Louise O'Neill: Those with carry-on luggage depart but alas, I cannot go
Up until this month, I didn’t really have a “Ryanair Story”.
Sure, I’d had unpleasant experiences with the airline. The Christmas Eve when I arrived to the airport without my passport and they refused to let me fly home. (Thank you, Aer Lingus, for saving Christmas ’04.)
The time when I lost my boarding card and didn’t have enough money to pay for a replacement, and they stared at me stoney-faced while I cried in desperation. But, crucially, I could see that these experiences were my own fault, a by-product of my chaotic twenties. But now, my friends, I have a Ryanair Story all of my very own. Let me tell you all about it.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who was travelling to Budapest to be bridesmaid for her best friend’s wedding. She packed her suitcase, tucking the bridesmaid dress and 5kg of Carbery cheese inside — long story, just stay with me — weighing the case carefully to ensure that it met the stringent weight requirements.
She wasn’t going to be caught out this time, oh no! At Dublin airport, she saw the flight was delayed, but only for half an hour, wait an hour, wait another half an hour more. But what did it matter? She would get to Budapest.
Narrator: She did not get to Budapest.
“Sorry,” a voice says over the intercom midway through the flight. “But Budapest airport is closed. We are going to land in Bratislava.”
“What did he just say?” the man sitting next to my boyfriend leans over to ask us. “Where are we landing?”
“Bratislava,” I reply. “Slovakia.”
Bratislava. Bratislava. The word passes from one passenger to the next. Why? What is happening? Mere minutes later, the jet’s wheels screech against tarmac.
I never thought I’d miss that stupid trumpet sound heralding an early arrival (What should Ryanair play when the plane lands in an entirely different country? Answers on a postcard) but Here we are in this Brave New World. We are preparing to take our first steps onto Slovakian soil when the intercom switches on again.
“Eh,” the voice begins hesitantly. “Welcome to.... Vienna?”
A roar of incredulous laughter. Those were simpler times, you see, we were still innocent; prepared to be good humoured about such mishaps. We didn’t know what lay ahead.
We remain in our seats for another hour while they attempt to locate stairs. “For the moment, stay on board. Enjoy your night.”
They continue to serve alcohol, which seems a poor choice of action — surely a bottle of water and packet of biscuits for every passenger would make more sense.
At least we could have something to barter later, like we were in jail. Finally — “You will disembark and go to the terminal,” that voice I’ve come to dread says.
“When the technical problem is fixed in Budapest, you get back on and we’ll fly you.” As a final, ominous note, he adds: “We hope that happens today.”
We are stranded at passport control. Those with carry-on luggage depart but alas, I cannot go. I cannot arrive to the wedding without my bridesmaid dress and, more importantly, the 5kg of cheese.
So we wait. And we wait. The airport is eerily quiet, save for a baby crying. There are no vending machines, so we don’t have access to water or food. I’m getting thirsty.
“Imagine,” my boyfriend asks me, “if the plane crashed and we all died and this is hell.”
As a member of a stag party becomes increasingly vocal about his frustration, two people in cowboy hats start to sing ‘Always Look On The Bright Side of Life’, and long-suffering parents try to soothe their exhausted children, it’s hard not to think this is a legitimate theory.
We wait there for two hours, the scene turning slightly feral as if we are gearing up for a re-enactment of The Lord of the Flies. I contemplate the likelihood of contracting Weil’s disease if I drink water from the sink in the toilets and tweet angry messages at Ryanair.
As I would explain later, it wasn’t the landing in Vienna that was the most infuriating — flights are diverted all the time and the pilot had to comply with safety regulations. It was the complete lack of communication that was the most maddening. We weren’t told what was happening or given any sort of reassurance or advice.
We didn’t know if there would be transport provided to bring us to Budapest, if we should make alternative arrangements to stay the night in Vienna.
Eventually, at 4am, rumours started to disseminate that there was no bus coming for us. We were on our own.
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My Ryanair, My Ryanair, why have thee forsaken me? The next train to Budapest was at 5.30am but that was fully booked, as was the 6.30am train, the 7.30am, and the 8.30am.
An overworked airport official told us to take a taxi to Budapest, her face wan from the strain, that Ryanair would cover it.
“Don’t go,” one of the hen parties told us. “If you go, you’ll never get anything back from them. We all know what they’re like.”
I imagine a life in the airport, like Tom Hanks in The Terminal and I internally scream.
“Hello,” we say as we collapse in the back of the Uber. “Can you take us to Budapest?”
“Budapest?!”
“Yes.”
“You want to go to Budapest?”
“Yes, yes,” we say, cross-eyed with fatigue. “Please, please, take us to Budapest. Please.”
“OK,” he says with a shrug. “We’re going to Budapest.”
The journey, which was sound-tracked by German techno music and a splash of ‘Eye of the Tiger’, cost us €300. I’m still awaiting my cheque, Michael O’ Leary.
Those with carry-on luggage depart but alas, I cannot go. I cannot arrive to the wedding without my bridesmaid dress and, more importantly, the 5kg of chees
LOUISE SAYS
The only website that I read on a daily basis is Lainey Gossip. It offers smart, interesting, nuanced analysis of celebrity gossip through a feminist lens.
America Is Not The Heart by Elaine Castillo. This is astoundingly good, telling the story of three generations of women from one immigrant family.
