Fit to Fly

Did you know dogs can get passports now?  Hogan came into our lives as a rescue.  A terrific lady in Kildare found and rescued him when he was quite literally on death row.  He’s really one of our family at this stage and I feel like I owe him ever since he chased out two rather nasty burglars we had in our house some years ago.  Preparations for his move to America however were almost more complicated than ours.  Several months before we flew, he had to get his rabies shot.  Then I had to take him back for blood tests to ensure that the vaccine had taken.  He also needed lungworm medication, tick, fleas and other parasite repellents – not forgetting his annual check up, weigh in and scrub down.  The dog even got a dental check.  Hogan gets more medical care than I do!  As if all that wasn’t enough I had to get him back to  the vet THE DAY BEFORE we flew out so he could write a note to confirm that the dog was ‘fit to fly.’

How ironic is that?  If the vet had taken my blood pressure that day, I am quite sure I wouldn’t have passed the medical.  Then there was the small matter of booking his plane ticket.  I was most anxious about this because if it went wrong at the airport on the day of departure, what was I going to do with the dog? As it happens, Aer Lingus have very particular rules on flying with dogs.  You must phone in the booking exactly fourteen days before the flight is due to leave.  It cannot be done on line and you must talk to a human (funny because I didn’t think there were any humans left in airline bookings offices). Anyway I spoke to a very nice girl who took my reservation.  Her only concern was that he wasn’t a pit bull and that was that.  There was no booking reference, no flight ticket – no proof that I had in fact made the call.  What happened if this lovely girl forgot to put me in the system?  What if she didn’t input Hogan’s name correctly?  If I rang back tomorrow it would be too late.  High stress.  She assured me that the dog was on the plane.  He was even in a special pet zone that was pressurised and quite comfortable and no, he wouldn’t be tossed in with the cases.  She only had to check it by cargo control and if they had enough room (which they always did) he was in and on and sorted.  Then she told me something really nice.  The charge for Hogan’s carriage would be one hundred fifty euro.  That was a quarter the price of the kids and he’s larger than two of them.  The idea of putting a few of the children in the kennel with Hogan did cross my mind but I decided not to suggest it. 

The following fourteen days flew by in a flurry of laughter, tears and goodbye lunches and suddenly I was in the airport with Hogan, the children and my husband.  It is fair to say that the dog was not happy with the situation but our vet had insisted that he could not be sedated.  The flight was too long.  We did get quite a few looks as we got to the check in desk with all the cases, kids and the super sized dog on wheels but to be fair to Aer Lingus, Hogan was in the system.  A very nice cargo guy came and took the dog away in his cage on wheels and we waved him off.  Next time we would see our beloved pet would be on American soil – a long way from a dog rescue kennel in Kildare.

Do you take visa?

It’s all very well to say, ‘let’s move to America.’  But I really had absolutely no idea how seriously they take all this visa business.  Perhaps I have lived a cocooned life but like most young Irish, I trotted around Europe during my student days and got casual work to see me through the summers.  I pulled pints in British Pubs, cut corn in the south of France, (actually, the farmer called it castrating the maize, but that sounds a bit harsh.)  I was a DJ and a water ski instructress in Crete and I did a spot of interpreting in the United Nations – yep that is more less the life of a typical third level Irish student.  The thing is visas rarely came up.   We were meant to have one in Greece but everybody ignored that.

America is a VERY different story.   I had been on holidays in the States several times and of course that’s easy but trying to take up residence there is a lot more work.    Thankfully my husband had a business there which had been up and running for a number of years.  But no matter who you are, (unless of course you are American or perhaps you’re married to one) but other than that, if you want to take up residence in the States, you have to do ‘the interview.’ 

He went first and I did mine some time later (the kids don’t do interviews unless they are over fourteen – imagine trying to relocate a reluctant fifteen year old!)  The whole process was actually a little nerve wrecking.  I had to go to the US embassy, get through all their security stuff and then do an interview.  Yes, I did feel a little like an international spy.  What if I said the wrong thing like my great great gran was in the IRA or or I once gate crashed a party on an American Air Force Base (long story) but fortunately neither question came up...– fortunately neither of these questions came up so I was home and dry.  The man stamped my forms and smiled.  “That’s it?” I asked incredulously (almost blowing my cover) “That’s it,” he agreed quite obviously used to such idiotic questioning.  “I have passed?” I tried to grasp that this was it, I actually had the visa.  This time he just nodded clearly tiring of my particularly incredulous brand of stupidity. “The rest is just a formality,” he explained.  “You have your visa.  The family’s passports will be stamped and sent out to you in the post in the next few days.  You should have them by the weekend.”

It was that simple to do and that difficult to digest.  I went for a walk after the embassy to fully comprehend what had just happened.  Up until this point, I think the move was merely notional.  If we didn’t get the visas we weren’t going anywhere but now we had them there was nothing stopping us.  We were really on our way.  I had to sit down in Herbert Park.

What in tarnation had I started into?

Anything to declare?

I think everyone knows about the American Customs.  Since the war on terror nothing comes through customs except customers and if they’re lucky their suit cases.  Absolutely nothing dangerous and no food but worst offence of all is dangerous food.  There are signs up everywhere, I saw them.  There was to be no importing of fresh, uncooked, cooked or really any meat, fruit, veg – nothing.  Well, actually I think Pringles were all right but they’re not actually a food are they.  Reading between the lines it was probably saying, “We have loads of bloody food.  Don’t bring food into the USA (& God Bless America) and I was really OK with all of this. 

