Many people will remember where they were at 11:11 on 11/11/11, and I’m one of them—though I’d be willing to bet I’m the only one who was running down Dublin’s O’Connell Street at the time, chasing a taxi because I’d left my iPad in it.
My husband had business in Dublin, and I went along, planning to play tourist while he worked. But a cancelled event meant we could go to the Dublin Writers Museum together that morning—by taxi, given the wind and the sudden downpours that day. Being a gentleman, he loaned me his umbrella, which left me dry but guilty. At least he had a sort of fedora, but he got pretty wet. (Note to self: next time, take your own umbrella. And ask the hotel to get a taxi for you if it’s raining.)
The night before, I’d counted nine taxis coming through just one cycle of a traffic light as we waited to cross the street, but it took forever to find one that morning, and when we did, I got in thinking “Don’t forget the umbrella. Don’t forget the umbrella.” My track record with umbrellas isn’t good, and since my husband had gotten soaked because I was using his, I was determined not to lose it. When the taxi dropped us, though, the problem wasn’t remembering the umbrella, but fighting a wind that kept turning it inside out, and finding the right money for the fare—a lot of the euro coins look pretty much alike.
In the kerfuffle I left behind one of those small nylon backpacks that’s not much more than a carrier bag with a couple of strings to go over your shoulders. But that little bag held my iPad, my notebook (paper, not a notebook computer)—with one-of-a-kind appliquéd cover, a present from my sister—and several months’ worth of irreplaceable notes. (Note to self: get a fresh notebook for every trip so you don’t lose important stuff.)
Just inside the museum I realized. “I left my iPad in the taxi!” My husband, ever the optimist, said “You’re not serious!” but really, he knows me better than that. He dashed back out to try to catch the driver, and the receptionist told me to go check the taxi rank “right there, at the top of O’Connell Street”; the driver might have joined the rank. She pointed the direction and I ran out, too.
And here we have a little difference in American and UK English (the museum receptionist was English, not Irish). People say “the top of the street”, but you have to know which end of the street the locals consider the top. I thought that would mean uphill, but she’d pointed downhill, so down I went, top speed, the wind repeatedly turning the umbrella inside-out and me turning it outside-out again, and I didn’t see any taxi rank. How far away was “right there”? Surely the “top of the street” couldn’t mean downhill. I was going the wrong way! And every second wasted lowered my chances.
So I ran uphill again, with an adrenaline boost that pushed me way ahead of my husband. I stopped in at the museum to confirm I had it right. I didn’t. “No, the top of O’Connell Street”, said the lady, with a note of exasperation—and she did mean the lower end, by the river. Another employee assured me that I could find the driver from the number on my receipt—but I hadn’t gotten one. Who needs a taxi receipt if the ride isn’t a business expense? (Answer: people who stupidly leave valuables in taxis.
Downhill again, fighting the wind for control of the umbrella, this time I found the taxi rank—but not ‘my’ taxi. I walked up and down, looking at the driver of any cab you might call tan or gold or champagne. The rain let up and some drivers got out of their cars to be helpful or maybe just for the craic*. About five of them walked up to me, making a little group, each one asking the same thing as he arrived— “do you have your receipt?”—and all saying I should go to the Carriage Office (which licenses taxis) except for one who thought I ought to go to the Garda.
The Garda means the police. Ireland can seem familiar—the faces, the names, and even the countryside can look a lot like what I grew up with in Kentucky—but of the zillions of differences, the Irish language is the most surprising. Most Irish people use English pretty much all the time, but some Irish words, such as Garda, are common in everyday life.
I can’t read Irish (Gaeilge)—no surprise there—but I can’t even sound out the words, because I’ve never learned how the unfamiliar combinations of letters and accent marks map to the sounds. You run into a fair few people here in England with Irish names, so I’ve learned a bit—Siobhan is pronounced Shih-vawn, Róisín is Row-sheen, and Ruairí is the name Americans spell Rory—but puzzling out Flemish when I lived in Belgium was easier than Irish. Thank goodness Dublin street signs show names in English, too; I couldn’t have found O’Connell Street if the signs only said Sráid Uí Chonaill, and that’s without adding Íocht for Lower or Uachtarach for Upper.
There was a Garda station right there on Sráid Uí Chonaill Uachtarach so that’s where I started. They gave me a number to call in the evening, since day-shift drivers drop off lost property on their way home. Back at the taxi rank, I asked cabbies who had radios to put out the word for their fellow drivers, and some did, but after that there was nothing to do but wait. All day.
What to do? Museums no longer appealed; I could only think about how much of my life was in that bag and how abysmally stupid I’d been, worrying about the umbrella (£10) and not the iPad ($700+) or the notebook (irreplaceable).
