“I am thinking tonight of the Southland, Of the home of my childhood days, Where I roamed through the woods and the meadows By the mill and the brook that plays; Where the roses are in bloom And the sweet magnolia too, Where the jasmine is white And the fields are violet blue, There a welcome awaits all her children Who have wandered afar from home...
“Arkansas, Arkansas, 'tis a name dear, 'Tis the place I call 'home sweet home,' Arkansas, Arkansas, I salute thee, From thy shelter no more I'll roam...”
--”Arkansas State Anthem,” Eva Ware Barnett
Spent two great weeks in the Motherland with family and friends back at the start of May. Packed up Martha White Buttermilk Biscuit mix, instant Community Coffee and some summertime clothing (wishful thinking, that) and headed back on 8 May.
And then, 8,000 miles, two continents, and two months (and some change) later, Miss Lola Jolene Loretta Lynn Pierce landed on the Auld Sod.
KryshtAboveInDublin, as they say here, let me never endure this level of scrutiny, expense or stress again.
It started when I found a relatively new option in the Irish government's import scheme that would allow me to bring Lola here without quarantine. That is, after I was required to provide the Irish government with three notarized forms from the USDA and my vet, two blood samples approved by the USDA, proof of microchipping, enough dollars and euros to bolster the entire economy of a developing nation and the dog's entire medical history since birth.
So, in February, this 25-pound investment I sometimes call “an enchilada of love” was certified as rabies-free and perhaps legitimate enough to enter Ireland, but she was only given a four-month window for entry. And the airlines, being as customer-friendly as they are presently, had placed further restrictions on flying animals and on Lola's breed in particular. No flight for Lola if ground temperatures were above 70 degrees, below 45 degrees, had a layover time shorter than four hours in the connecting hub, no transport in cabin and only in cargo, etc. And even when booked, my airline of choice reserves the right to cancel your booking day-of, should there be any changes to the above.
“Tell your momma/tell your pa/gonna send you back to Arkansas...”
--”What'd I Say,” Ray Charles
So, in the week I wanted to travel, only ONE flight in the entire United States of America fit the bill between the airline's rules, the Irish government's requirements and the approved timeframe. And the itinerary took us from Memphis to Atlanta, where we enjoyed an eight-hour layover, and then from Atlanta to Dublin, where we were required to fly in order to make the inspection appointment. Big (!) blog shout-out, here, to LACEY JAMES with POE TRAVEL in Little Rock and to DENNIS with DANDIE KENNELS in Atlanta for handling me, Lola and the logistics of things to ensure Lola's safe travel. And my sanity.
So, day-of, it was raining. Like pouring water from a bucket (see “lashing,” above) at 6AM. Just ugly weather. I'd gotten maybe two hours of sleep in my anxiety and packing, was running late (of course) and had to drive my vehicle on account of the four bodybags I call luggage that I used to move myself. These, packed along with Mom, a kennel and Lola along for the ride. Hydroplaning and cursing our way to the Memphis airport, our mission was to arrive at the cargo facility at 7AM to check in Lola.
I got lost.
No one answered the phone at the cargo facility.
I violated several traffic laws and asked a drunk for directions, just as Mom remarked how happy she was to have taken vacation time for this kind of morning.
I was, like, even more lost.
But angrier than before. Memphis traffic.
And needing, somehow, to exact revenge on Travelocity for their stupid, stupid directions. Stupid map people and the stupid Internet. Al Gore's invention sucks.
Mom then got through airport information and some man—whose name regrettably escapes me—answered. She said something to this effect:
“Hi. You don't know me, but I need your help. My daughter is scheduled to fly at 10AM to Dublin and needs to check her dog in at the cargo facility, and we are lost. This is not good. We are panicked, low on gas and nearing a breakdown. Can you please help us?”
This had become a bad action film film, of sorts. I grabbed the cell phone like some kind of Z-list actress playing a government agent with a bomb strapped to her chest, asking Headquarters for instructions on WHICH. WIRE. TO. CUT. (Red or blue! Simple answer!) I asked Very Nice Man to please stay with me on the phone until I had the cargo facility in sight. He did, out of fear I think, mostly.
We arrived at five minutes until 8AM. My flight departed at 10AM. Checking Lola was said to take an hour. The airport said I had 45 minutes to get myself in line to check in for my flight or I'd be bumped.
A man we'll call Cargo Dan had no idea what malestrom walked in to the facility that morning, but when I arrived I brought hell with me. Adrenaline-fueled and not yet fully caffeinated, I pulled my act together enough to slowly explain my sitch, as they say.
DAN: You have the little pug-dog?
ME: French bulldog, yes. Her name is Lola, and she's all set in her--
DAN: (interrupting) Yeah, can't fly her. Too hot.
ME: Well, I was told by my travel agent, who confirmed with Atlanta, that as long as I presented a certified acclimatization letter from my vet, stating clearly that Lola--
DAN: It's not our call, m'am, it's Atlanta's.
ME: But Atlanta said that...
DAN: I'm sorry, but I'm not authorized...
ME: (nothing, as I'd dissolved into a puddle of heartbreak and emotion on the counter in front of Dan)
DAN: (pausing) Okay, lemme check with Atlanta...
ME: Please....please let her fly....if she can't go, I can't stay there....
Dan calls several higher-ups, who were all at Krispy Kreme or anywhere else besides their desks that morning. He leaves messages and then tells me that all we can do is wait. I go tell Mom, who dutifully gets out of the car and comes up to the office to see if she can use something akin to a Jedi mind trick on them. No dice.
Conjure up your own cinematic images here, clock ticking, palpable tension, hi-vis vests, etc.
Meantime, I leave sorrowful messages for both Lacey James and Dennis, asking for any information they may have that might sway the verdict my way. The phone rings. Dan says they are checking with Atlanta to see if they make this one concession. I respond with more emotion, now approaching the scale of Miss Celie when they took her sister Nettie away from her in the film version of “The Color Purple”. I go outside and call Jay, who kindly gave Lola a place to live until I got settled, to ready him for the possible return of one French bulldog until I can get my stuff moved back.
Dan yells, “Okay! We're good to go!”
I nearly pass out.
The next day's worth of travel was a blur; completely jet-lagged
and haggard, I collected Lola from the inspection clinic outside Dublin and bummed a ride back to Limerick with my kind friend, Deirdre. And then spent the next week with Lola at my side at work [see visual aid] and in my new flat, where she seems to be fitting right in. More on that next.
Hot fun in the summertime.
j:.
