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For Part One Essay, click here.
For Part One Podcast, click here.
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The rest of the bus ride passed without incident and we arrived at the Express Green Long Term Car Park. I was idly wondering if Green was default nomenclature for things in Ireland, the name of some long dead war hero, or referred to a complicated color-based naming system for the various car parks I assumed were speckled around the airport when the brand new rapid covid testing station appeared before us.
For something that had only been mandated the day before, it was actually fairly impressive. Near the end of the huge lot where we were paused, a large temporary testing station had been set up, the linked pods like legos cobbled together with a large ramp leading into the structure. That must be the walk-in station, which at the moment was completely empty aside from a few errant passengers peering into the dark windows.
On the opposite end of the parking lot, huge lanes were set up with big, billowing white drive through tents at the end of them, wherein tables of testing equipment had been set up along the sides of each tent. There were already a number of cars lined up, the vibe of which were decidedly impatient, like horses trapped behind bars before a race. There were only, however, a couple of humans dressed in what can only be described as post-apocalyptic-science-fiction-wear: head to toe white scrubs, masks, face shields, gloves, even covers on their feet.
This didn’t worry me, however. It was only just about 10:30, when the testing facility was scheduled to open. What did worry me was the fact that there was no obvious way that the bus could successfully drive through the testing tent without taking it with us. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a way for the bus to even approach the tents, the whole car park having been designed with narrow lanes explicitly for smaller vehicles with a decided prejudice against anything larger than the Sprinter van I’d thought I’d ordered.
We waited a few minutes on the sidelines before a person came running up to the bus: not a doctor, but a lackey of some sort. She was a bit frazzled behind her mask, and told the driver he couldn’t park there.
“I’m not trying to park,” he said. “I have people who need testing here.”
“I booked for ten thirty,” I said helpfully, holding my phone up towards her face.
“I don’t-- I don’t think the bus can fit through our drive through,” she said, ignoring the phone. I could hear the frown in her voice.
“Certainly not!” the driver scoffed.
“Could we do the walk-in clinic instead?” I asked.
“It doesn’t open until eleven,” she replied.
“That’s a little late-- look, I know it’s not ideal, but we have to get these tests or else we’ll miss our flight,” I appealed with a touch of urgency. It was already 10:35 at this point, and only one of the lines of cars had even started moving.
“I understand,” she said. “Look, I… you’ll go after that car, okay? Just wait here, and someone will collect you when it’s your turn.”
I squinted at the car she was pointing to in the distance, a dark SUV that felt out of place in a country that mostly dealt in compact sedans.
“Got it. Thank you!” I said cheerfully.
As the minutes slipped by, so did my cheer. Only two lanes of the drive-through covid tests were open, but I watched the SUV like a hawk, as though my nervous energy could affect the process. On the periphery of my vision, more and more people began milling about the walk-in testing center. By the time 11:05 hit and the SUV was next in line, I was beyond nervous and full-blown concerned.
“Why isn’t anyone coming to get us? The SUV is next, and we’re after it,” I fretted.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Adam said soothingly.
“It’s already after eleven. I’m going to go ask someone,” I said, already putting my coat on.
I’m so sorry,” I added to the driver, who hadn’t said a word of complaint despite the long wait.
As I made my way in the chilly Irish wind towards the car testing site, another administrator rushed up in a flurry, glasses foggy from his breath under the mask.
“What are you doing? You can’t get out of your car,” he said in panicked tones.
“I’m in that bus over there--” I pointed, “and your colleague said we could go after that SUV, only no one has come for us. I’m booked for 10:30, you see--”
“You can’t go through the drive through on foot,” he protested.
I was starting to feel frustration bubble up inside of me, but I knew it wouldn’t help, so I tried to remain as calm as possible. “It’s not our fault the drive through can’t accommodate our vehicle. I don’t know why the rental company sent a bus, but--- I guess that doesn’t matter. Look, we just need to get tested. We’ll wear our masks or buy face shields or whatever you want-- but we’re really late at this point and I’m worried we’re going to miss our flight.”
“Just-- okay, just give me a minute,” he stammered, clutching his clipboard, and ran back to the big tents.
A few minutes later he returned. “You’ll have to go to the walk-in clinic.”
I clutched my hands together in frustration. “Can you at least get me to the front of the line? We’ve been waiting in the bus half an hour because your colleague told us our reservation would be honored. We could have been waiting in the queue for the walk in clinic this whole time if we knew it was going to be this late!”
“There’s nothing I can do, but it shouldn’t be long,” he said, as flustered as I was. “Everything is delayed today. Your flight will probably be delayed, anyway.”
I pursed my lips and just said, “Thank you,” in the least bitter tones I could manage. It was a brave new world for everyone, but I always hated this kind of chaos.
Back on the bus, I dreaded asking the bus driver to wait with our bags and cats, but he only smiled and nodded, so Adam and I bundled up to go take our chances in the walk-in rapid clinic.
Once we made it, the chaos was as evident inside as outside. A man on the phone trying to get ahold of some fraudulent company who had taken his money for the rapid test he was being asked to pay for again here. A couple with a flight in an hour who had been forced to come here after waiting two hours to check in, only to be apprised of the new regulations. A woman who had already missed her scheduled flight because the testing center opened after her original flight time.
As we ourselves were tested, the man administering the test told us more horror stories. One woman he’d just spoken with, he said, had gone to all the trouble to be tested in an early morning pharmacy, but missed her flight anyway due to all the chaos in security. Now she had to bide her time for two hours in the lot to get re-tested later since her earlier results would no longer be valid for the later flight.
These stories were worrisome, yet also helped me feel a little better about our absurd situation. If nothing else, we weren’t alone. Still, as we made our way back to the bus and were finally on our way to the terminal, I texted our Dublin airbnb landlord, inquiring about the availability of our flat in case the day turned into complete disaster. Another contingency plan.
Our bags and cats neatly lined up on the terminal curb, I whispered to Adam for whatever cash he had as he left to get us carts. After such an eventful morning, I felt attached to our driver and was sad to see him go.
“Thank you,” I said as I awkwardly pressed fifty euros into his hand. “I know the company policy is to only wait forty minutes. I just… I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
In my limited experience of older Irish men, such sincerity out of the context of song or drink only elicited protests and brush-offs, and our driver was no different. His smile warmed my heart a little bit, though. We didn’t have a lot of spare money, but he’d mentioned the lack of business of the last year enough that I hoped it made a small difference.
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Stay tuned for the final installment of “Arrival, or Business Cards” next week!
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