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We could check bicycles on the airplane, $200 per bicycle, but we had
to unscrew and remove the pedals first. We packed the moka pot, parted
with the cast iron frying pan. Friends and family who had assembled at
the airport to say their goodbyes quizzed us on Ireland trivia,
things like shamrock, the Blarney Stone, the Harrods bombing. On the
plane from San Diego to Los Angeles, Drew read up on research
connected with his exciting new job -- testing renal functions -- while I
reworked my resume into a CV. I'd heard that during the current
economic crisis in Ireland the local accountants were being exposed as
the devil, and I was counting on the reputation of American banking
institutions that lined my resume to find work. Any bookkeeping gig
would do, really; living in Ireland was to be our big adventure. My
hands were sweating, but otherwise I wasn't nervous.
 The flight from Los Angeles to London was delayed for technical
reasons that smelled a lot like leaking jet fuel. From our guidebook,
we learned that James Joyce picked Dublin as the setting for his
novels because "it was a 'center of paralysis' where nothing much ever
changed." In London, we missed our connecting flight and spent three
hours testing the perfumes and sampling liquors on promotion at the
duty-free shops in Heathrow. The late night shuttle from London to
Dublin was half full of hopefuls. The Irish Independent newspaper
claimed Ireland would be "The Comeback Economy of Europe." Baile Átha
Cliath, a sign on top of the airport building announced. Our luggage,
containing all our worldly possessions, save what we'd put in storage
back in San Diego, and including two bicycles sans pedals, had
overshot the target and traveled on to Madrid. It would rejoin us,
according to the airline representative, the very next day. Why
Ireland? the immigrations officer asked.
We'd seen the pictures of our temporary apartment online. The front
door was painted crimson red. Our first night, we sat at the charming
breakfast bar in the newly renovated kitchen and feasted on all the
packages of "snack mixes" hoarded from our flights. The next day, a
Sunday, we shopped for clean socks and underwear, and also business
attire for Drew. At midday we landed in the corner of a dark and
cavernous-looking downtown pub and entertained the bartender by
ordering a hot toddy for me and a shot of Bailey's for Drew. Irish men
drink whiskey or Guinness, the bartender sneered. Uncouth, we shared a
plate of the Dublin coddle, which together with the jetlag really
weighed us down and glued to those bar stools. Somebody switched the
TV screen behind the bar to a children's program, three paunchy
animated cars rescuing an ancient frigate from the sea and repairing
it with twigs and moss. Drew said, Do you have this feeling that a
leprechaun might pop up from around pretty much any corner? I said,
Ireland, the land of opportunities. Outside, it started raining.
At 8:30 am on Monday morning, Drew went to work. The company
manufactured test kits for kidney injuries, a perfect match for Drew's
research interests. They'd offered him a competitive salary with full
benefits, including a leave of four weeks a year and lunches at the
company's "canteen." They also promised to pay cash for our move. At
9:45 am, when I was still brushing my teeth with a brand new
toothbrush and getting ready to go out to look for a place to rent a
cell phone to call the airline about our missing luggage and for
Internet access to start my job hunt, there was a knock on the door.
It was Drew. What happened? Was everything okay? What happened??
Drew's employer had filed for bankruptcy that very morning. All the
people in the office were packing up their desks.
Drew was still in the middle of his story when another knock on our
door announced the arrival of the delivery men. Our three suitcases
and two bicycles had traveled the world and were finally ready to
settle down. Do you remember what you did with the pedals? I asked
Drew. The question had been nagging me since we'd left San Diego. Yes,
he said, I do. I left them in the back of my mother's truck.
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