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Flying to the US earlier this week, I allowed plenty of time to reach the airport by bus. But the first bus at Custom House Quay had fewer seats than the queue had people.
And with admirable precision – the last display of it this side of the airport – the driver explained he would fill seats in descending order of preference with (1) online ticketholders, (2) physical ticketholders, and (3) the likes of me.
I then tried to book the next bus online. But that and the one after were full. Added to this, my reckless strategy of leaving the house without a jacket or umbrella was being exposed by steady drizzle and the absence at the bus-stop of a roof.
Reverting to plan B, I now decided to hail a passing taxi. That’s when I remembered that, on a wet weekday morning in Dublin, pass is what taxis do. So, growing damp, I made for the nearest rank, at Connolly Station.
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Stopping taxis were few and far between there too. Roof coverage was equally absent. For the man in front of me, who had a Dutch or Flemish accent, this was unacceptable.
He also complained that nobody in Busáras, where he had just arrived, knew anything about an airport bus. Then it was the poor public transport in general, unfit for “a capital city”. And much as I agreed with his substantive points, I was soon bridling quietly at his typical Dutch superiority.
But my fit of mild dudgeon was interrupted when a new arrival from Connolly jumped our queue at the top. Whereupon the man in possession there – already visibly overwrought – objected, with moral support from the Dutchman, next in line, and from me.
In the queue-jumper’s defence, he affected to believe he had joined the back of the queue. And sure enough, a school of thought now emerged behind us that he was right.
Although there were two signs, 10 metres apart, saying “Taxi”, and nothing in between to suggest one was superior in rank, the friendly lady next to me insisted the queue normally ran the other way.
Being equidistant from either end, she had no vested interest in the debate. But the overwrought man rudely rebuffed her suggestion that we should all reorientate, lecturing her that after “15 years in the taxi industry”, he knew which end of a rank was which.
At this point, apparently proving the woman right, a taxi shot in at the opposite end. “We better grab that,” said the Dutchman, by “we” meaning our side of the queue/debate. So being closest, I moved to grab the taxi for Team Us.
But then the overwrought man, misunderstanding, grabbed me, muttering that nobody was stealing his cab, as he vaulted past into the back seat. Alas for this dramatic entry, the driver now explained that he was on a call-out and wasn’t stopping for the rank at all.
A notch nearer the end of his tether, the overwrought man had to retreat, humiliated. The drizzle continued. Somebody said something about Dublin being a “madhouse”. And on cue, an unfortunate woman now walked past, in the middle of the road, shouting about “paedophiles” and other things that made her angry.
On the plus side, moments later, the man at the top finally got a taxi, to everyone’s relief. Then another pulled in and the Dutchman, also going to the airport, suggested we share.
But the taxi driver turned out to be angry too. First it was about the Clontarf Dublin bike lane, which he blamed for everything except the rain. Then it was a new regulation that would put cars older than nine years off the road, including his “even though it’s electric and in perfect condition”. Then it was the traffic, paralysed as usual by a few raindrops.
During a brief lull, near Santry, I asked the Dutchman where he was from, exactly. Leitrim, he said. “No, I mean originally?” I persisted. Still Leitrim, he said. “That’s an unusual Leitrim accent,” I marvelled, doubting my ears until he eventually conceded he had spent many years in “Belgium”.
Despite the shock revelation of his Irishness, we were still supposed to be going Dutch. But he wanted to pay by card, which made the taximan frown. So when I produced my half in cash, the Leitrim Dutchman generously handed that to the driver “for taking the card” and then paid the full fare himself, causing a brief upsurge of happiness in Dublin taximan circles.
At the airport, I breezed through check-in and security in minutes. Lines were all fast-moving, and staff efficient. As a bonus, there was a roof everywhere. And I was struck ruefully by the thought that, on a wet weekday morning in Dublin, the easiest thing to do was fly out of it.