Chicago 2018 – Day Nineteen
Did We Make the Connection from Dublin to Manchester?
Well, dear readers, grab a cuppa and settle in — because yes, we did make it! Against all odds, delayed departures, and the chaos that only air travel can provide, we successfully hopped across the pond and into the Emerald Isle with enough time to catch our connecting flight to Manchester. It was, dare I say, a triumph worthy of applause (or at least a small celebratory biscuit).
Leaving Chicago – A Late Start but a Swift Crossing
Our day began at (#Ad) Chicago O’Hare — a place where the concept of “on time” is more of a polite suggestion than a rule. We were meant to leave promptly, of course, but naturally found ourselves sitting on the tarmac for a good 55 minutes past our scheduled departure. You know that moment when the pilot cheerfully assures you that you’ll “be underway shortly”? Yes, we heard that one. Several times.
But here’s where the magic of aviation (and a decent tailwind) comes in. Once we finally got airborne, we flew like the wind — quite literally — covering the Atlantic in a blistering 6 hours and 10 minutes. I don’t think I’ve ever been flung across an ocean quite so quickly without the aid of a catapult.
Mind you, that’s not counting the 20 minutes of taxiing at O’Hare, which felt long enough to qualify as its own domestic flight, and another 9 minutes of slow-motion rolling at Dublin (#Ad). Altogether, we clocked a gate-to-gate time of 6 hours and 40 minutes, which isn’t bad considering we started nearly an hour behind schedule.
Dublin – A Quick Stop and a Queue of Eight
Ah, (#Ad) Dublin Airport — the place where you’re always almost on time. After landing smoothly (and somewhat triumphantly), we legged it through the terminal for our connection. You know that slightly frantic trot through the airport where you’re pretending not to panic, but your power walk says otherwise? That was us.
Our transfer was mercifully brief, giving us just enough time to stretch, re-caffeinate, and convince ourselves we weren’t tired. Then, like well-trained travel veterans, we boarded our second flight of the day bound for Manchester.
All went smoothly until — and there’s always an until, isn’t there? — we pushed back from the gate… and stopped. The engines hummed, the lights flickered, and then came the familiar voice of the pilot:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re currently in a queue of eight aircraft waiting to depart (#Ad) Dublin. Shouldn’t be too long.”
Ah yes, the Irish gift for understatement.
So, we sat there. And waited. And waited some more. I began to consider starting a small support group for stranded passengers — “Queue Club: Meeting Every 10 Minutes at Gate 23.”
Fortunately, the delay was only 25 minutes, which by airline standards is practically punctual. Once airborne, our trusty pilot made up the time over the Irish Sea, landing us in Manchester right on schedule. Hurrah!
The Baggage Carousel Lottery
Now, if there’s one final test for weary travellers, it’s the baggage carousel. That spinning symbol of hope and heartbreak. Would our luggage have made the journey intact? Would it have made the journey at all?
Miraculously, as we wandered into the baggage hall, our bags were already there — circling like obedient pets waiting to be collected. We looked at each other, stunned. Everything had gone smoothly. Too smoothly. And indeed, fate doesn’t like to be ignored.
Because, of course, one of the bags had been damaged somewhere between check-in at O’Hare and arrival in Manchester. Not catastrophically, mind you, but just enough to remind us that the travel gods like to keep things interesting.
“Oh dear,” I thought. “What a shame. Never mind.” (Which, as every Brit knows, actually means, “I’m absolutely fuming, but I’ll pretend I’m not.”)
A Smooth Pick-Up and a Familiar Ride
Once we’d collected our slightly battle-scarred luggage, we were swiftly whisked away by Terry from Conrad Executive Travel and Private Hire — a man who deserves a medal for punctuality and charm. We’ve used Conrad’s before and, as always, their service was spot on. It’s hard not to appreciate a chauffeur who appears just as your patience begins to falter.
Before long, we were homeward bound, cruising through the familiar grey drizzle of northern England with the comforting knowledge that we were, finally, back on home turf.
Home Sweet (and Surprisingly Tidy) Home
Here’s the twist — brace yourself — the house was tidy. Yes, you read that correctly. Michele didn’t yell. Not once.
Historically, whenever we’ve left “the boys” in charge of the house, we’ve returned to a scene that could best be described as “post-apocalyptic student digs.” You know the sort — pizza boxes forming architectural structures, mugs breeding in the sink, and that faint smell of mystery.
But this time, the lads had clearly decided to spare my ears. The house was in good nick, and I survived the homecoming without a single domestic scolding. Truly, miracles do happen.
Fighting the Jet Lag
The rest of the afternoon was dedicated to that noble post-flight struggle: staying awake. You tell yourself, “I’ll just keep moving and I’ll be fine,” but then your eyelids betray you. We both nodded off intermittently, each pretending we weren’t asleep until we were.
By the evening, we’d transitioned into that half-conscious zombie state unique to travellers who’ve crossed multiple time zones. Michele perched in bed watching telly, while I decided to torture myself by watching Manchester United (#Ad) take on Valencia in the Champions League.
Big mistake.
It was one of those games that make you question your life choices — a dull, uninspired 0–0 draw that did absolutely nothing to justify staying awake. I could have been blissfully unconscious, dreaming of Chicago deep dish, but no — I chose mediocrity and misfired passes.
Back to Reality
Eventually, exhaustion won. I crawled into bed, muttering something about Mourinho’s tactics (or lack thereof), and drifted off knowing that the alarm was set for 5:20 a.m. The holiday was officially over; reality awaited.
The following morning would bring emails, commutes, and coffee that never quite tastes as good as it does abroad. But for that one last night, it was enough to be home — bags unpacked, house intact, and a faint sense of triumph that we’d survived another transatlantic adventure.
Post-Holiday Reflections
It’s funny how travel both exhausts and revitalises you at the same time. Chicago (#Ad) had been brilliant — full of skyscrapers, pizza, and the kind of over-the-top friendliness that makes British politeness look reserved. The journey home was the inevitable crash back into reality, but even then, it was smoother than expected.
And though I’m not quite ready to face my inbox, or my alarm clock, or Manchester United’s midfield (#Ad), I do feel rather smug that we managed to make every connection, survive every delay, and come home to a tidy house.
So yes, we made it. Barely awake, slightly jet-lagged, but undeniably victorious.
