up from her reclined position, and took a solid thirty seconds to regain her bearings. She was in the air, over the ocean, rapidly approaching Ireland. According to what the captain had just said, her airplane would touch down in this unfamiliar country in less than half an hour. Now would be a great time to take a video out the window and post it on SLICE, but of course she couldn’t do that…
A swarm of butterflies circled through Emma’s stomach. This was happening. The flight had been one kind of adventure, sure, but the landing on the ground, stepping off the plane, finding her way through the airport and to her hotel and around the city…
“Are you alright, ma’am?” Kind eyes blinked at Emma as the flight attendant squatted down to her level.
“I…” Emma began to respond to her, realizing quickly what had attracted the flight attendant’s attention in the first place. Her heart was racing, her breathing was getting shallow and fast, and there was a good chance she was sweating, too. “I…I’m fine,” she managed to say, forcing a smile as she stared back at the woman in front of her.
“Are you a nervous flier, then?” The flight attendant asked, making Emma aware of her lilting Irish accent for the first time. “We’re incredibly safe, I assure you, and the captain is an excellent pilot. Just take deep breaths and think calming thoughts. If you need to breathe into a paper bag, there’s one in that pocket over there.”
“Thank…you,” said Emma.
How could she tell this woman it wasn’t the flying that was making her nervous, but everything that was going to happen after the flying was over? The closer they came to their destination, the more she wondered what the hell she was doing with her life. Two weeks was a long time when you were in a new country where you didn’t know anyone and weren’t even entirely sure which side of the road they drove on.
“What side of the road do you drive on?” Emma blurted the question, words running together until her sentence was nearly unintelligible.
The flight attendant—her name tag read “Aoife”—blinked back at her. “I’m sorry?”
Emma pulled herself together, focusing her energy on the very specific questions she had for Aoife, rather than on the two weeks of uncertainty ahead of her. “This is my first time traveling to Ireland, and I just realized I don’t know what side of the road people drive on there. I feel like a silly American tourist wondering that, and I know I could just wait and see…but you’re here, and I’m pretty sure you know the answer.”
Aoife smiled brightly. “I most certainly do know the answer. We drive on the left side of the road, and the driver sits on the right side of the car. So if some Irish lad or lass is taking you out on a date, make sure you remember that. We always have a good laugh when one of you Yanks struts over to the driver’s seat like you’re going to drive our own car.” She chuckled once, like a tinkling bell. “It’s a gas.”
“I’m sure it is,” Emma agreed. “And thanks…Aoi-fee. Sorry, that can’t be right. How do you pronounce your name?”
“It sounds like ee-fa. Fair warning, there’s lots of tricky Irish pronunciation to get used to. But if you can see the humor when people laugh at you, you’ll be grand.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember that,” said Emma. Having her anxiety met with kindness—and the reassurance of a few facts she would need to know—had eased her nerves.
As Aoife stood up and resumed walking through the cabin, Emma used the television screen built into her chair to track the flight path. The tiny airplane on the screen was nearly at the end of its arced line, and as the image zoomed in, she saw they were only ten minutes away from the Galway airport. She resigned herself to the uncertainty that was coming, making herself as comfortable as she could in her seat and reopening her book to the page it had been on when she’d drifted off to sleep. She couldn’t stop the plane from landing in Ireland, she couldn’t snap her fingers and be back in New York, and, actually, she was experiencing exactly what she had signed up to experience. There wasn’t much point in resisting her arrival or getting too bent out of shape about it. Best to just take Aoife’s advice and try to see the humor in whatever came her way.
Until Emma left the airport, everything went smoothly. The captain landed the plane with the absolute minimum of bumps, exiting from first class was way less stressful than waiting in the slow moving line of coach, and both baggage claim and passport control went off without a hitch. It was only when Emma exited the airport, standing outside and breathing the Irish air for the first time, that she considered she had no idea where her hotel was or how to get there.
That hadn’t been a problem when she’d left her apartment for the airport. The reservation information was stored in her email on her phone, and she had planned to access it from there. Of course she hadn’t taken the time to write it down—who did that, anymore? She had also intended to use one of the rideshare apps on her phone—she’d already checked and ensured they operated in Ireland—but of course that was no longer an option anymore either. She should call Claire, never mind the fact that it was the wee early hours that could only be considered morning on a technicality. It was Claire’s fault she didn’t have her phone, and Claire could make this problem go away just by opening up the phone and taking a scroll through her email.
Emma was just pulling out her phone to call Claire and give her a taste of her own medicine when divine inspiration struck. Or, not exactly divine inspiration…but her short-term memory performed a minor miracle and spat out the name of the hotel she had booked in Galway. It was called Eyre Square Hotel, and how she had come up with that just now, she did not know. Now all she had to do was figure out how to get there.
