Initiation Day

"You're not a retard!" Ray's voice sounded sincere on the phone, but still didn't lift my spirits any. I was desperately trying to find the Baldonnel Aerodrome on the outskirts of west Dublin. Ray was the dispatcher for the evening. But there were a few things working against me, as well as my own retardation. They had put me in a left hand drive Chevy 3500 thinking it would ease me in to driving a truck on Irish roads. But it only served to confuse me on roads designed for right hand drive vehicles. Add in a freeway and roundabouts and darkness and a gps unit that took it's time updating my location and strange Irish directions and I was a tad over taxed.

"I am a complete tard-O! Let me pull over and gimme a second on a paper map. This GPS, er Sat Nav, is literally driving me nuts".

The default viewing mode on the Sat Nav unit I had been given was to rotate the map and keep my direction of travel towards the top. It was 2007, and the cheap GPS unit simply did not update quick enough on small meandering Irish roads. So if I had to make a series of turns, through a series of roundabouts, it was basically worthless. It would spin the streets around the map and make it nearly impossible to read them while I was driving. Add to this the fact few Irish addresses were actually on the gps map, and it was very important for me to see the roads I was nearing. I fiddled with it for a few moments and found the setting to keep the map static and only rotate the direction my vehicle indicator was facing. I rechecked the paper map and the directions Ray had given me, and continued on my way.

"I'm here to pick up a car.", I said to the watchman at the gate... 20 minutes after I had my last conversation with Ray.

"You'll have to do better than that.", he barked.

"Um.. I'm here to pick up a car...please?" He let out a surprise snicker

"I need to know the vehicle type, vehicle location, and owner. And the owner need to contact me." This watchman wasn't just a random security guard. The Baldonnel Aerodrome is an Irish military base. I hadn't realized this until I pulled up to a heavily guarded gate across from a bunker with machinegun slits in it. The watchman was the night watchman, a sergeant far as I could tell by his epaulets.

After the correct parties chatted, I was allowed to enter the base. They didn't even ask for my ID.

"So, uh, this is where ya keep yer jets?", I asked the owner of the vehicle I came for.

He laughed. A lot. A whole lot.

"At first I thought you might be Canadian. So, didn't want to insult you by asking or assuming. But now I am fairly sure you're American!"

I laughed. But not so much.

"We've no jets, Man. We've barely got any airforce a'tall, and none by European standards, let alone American. Most of our work is search and rescue or surveying."

I knew I had a confused look on my face. I am not so sure why I did, though. I should have known or assumed they would have a limited air force being a small country and in such close proximity to the UK with bases in the north. Having an airforce simply wasn't necessary, especially since Ireland mostly remained neutral, and needn't worry about British imperialism any more.

I stopped arching my brow and stated, "Must be nice to be neutral. I'm not a big fan of our military, let alone our foreign policies."

I'm not sure whether he didn't know how to take my statement, or was simply a bit taken aback hearing it from an American. He nodded in agreement, anyhow.