In Ireland for Irecon, part 1

Originally published October 13, 1995, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1143

On the road once more…

Thursday, Sept. 14-Friday, Sept. 15: I’m to be one of three guests at Irecon V, a Star Trek convention in Galway, Ireland. I’ve never been to Ireland and jumped at the opportunity when it was offered to me a year and a half ago.

Now—when I’m flying really long distances, I kind of like going business class. Spending six hours or more being cramped into a coach seat is not my idea of a good time. I’d wanted to fly to Ireland on American Airlines, because being an AA frequent flyer, I could use mileage points or stickers to upgrade from coach at minimal or no cost. Besides, considering Star Trek actors command first class seats and sizable appearance fees, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that I at least be comfortable for the trip.

I was assured by the convention that this wouldn’t be a problem—that I shouldn’t go via American Airlines, because the convention was receiving sponsorship and support from Aer Lingus, the Irish airline. The ticket is bought and paid for on their end, and Aer Lingus gave the convention its personal assurance that everything had been attended to. I’m booked into its premiere class seats. All I have to do is pick up the ticket at JFK when I check in.

Sounds good.

I arrive at JFK airport for a 7:30 p.m. flight. I get my ticket—and it’s coach. I ask where my premiere class ticket is. I’m told that I don’t have one—that I’m listed for upgrade to premiere on contingency basis only. Otherwise, I’m out of luck. And it’s looking booked pretty solid for tonight’s flight.

I make it quite clear that this isn’t what the Aer Lingus rep had promised. They say there’s nothing they can do.

I repeat myself.

They repeat themselves.

I repeat myself.

They point out there’s a line forming behind me filled with other customers. I say fine, not wanting to inconvenience others. I go to the back of the line and stand there, moving forward until I’m at the front of the line—at which point I ask where my premiere ticket is.

They say there’s nothing they can do. I repeat myself.

It occurs to them that I’m not going away, and I’m not accepting their rote answer.

They break from the rote answer and begin to improvise. They say, “Sir, you’re listed as a ‘Y’ class, which means that you’ll be seated in premiere class at the discretion of the airport.”

This is odd phrasing.

I look at them askance and say, “I’m not quite sure I understand. What do you mean ‘discretion,’ precisely?” I’m thinking, What, no Jews? No one bald or overweight? What?

They give me a slightly uncomfortable look. Clearly, I’ve forced the issue. And they say, “Well, sir—we do have a dress code.”

I look down at my ensemble. I’m wearing an elegant gray crew-neck shirt and dark blue jeans, slightly creased from wear. I look back up at them. “You’re kidding.”

“We prefer slacks, collared shirt—”

This seems a bit surreal to me. “I’ve only got jeans. I can switch to a dress shirt.”

“A jacket and tie would help,” they sniff.

“I haven’t got a jacket.” I feel like I’m in grade school. “I have a nice leather vest.”

“We can’t promise anything,” they say.

“Give me five minutes,” I say.

I’ve travelled business class any number of times, and this has never come up. Not ever. Part of me wants to stand there and argue loudly. But I think of more flies with honey, etc., besides, this is so bizarre that I feel like playing along. After all, I’ve got more than an hour until the flight and nothing better to do.

I find a men’s room. The toilet stalls are flooded, so I change in the middle of the men’s room. I pull on a dress shirt and start to switch to another pair of jeans, freshly pressed and a bit dressier.

Naturally, I’m standing there with no pants on when three drunken Irishmen wearing sombreros stagger in.

The fact that there’s three of them, they’re drunk, and I’m in my shorts, I can handle. It’s the sombreros that punts the entire scenario into the Twilight Endzone.

They stare at me for a moment. “And what’s this?” one of them asks.

I sigh, “You don’t want to know,” as I step into my pants. (Yes, one leg at a time, in case you were wondering.)

“Nah, I wanna know!” one of them says, staggering forward slightly. I’m starting to not like the looks of this.

Fortunately, another countermands, “No, we don’t!”

They stand there and sway slightly, probably wondering why the room is moving, and then stagger out, never having done whatever it was they presumably entered for the purpose of doing. Unless they came in to watch me change my pants, in which case they must have really been starved for entertainment.

My hanging bag is lying open on the floor under the sinks, and I discover a slow leak has dripped on my clothes. Figures.

I leave the men’s room and discover a store that sells nothing but ties. I purchase a necktie, wondering if the Aer Lingus people get a kickback.

I am now resplendent in dress shirt, necktie, dressy leather vest, and pressed black jeans. I’m concerned over envious stares from lesser mortals, but somehow people manage to keep their gazes averted.

I head back to Aer Lingus, praying. I’m convinced that, if I don’t get the premiere ticket, the coach class ticket will, with absolute certainty, place me right next to the three drunken Irishmen.

I present myself. “Well?”