Spotting a taxi stand down at the end of the airport, Emma dragged her two suitcases there as quickly as she could. For the first time, she regretted packing as much as she had. Having enough clothes that she wouldn’t have to think about how to do laundry in a foreign country had seemed like a great idea when she was in her apartment. Now that those clothes were nipping at her heels in two oversize suitcases, she was less sure about that decision.
When she made her way to the taxi stand, a smiling gray-haired man wearing a hat that reminded Emma of her grandpa greeted her. “Hello there, miss. Looking for a cab, is it? Where to?”
Emma followed him to his vehicle, learning along the way that “Eyre” was pronounced like “ire” and not like “air” as she’d tried to tell him. Once they knew they were talking about the same place, Emma climbed into the backseat of the car, feeling surprised despite Aoife’s warnings to see the driver sitting on the right in front of her. That was going to take some getting used to.
As the cab left the airport and pulled out onto the main road, Emma discovered that the location of the driver’s seat was the least of the things she was going to have to adjust to. Driving—or riding, thankfully, because she couldn’t even begin to imagine driving a car—on the left side of the road was unnerving at best and terrifying at worst. It was even more terrifying when they exited the highway and turned onto the small city streets of Galway. Some of these streets were so narrow they had Emma questioning whether they were one-way streets. She found herself leaning to the left side, as if her movements could keep the car from scraping into oncoming traffic. Naturally, they could not—though there was no need. Tony, as the driver had introduced himself, was much more accustomed to these roads than Emma was and had no trouble at all navigating them. He did seem to be getting amused at her expense when he glanced back in the rearview mirror and saw her jolting away from all the surrounding cars, but at least he didn’t laugh in her face.
When Emma was able to take her attention off the other cars on the road, she noticed the cute buildings surrounding them on every side. There were charming bed and breakfasts, shops she hoped to wander into, and restaurants and pubs that got her mouth watering just wondering what she might find inside. The anxiety she had been feeling about being in a new city ebbed as she felt the small-town feel of Galway. This wasn’t New York City, daunting with its skyscrapers and angry drivers. This felt…doable, somehow. Like she wasn’t going to get lost. Like she was going to learn her way around these streets relatively quickly. Like she could even feel comfortable here, and not out of place.
Tony left her in front of the Eyre Square Hotel, where the friendly front desk staff checked her in and showed her to her room. A bellhop helped her carry her suitcases up the stairs—there was no elevator, and she was grateful for the help hauling her behemoth luggage around.
When she was alone in her room, SLICE-related stress came back with a vengeance. Her fingers itched to scroll through a newsfeed, to Google her own name. Her old faithful companion, the headache that rarely left her alone, reminded her of its presence with a subtle but persistent thrum.
But there wasn’t much that Emma could do about any of it now. Sure, she could stay in her hotel room and order room service—if they had that here—and spend the rest of the day obsessing about worst-case scenarios. But after the drive-by tour of Galway she had gotten, she was itching to be back in the city. She wanted to wander up and down the cobblestone streets, pop into a pub for a pint of Guinness, sit near the shore and watch the waves. And right now, she needed to be distracted.
Without another thought, she picked up her purse, closed the door behind her, and set off for an adventure.
Five
The first full day that Emma spent in Galway came close to being a perfect day. After she had spent the previous afternoon walking far more than 10,000 steps by her best estimate (though she’d never know without her phone), eating, drinking, and listening to live music (which would have made great SLICE content), she had slept more deeply than she had in years. She had slept like she was a woman with no sources of chronic stress in her life, in fact, and she couldn’t remember the last time that had been an apt description of herself. But the bedding had been comfortable, the darkness had been absolute thanks in part to how short the days were this time of year, and her body had been exhausted and confused from the abrupt change of time zone.
On that nearly perfect day then, Emma woke up early, feeling rested, refreshed, and without any sense of doom hanging over her head. She had been too tired to even have stress dreams, it seemed. For a glorious moment upon waking, SLICE was the furthest thing from her mind, though it didn’t take long for her concerns and anxieties to return. She had to get moving—and soon—before they took over her day.
Once she was dressed and ready to go, she asked the front desk staff for a recommendation of where to go for breakfast. They directed her to an adorable restaurant nearby and instructed her to order the “full Irish.” Having no idea what that meant but embracing her sense of adventure, she did just that.
When her breakfast arrived, Emma sucked in a breath. It was massive—there were eggs, sausages, toast, tomatoes, beans, and some sort of patties, one dark and one light. They also brought her a small pot of tea and a pitcher of cream. It was an intimidating spread, but only because she wanted to taste it all.
And so that’s what she did. Taking her time, savoring every bite, and finding herself continually surprised by the flavors, Emma worked her way through the plate. What had appeared far too big for her to eat by herself eventually vanished. She was equal parts proud of herself for getting to enjoy all of those savory nibbles and ready to take a nap.
