Eight o’clock a.m., Dublin time

“We’ll be landing soon.” I opened my eyes to a flight attendant leaning over me. “Please sit up and place your tray table and seatback to the upright position.”

I looked around. Slowly time and place came back to me. I was on a plane. I was on my way to Dublin, Ireland.

I had lucked out. The overweight older southern couple that had originally squeezed in next to me had complained of knee troubles and moved to a seat with more legroom. I had spent the seven-hour flight stretched out, sleeping like a baby.

We landed and taxied to the gate. I gathered my things and departed the airplane. I left New York at 7:40 p.m. It was now 8:00 a.m. Dublin time.

The sun had disappeared below the horizon as we took off. The plane had caught up to it again as we landed. The airport was silent as I made my way toward the customs hallway.

Four lines formed as the customs agents asked each of the passengers a series of questions. I was close to the end of the line and watched as the European passengers were whisked through. I recognized the southern couple who, with their departure from my row, had given me my luxurious trip.

Finally, I made my way to the customs agent. He looked me up and down and asked for my passport. He asked me how long I was staying and I answered firmly, “Five weeks.”

His eyebrows raised, my heart sank.

“What will you be doing?” he asked.

I explained that I would be working as a teaching assistant for NYU’s Dublin summer film program.

“Do you have a workers permit?”

I didn’t. My heart sank further.

“Well, I won’t be getting paid,” I backtracked. It was a lie; I was getting paid. I was lying to the customs agent—don’t they arrest people for this?

“They’re putting me up in an apartment, but they aren’t paying me.” I said.

He nodded, stared right through me. Two minutes in Dublin and I’m already in trouble. What if he didn’t let me in?

“How will you afford to live? Do you have enough money?”

I nodded.

“Can you prove it?”

A bead of sweat dripped down my brow. I had never been treated this way. As Americans, we are used to everything being easy. We are not used to being foreigners. Was this customs agent on a power trip going to send me back? Was I getting back on a plane?

I looked around and noticed the hall was empty. All of the other passengers had made it through.

“I have a return ticket. It’s paid for and…”

He cut me off. “Let me see it.”

I handed my travel itinerary across the glass-enclosed counter. He swiped it from my hand and stared at it.

Then, with a flourish, he pounded my passport with his stamp and handed it to me. “Have a nice stay.” A false smile.

I moved toward the baggage claim and breathed a sigh of relief. I had made it. Typically, my bag is the last one to come out of baggage claims. I think maybe one time in my life it came out early. I was shocked when my bag was the third one onto the conveyer belt. I cautiously approached it. Something was wrong, this never happens.

I reached out with my right hand and grasped the handle. As soon as my fingers touched the rubber, a loud alarm sounded. I was surprised how loud it was. And, for a moment, I thought the customs agent had found out that I actually was getting paid without a working permit.

My eyes darted for the exits, wondering if I could make it out before airport security could grab me. A guard moved past me without even looking at me. Perhaps something was seriously wrong.

I was swept up in the crowd and we were ushered through emergency doors held open by security guards.

The alarms of these individual doors joined the chorus of the louder general alarm and mixed in with the shouts of the guards and the confusion of the crowd. It formed chaos and my mind raced as I tried to figure out what was going on.

Outside, we stood in a line; it was not the usual exit. I was totally confused. I could not understand what anyone was saying. They were all speaking too fast and I was still groggy from the flight.

My instructions were to get in a cab and have it drive me to the apartment building where someone from NYU would show me to my room. I would sleep the rest of the day to be well rested for my orientation the next day.

I started to make my way cautiously toward a sign that said arrivals. In the distance, I saw a row of cabs. I breathed a sigh of relief.

A police officer held the crowd back. The cabs stood directly behind him across the street.

I approached the officer. “Can I get a cab over there?” I asked slowly.

He stared at me. He seemed to have no idea what I was saying, and without a word, slowly turned his back.

I had no idea what to do. I was tired, very confused and just wanted to get to my apartment. I took a deep breath and crossed the street. No one stopped me. Within seconds, I was out of the airport on my way downtown to what they call City Centre.

“What’s going on?” I asked the driver.

“Bomb scare,” he replied quickly. “The second of the week. It’s been a year since the London bombings.”

I had no idea. I realized how much I would learn this month. I leaned back against the seat, watched as my first glimpses of Dublin rushed past my eyes, and drifted off to sleep.