They look at me and say nothing. Dazzled into silence, no doubt. They hand me my premiere class ticket and tell me to have a nice trip, probably adding silently, to hëll. Thank God that, from behind the counter, they couldn’t see my feet. My black sneakers and Lion King bowbiters would never have passed muster.

The flight is uneventful, which is good; getting on was exciting enough. I take some Dramamine to help me sleep. I finally fall asleep—half an hour before we land.

I’m met at the airport by convention organizer Anny Wise. We make the one-hour drive from Shannon Airport to Galway. The diminutive Anny is an aggressively determined host. She is accompanied by her son, Damon. Damon, 25, has a slight development impairment. He’s friendly enough—but he tends to shout. I suppose I should be grateful; he’s the only thing that’s keeping me awake.

I can’t check into my hotel and go to sleep, because the room won’t be available until noon, it’s only 8:30 a.m. and I have a radio interview at 11:20 a.m.

We go out to eat, we chat, and I have to fight to stay awake. I go for the radio interview and have no idea what I was saying. I’m hearing my voice from very far away, as if it’s another person or even another reality.

They bring me to my hotel, the Brennans Yard in the heart of Galway. I head up to my room, flop onto the bed, and lie there—

—wide awake.

So I go out and shop, come back two hours later, and finally manage to fall asleep.

Saturday, Sept. 16: First day of the two-day convention. The two other guests are actors of Irish descent—Robert O’Reilly (who played Klingon council leader Gowron) and actress Fionnula Flanagan (whose work I’ve adored for years). She’s not supposed to be there until Sunday.

The convention is more lightly attended than they would have liked. There’s another large convention the same weekend that’s drawing off attendance. I’m told there are more than 200 people at Irecon V, but, frankly, it looks lighter than that to me.

I’m also disappointed that I’ve been in Ireland for 24 hours, and not a single person has exclaimed, “Faith and begorra!” No one has said, “Top o’ the morning’ to ye!” All my cherished stereotypes are being destroyed.

The Irish fans are pleasant and cheerful, asking questions and eager to learn whatever I can tell them.

We have an interesting chat about a popular Irish sport in which the local underdog team has had a surprising triumph. The name of the sport, however, is “hurling.” I explain to them that in the States, “hurling” is a slang term for “vomiting.” So when they describe players running up and down the field hurling, it conjures for me an entirely different mental picture than they intend.

There’s a goalpost called a bar, and one way to score is to “hurl under the bar.” Which to me, of course, is what you do, if you guzzle down more than is good for you.

I love language differences.

I do an autographing session. I’m set up at a table in the dealers’ room where the dealer has a healthy assortment of books, including mine.

One fan comes up to me and with a slightly glazed look asks me if I’ve written a Deep Space Nine novel. I’m sitting at a table piled with books. I tap my DS9 novel and say, “Yes, right here.”

“Is Garak in it?” he asks, referring to one character.

“No, Garak wasn’t in the series yet when I wrote this,” I say.

“Is Garak in any Deep Space Nine novels?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Over there,” and I point, “there’s a bunch of different novels. Why not check the cover copy on the back of them. Maybe they’ll say.”

“Those books?”

“Yeah.”

He pauses. “I’m looking for books with Garak in them.”

“Uh—yes, I  know.”

“Did you write any?”

I look at the bookseller to make sure I’m perceiving this conversation correctly. She gestures helplessly.

“Nooo,” I say, “I just wrote this one,” tapping The Siege.

“Is Garak in it?”

“No—Garak—isn’t—in—it.”

“Is Garak in any?”

“Maybe. Why not look at these?” and I indicate the other novels.

He looks at them, then back at me. “Which ones have Garak in them?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to look.”

“Look?”

“Look—for the ones—with Garak.”

He stares at me. “Which ones are those?”

I now understand: He’s been sent by Aer Lingus to drive me insane. It’s some demented Irish revenge scheme.

I am about to grab a copy of The Siege, open to a page at random, and write in the words “and Garak” at some random point. You know, like, “ ‘That wouldn’t be wise,’ said Sisko and Garak.” Then I would throw it at him and scream, “Here! Garak’s in it! Now buy the dámņëd thing!”

But before I can do it, he kind of wanders off. He comes back a few minutes later, though, with the program book, asks me to sign it, and write, “Garak is King.”

I happily oblige, ecstatic to get him out of my hair.

That evening Anny takes Robert O’Reilly, several other convention folks, and me to Connemara. It’s gorgeous countryside, and I only wish we had more time to look around. Sheep dot the road and, at one point, we turn a corner and find ourselves head to head with a cow.

Dinner is eaten at a castle that was built by a Rajah in the early part of the century. The evening is only marred when I push my chair back and almost smash the glass door of an antique wine cabinet.

I hope I never go to Stonehenge. I’d probably lean on it wrong and knock it over.

Peter O’David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., Post O’ffice Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He will conclude the Ireland journal next week. Garak will not be in it.