When the waiter came to clear her plate, Emma asked him about what it was she had just eaten. “I recognized most of it, but those patties were just delicious. What were they? I thought maybe they were sausage patties, but the taste and texture weren’t quite like that.”
“Ah, the black and white pudding, you mean? I’m pleased to hear you liked it. It’s one of my favorites, too,” said the waiter, walking away with her empty plate.
“Well huh,” Emma said to herself. “I’m going to look up black and white pudding later. Though considering how savory it was, I’m a little nervous about what I might learn when I find the ingredient list. That wasn’t like any pudding I’ve ever tasted before.”
After Emma had finished her pot of tea and paid for her breakfast, she had spent the morning walking through the shops in the downtown area of Galway. She had discovered that charity shops were the Irish equivalent of a second-hand store, with each one benefitting a different charity, and she had enjoyed making her way through every one that she found. She had snagged a few gifts to take home with her, and she’d even found a gorgeous Irish-made sweater that would have cost a small fortune if she’d bought it at full price.
When she was ready for a break from all the walking, eating, and shopping, she made her way to the Spanish Arch. At the hotel, they had told her it was a great place to sit and enjoy some people watching and sea gazing, but the front desk worker had also mentioned that it was a lot more popular in the summer. As Emma sat there shivering, she understood why and simultaneously realized she hadn’t put on quite enough layers today. Regardless, the combination of the ancient arch, the deep gray of the sea, and the hum of people walking by with their shopping bags, no doubt full of Christmas presents, warmed her from within. For the first time in years, she felt herself getting into the holiday spirit.
By that time, her jet lag was catching up to her, and she made her way back to the hotel. An afternoon nap was just what she needed. On her way there, however, she stumbled across a small gathering of people. They seemed to be handing out brochures, standing in front of placards, and her curiosity was piqued. She approached with some hesitation, only realizing as her feet carried her in that direction that she might be about to get roped into signing a petition or getting a lecture about a new cause.
But that wasn’t the case at all. The folks with brochures were selling spots on their tours, and the placards they were standing in front of were covered in pictures of their destinations. There were tour buses heading to the Cliffs of Moher for a few hours or Connemara for a day, and even some more ambitious salespeople advertising a three-day tour of the Ring of Kerry. Emma planned to see the Cliffs of Moher at some point during her trip, but she wasn’t interested in getting on a bus anytime soon—especially not after how stressful it had been riding in the taxi. A wide bus navigating these narrow and windy roads would be worse, if not only for her road-based anxiety, but definitely for her car sickness.
And then she saw another poster that caught her eye. It read “See the Cliffs of Moher from the water,” and as she got closer, she realized it was a boat tour, both to the Aran Islands and along the coast of the Cliffs of Moher.
“That’s perfect,” Emma said to herself. “I don’t have to get on a bus, and I can kill two birds with one stone.” She approached the young man standing in front of the poster. “Excuse me,” she said to him. “What time does the tour go tomorrow?”
The young man looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected to make a sale all day. “We leave at half nine, as long as the weather is good for sailing.”
Oh right, sailing, Emma thought. I hadn’t even considered that. She looked out at the sea nearby and the waves that were marring its calm surface. “Is it usually pretty smooth sailing, or…?”
The young man smiled. “It’s a bit choppy at times, but you’ll find your sea legs. If it’s really bad, we don’t sail, and we’ll refund you or exchange your ticket for another day.”
Emma threw whatever caution she had about getting sick at sea to the wind and purchased a ticket. After confirming and double checking that “half nine” meant nine thirty, Emma headed back to the hotel with a new bounce in her step. Galway was already an adventure, but her trip had just gotten even more exciting. She could hardly wait to see what the next day would bring.
Emma had opted to spend the rest of the day relaxing and getting ready for her big outing the next day. Back in her hotel room, she had attempted to take a nap before it became obvious that her reptilian brain and its ability to identify threats and sources of stress were going to make that impossible. After lying on her back with her eyes closed for half an hour, she decided she was as rested as she was going to get, and then she treated herself to a nice hot bath in the small tub in her bathroom.
Once she had soaked herself to the consistency of a cooked noodle and scrubbed herself within an inch of her life, Emma emerged from the tub, put on the fluffy robe she had brought with her, and flopped onto her bed. She switched on the television, flipping channels from soap operas to news programs and everything in between, searching for something to distract her from the intrusive thoughts that were sure to come back as soon as she was alone with herself again.
The temptation to check in with her team back home, to ask Beth or Dean how things were going with SLICE, came up once or twice. She even came dangerously close to reaching for her phone and firing off a text message. But then she stopped herself, settled back into the pillows, and sighed. She was doing what she had been instructed to do, what was essential for her mental health and probably for her business, too.
