Have you seen my Y?

I live in Prague, and do a lot of my writing in Dublin, where I was born, which requires me to travel back and forth quite a bit. I’m still searching for my raison d’etre, and writing seems to be leading me in the right direction.

How lucky am I to be able to sling a backpack over my shoulder, with my laptop and a clean pair of knickers, jump in a taxi to the airport in Prague, and catch a flight to Dublin in just over two hours. If I leave at 8.00am, I’m usually writing away in Starbucks overlooking the Irish sea by 1.00pm.

There are a few budget airlines that allow me to fly so often. Admittedly I’m not a fan of one of these airlines in particular. Rhymes with Lion Stare. My least favourite airline is not the most congenial company in the world. In my experience, the ground staff are generally grumpy. Granted, there are the odd few who enjoy their job and love to see customers coming their way waving expired passports and dodgy mobile phones showing last years boarding pass in their Apple Wallet.

I worked for an airline once myself. Never again: that’s what they said. I suppose the fact that I drove the jet-bridge into the plane once didn’t help. Or the time I reversed the same jet-bridge over the giant yellow accordion-like tube sucking human waste out of the toilets.

But I digress. It’s not an easy job. It’s no picnic dealing with irate passengers who would much rather be magically transported to their destination without all the annoying bits in between. Like waiting to check in. Waiting to get through security. Waiting to board. Waiting to take-off.

It’s not all bad. My most recent trip involved me checking in at Dublin airport with another local airline. I had a very pleasant interaction with a very young member of staff, who was obviously having a lovely day and enjoying her job. The conversation went something like this:

Me: (handing her my passport) “Good morning!”

Staff member: (in a proper north county Dublin accent) “Where are ye flyin’ today?”

Me: “Prague.”

Staff member: (looks a few times at my passport and back at the screen) “Ye forgot your Y.”

Me: “I forgot my what?”

Staff member: “Your Y.”

Me: (utterly confused) “I forgot my Y?”

Staff member: “Yeah. You’re Dohert, instead of Doherty. You forgot your Y. On yer bookin’.”

Me: “Oh shit. Am I in trouble?”

Staff member: “So much trouble.”

Me: “I don’t know why I forgot my Y.”

Staff member: “Well, you cannot fly, without your Y.”

Me: “Oh, can’t I try? I might just cry.”

Staff member: (laughing) “I don’t know why you forgot your Y.”

Me: “I won’t be shy, can I give it a try?.”

The staff member next to her turned and asked her if everything was okay. She told her that this passenger had “forgot her Y”. Her colleague took one look at me chanting anything I could possibly think of that rhymed with Y. “I can not lie, I miss my Y, I’d love a fry…”

“I think she’s grand.”

I’ve been searching for my why for years. I feel closer to finding it these days. I’m quite certain my final destination is on the blank pages I type on when I’m high in the sky. And the good news? My memoir is nigh.