When we landed, the first thing to pick up after the cases was the dog.  I went to the large cargo reclaim area and there to my amazement was not one but three dog transport boxes.  Hogan had two buddies for the flight.  I had no idea there were so many high flying pooches.  The other two were smaller and a good deal calmer.  Hogan was standing up in his box, barking furiously and trying to eat his way through the metal cage door.  He actually looked madder in an insane (rabies carrying) sort of way than I had ever seen him before.  I knew he was slightly claustrophobic because he always has been.  We assumed that he was locked up as a puppy but being a rescue we know nothing about his past and can only guess.  But other than his claustrophobia he is a perfectly wonderful dog.  Well, except for that moment in time.  I was genuinely worried that the customs guys were going to shoot him.  He looked like a mad dog.  I tried to sooth him but he wasn’t interested.  He just wanted out of the box, which I wasn’t aloud to do until we were out of the airport.  I handed the baby to my husband and casually pushed the dog’s box towards the final customs check, trying to ignore the rabid dog inside. 

Each child had a case that went through one final security check.  The airport police dogs sniffed for cocaine, Kalashnikovs and any other sundries but I was relieved that they were happy to ignore my now howling hound.  Just as we were about to go through one of the senior customs guys called me over.  This was it; they were going to shoot Hogan on sight.

“This yours?” he asked suspiciously.  One of the sniffers and found my M&S picnic bag.  I had forgotten all about the surprise gift from my aunt.  She had packed all sorts of goodies for the flight which I have to say were very tasty but there was much too much food.  I had planned to dump it but forgot and so it was still travelling with us – full of illegal substances.  He pulled out the half eaten sandwiches with a look of disgust and dumped it in a bin at his feet.  Then using a tongs even though he was wearing surgical gloves already, he pulled out some lovely fresh wild Irish salmon and looked at me accusingly.  I’m going to jail for a year, I thought manically but smiled weakly - Hogan all the while growling and snarling.  “You know it’s illegal to import food like this” he said.  “I’m so sorry.  It was for the flight,” I grovelled.    “I meant to dump it,” I added remembering a similar line had been used by a real bad guy in CSI on the telly, just the week before.

Then he pulled out my tub of hummus.  Now I was going down for a few years for sure. The baby began to cry and Hogan looked like he was going to break the dog box open any minute.

Nothing was going to rush this man, however.  He had a very serious job to do and he was going to protect America at all costs.  With the aid of his tweezers, he retrieved a live yoghurt from the picnic bag.  Even I knew they carried l acasai immunitas.  That was it; I was probably going straight out to Guantanamo bay.  My husband would have to go on without me.  What a start to our new life.

“Who packed this bag?” he asked accusingly.  For a split second I thought about lying and saying it was me.  If they went after my old aunt at home, it would kill her but then I saw his gun and I knew that honesty was really the only option.

“It was my Aunt Liz,” I explained.  “She wanted to do it as a going away present.”

“Yeah?” he said, taking out a pen and paper.  Jesus, he really was going after her – more mad barking.

“Guess, she really loves you guys,” he said with a smile slowly spreading over his face and reaching right up to his eyes.   “Now get that dog outa here.”

Then I almost fell over as he winked at me and laughed.  “and Welcome to America,” he said, handing me back my M&S bag (with the salmon inside!)

Which faraway hill is greenest?

Did you ever wish you could escape?

Imagine being somewhere that they don’t talk about recessions or unemployment.  Is it even possible to be somewhere that doesn’t have the constant threat of national strikes hanging overhead like a great big cloud and don’t get me started on the weather.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to live in a place that has a nice climate?  I don’t mean sunshine three hundred and sixty five days a year (although that would be nice too).  No, I dreamt of somewhere with four real seasons – a hot summer, a colourful crisp autumn.  Imagine a white Christmas and then Spring bursting forward again with the promise of renewal and all things green and fresh. 

If you wished for all of the above – Hello!   Only I went one step further.  This time last year I upped sticks with FIVE children, one dog and a broad minded husband and we moved. 

If you’ve thought about moving but stayed put, it might interest or amuse you to hear about the antics and adventures we’ve experienced in the last twelve months.  Some of it has been plain sailing and we have had a lot of laughs.  But there have also been some very hard times and once or twice when I genuinely thought my heart would break in two but one thing it hasn’t been is dull.

Where to go was the first question.  The main concern for me was my children.  They range in age from a one-year-old monster to a teenager and then there’s the three in between.  The funny thing is the older kids had been very enthusiastic to go.  With hind sight now, I don’t think any of us really knew what we were talking about but we watched enough American TV to know we liked the look of their houses and they seemed like a nice enough bunch.  The rest of Europe didn’t hold much appeal as it was in economic gloom and anyway much of it has the same weather as Ireland so what was the point in going there?  And so we bought a map of America.  My husband’s business was in Florida but when we told the kids about the amount of alligators down there they weren’t so impressed.  It also had mosquitoes all year round and crime is almost as bad as Ireland and anyway it was just too bloody hot so Florida was crossed off the list early in the day. 

My older girls wanted to research California but my husband (the business brain in the family) informed us that, financially the state of California was in almost as much trouble as Europe (who would have thought, reading Hello and Grazia).  That said, the girls weren’t convinced, after all - the weather was seriously better and my youngest daughter wanted to live near the Jonas brothers.  In the end, I had the casting vote and I decided that it was just too far from Ireland.  The eight hour time difference would mean that I would be waking friends and family in the middle of the night looking for a chat and flying home would be an absolute nightmare.  That, in fact took the entire west coast and even Middle America off the ‘possible’ list and so we were left looking at the North East Seaboard.   New York?  Time Square and Fifth Avenue were nice.  Washington? We would have nice neighbours (back then everybody loved Barak).  Boston?  I had an idea that they liked the Irish (of course the Kennedys were a big Boston family) and Cheers was filmed there so obviously the pubs were good.  What more did a gal need?  A party town that liked the Irish – we had found our new home!