And how did this happen? Having left a hat in a Kiev taxi and a phone in a taxi in Lisbon, my husband always checks the back seat before he even pays a driver, and he hadn’t seen my bag. It was a mystery.
He went to work, and I went to St Patrick’s cathedral to sit in a quiet corner and recover, but construction noise drove me out. I bought a couple of books at Hodges Figgis, Ireland’s biggest bookshop; I’d had a huge library on the iPad, and had been halfway through Bleak House. I bought a new notebook and sat scribbling in a café, trying to remember everything that was in the old one. Hopeless.
Back at the hotel, the receptionist entered my sad tale by hand into the lost-property ledger (yes, a big book, not a database), after first asking whether I had a taxi receipt. I considered phoning cab companies until I saw how many there were; per person Dublin has 10 times as many taxis as London. The switchboard at the Carriage Office asked me if I had a receipt and then told me they no longer handle lost property (US: lost-and-found), helpfully adding that I didn’t have to worry about the driver keeping the bag—I hadn’t been—but about whether another passenger would find it—which had been my main worry all day. How kind of her to remind me. I had to hope that even a passenger who rather fancied a new iPad would at least turn in (UK: hand in) the notebook.
I called the number the Garda had given me and the duty officer asked (altogether now) “Did you get a receipt?”, and told me that her office didn’t do lost property; I must go to my nearest Garda station in person. Hotel staff gave me (wrong) directions to the Garda station, but I found it eventually.
I told my story there, ending with “And no, I didn’t get a receipt”, and then things began to look up, because the Gard on duty took on my case as if it were her mission in life, and I will be forever grateful. I gather she was supposed to tell me to go check with the five Garda stations in Dublin that handle lost property, but instead she rang them all herself. No luck. She asked me all about the place, the time, the circumstances. Would I recognize the car? Er, no. Would I recognize the driver? Yes. She arranged with the hotel to get the security camera footage from the front door; I was to come back in the morning to view it with the officer to try to identify the taxi.
Meanwhile, across town, somebody else left his phone in the taxi he took to the airport, and a radio call went out asking cabbies to look for it. John, who’d just been to the airport, looked for the phone and found a little black bag under the drivers seat. He took it all the way out to the guy at the airport, where he found it wasn’t a phone at all.
So John opened the iPad and found a photo of my husband, taken when I bought the thing, just to try out its built-in camera. And he was flabbergasted, because he recognized my husband from way back that morning; he’d driven all kinds of people, all day, with the bag under his seat. It was black, like the carpet, and he might not have noticed it for months without a reason to look.
He found my name and phone number in what he called my “copybook”. I hadn’t included anything to show what country to call, but John (blessings upon him) remembered we’d said we were from England, added the right country code, dialed our house, and got our answering machine. But the outgoing message mentions my editing business, and he thought he’d reached “a print shop or something”, so he figured there was a mistake in the number, or it was old. (He doesn’t use email, and my mobile/cell phone number never rang.) (Note to self: change cell phone provider. Have already changed outgoing message.)
But John (may he live long) wasn’t through. Having recognized us, he knew pretty much where we’d hailed him, so he rang hotels in that neighborhood until he found us, and left a message. He didn’t find me by my name from the notebook; he found some old boarding passes tucked into the back which gave my husband’s surname (we each have our own), and found him. Unfortunately, the hotel didn’t give us the message, so while I was chewing my nails, John was wondering why nobody returned his call. Had the hotel given us the message, I’d’ve gotten a lot more sleep, and I wouldn’t have jumped up in a panic at 5 a.m. to spend an hour on my husband’s laptop changing all my passwords.
At 7:00 a.m. the phone rang and I heard “This is John, the taxi driver. I have your iPad here.” He was near the hotel and could be there in 5 minutes. I was downstairs in 5 minutes to meet him
He said that if he hadn’t found us at a hotel, his next stop would have been the Dublin Institute of Technology because he remembered my husband talking about working there. (Note to self: Always get the taxi with the driver who’s got a memory like an elephant’s.)
So I gave him enough euros—paper ones are easier to count—to cover (handily) the cost of his fruitless trip to the airport, hugged him, got his address, and promised that Father Christmas would remember him this December. I stood down the Garda and took a bouquet of tulips to the friendly officer who thought of requesting the CCTV. Somebody ought to put John and that Gard on a television commercial/telly advert for the wonderful people you’ll meet on a vacation/holiday in Ireland.
I’ve now fixed the iPad so that when you turn it on, it gives complete information for how to contact me, though I doubt that I’ll ever lose it again. And I’m certain I’ll never forget where I was on 11/11/11 11:11.
*craic means entertainment, fun, a good time.
(Photos without credits are mine or are from Wikipedia and used under the Creative Commons license.)