I slept in an airport. It sucked.

There’s a lot to be said for booking an airline ticket via a discount website.

Back in 2007, airline prices were almost as expensive as they are today, and I was but a poor, broke college grad making $10 an hour at an entry level job. How in the world was I going to come up with the funds to buy an airline ticket to get across the world to visit my friend?

Beg Mom, for one.

The second thing I did was scour websites like Travelocity, Expedia, Priceline. Mom and I sat for hours on her computer going through website after website, trying to find a ticket that wasn’t going to cost a couple mortgage payments worth of rent. If you dig deep enough, you can find them.

Honestly, the cheapest way to get overseas is to book a bargain fare, which is a special fare ‘with restrictions’. Those restrictions happen to be not knowing the airline you’re flying or what time you’re flying until AFTER you’ve already paid. Sounds like an adventure, but for someone like me who has limited time off, these generally aren’t good options. When I book flights for travel, I have to make sure no one else is off and how I can fit the flight around my work schedule, as well as how best to maximize the trip without blowing all of my paid time off in one sitting. I usually try to fly out to my destinations on Friday after work and come back on Sundays so that I don’t have to take more time. My flexibility is limited by my day job, but for those who do not have these types of restrictions, bargain fares and red-eyes are the way to go.

At any rate, I did not book a bargain fare, but we did manage to find a flight to Ireland for about $700. My mother, God bless her, recognized not only my desire but need to get out for a while, paid half.

The trip started off rocky – my mom dropped me off at the airport in the early afternoon, about two hours before my flight. When I checked in, I was immediately told my flight had been delayed five hours.

FIVE HOURS.

That’ll ruin a connecting flight, don’t you think?

I was determined to get to Ireland, though. I wasn’t about to be thwarted. So I said fine. I’ll wait. They offered to reschedule me, but I was getting on that plane, dammit, if it was the last thing I did. Come hell or high water, I was getting to Ireland. For some unfathomable reason, going home and flying out the following morning like a normal person was out of the question. I was at the airport, and I was doing this. Going home somehow meant defeat, and I was not going to be defeated by a pesky mechanical failure on the airplane.

I was still a newbie at traveling by myself – most trips up until this point I had been with others. Either a school group or family were usually around, but this time I was completely alone. I was out of my element, and everything that could go wrong was going Very Wrong. I obviously missed my connection, and the airline was giving me sass about fixing the connection because it had been booked through a third party. I spent half the time online trying to find a number to call in tears and the other half on the phone in tears, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do.

The end result – I landed in the Dulles, Washington airport around midnight, and I would board a British Airways flight to London which would then connect to Ireland the following morning. That was all fine and dandy, but what was I supposed to do upon reaching Washington? It would be late. My bags were checked. I had nowhere to go, and I had no clothes, since my luggage had been checked through. It never occurred to me to ask for a voucher for a hotel or for food. I was twenty-four years old and traveling to Europe completely alone. I was flying by myself for the first time, and I was freaked out. So I did what anyone in my position would do – I slept in the airport. Better than a bench outside, I thought.

If you’ve never slept in an airport, let me tell you this – it is not a pleasant experience. It is uncomfortable. The floor is hard. The chairs all have armrests that will dig into your ass while you try to sleep. You wake up every twenty minutes. The lights are bright. You’re worried someone will steal your carry-on luggage. You’re terrified you will actually fall asleep and miss your flight.

I woke up all night, naturally, but I gave in around 6am and stopped trying to get any sleep. I was a complete disaster. My makeup was smeared, I was nauseated from lack of sleep, my eyes felt like sandpaper, and I was incredibly disoriented. By this point, people were back in the airport and bustling about, so I managed to get myself together so I could find my gate.

The flight to London was uneventful as a whole. I didn’t sleep much, and instead watched movies and read and listened to some music. I’m sure I dozed a little, but flying 8 hours next to someone you don’t know sort of lessens the appeal of sleeping on a plane. The last thing I wanted to do was fall over and drool on my seatmate’s shoulder, so I stayed awake.

Landing in London was amazing to me, but the awe quickly wore off once I got off the plane. It was a big damn airport and I was so sleep deprived I got lost several times before finally making my way to the Aer Lingus terminal of the airport. Now, I’ll be honest – I cannot remember which airport I was in, Gatwick or Heathrow – regardless, it was unfamiliar terrain and I was a clueless American in a sea of people I didn’t know. I’d never felt more alone, and I remember wondering about the wisdom of all this. At that point, I was exhausted and running on fumes, desperate to get to Ireland, desperate for a real bed and real food and a pillow. I was in a constant state of anxiety, near tears and frustrated by the time I found the customs desk.

That opened a totally new fun box of worms that I hadn’t anticipated. The customs agent, as exhausted as me no doubt, started asking me questions. What was I doing there? Visiting a friend. Who? I gave her name. Is she a resident? No, she’s American. Why is she there? She married an Irishman. Where do they live? I don’t know. I had no idea they would want as much information as they did – my friends life story, basically.

This was my fault, in all honesty. I was pathetically unprepared. I had no idea they would want all the information they did. All the times I’d previously traveled were either Stateside or my mom handled the customs forms. I’d been to France and Spain when I was sixteen, but that was before 9/11 and before the rigorous customs process. Also, my mommy handled that. This was up to me, and I was totally blowing it.

I didn’t have her address, and my phone wouldn’t let me call her. I’d told my phone company I would be going overseas, but for whatever reason, it wouldn’t let me dial international numbers. I had to call my mom, get her to call my friend and obtain the address, then call me back so I could give it to customs. They weren’t the most pleasant people, and I was near tears again, and it was late. They were tired. I was tired. Everyone just wanted a bed at that point. I went back up to the desk, gave them the information, and finally, finally stumbled into the Aer Lingus terminal and was greeted by a scene that was, I felt, unquestionably Irish. Beer bottles littered every single table, the bar was open and people were drinking and some were very, very drunk. I considered a beer and thought better of it – I might fall asleep and end up missing the flight I’d fought so hard to catch, and that was out of the question.

Finally, finally I got on the plane and it was, mercifully, a relatively short flight to Ireland. Once I got my luggage – it had miraculously made its way to the final destination – I scurried outside to meet my friend. The second I caught a breath of that Irish air, I felt my worries start to slip away, like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I could finally start breathing again. It sounds melodramatic, but I felt a certain kind of relief that I’d never before felt.

It felt like I was home.