A Box Full Of Cutlery - The Journey to Abu Dhabi

Growing up, I never spent too much time away from my family. Even though I went to a boarding school for four years I went home every weekend, and after the first year another brother from the Thorne-men conveyor belt joined me. Before I joined Etihad, the longest I had spent without seeing a single member of my family was the three weeks I had spent in Seoul, and that had been with my girlfriend. Etihad would be the first time I was truly out on my own, without a familiar face. This is how my first bout of homesickness came about.

I never really get excited about journeys until I set out on them. This is an endless source of frustration to friends and relations “James!”, they cry, “why aren't you grinning and clapping your hands like a drugged-up seal!? You're going to the other side of the world/coming to see me/starting a new career on a new continent!” My go-to answer – that it never really hits me until I step into the airport, sometimes until I board the plane, that I'm about to do something fun – never satisfies them. Unfortunately, it's true. Much in the same way that I can rarely remember what I had for breakfast, all the pushing and shoving of the immediate future, such as what to have for dinner, tend to leave the distant and not-so-distant future bruised and battered by the wayside. After all the blood, sweat, tears, PTSD and tears of the application process, the business of flying to the desert my dearly-departed granda referred to as “Yabby-Dabby” seemed as far off as, well, Yabby-Dabby. Something always seemed to come up to distract me, whether it was a visit to a different, more North African desert with my girlfriend or the latest round of gossip and hearsay at the cinema. Sure, I had to pack my bags (an aside: bring more family photos and books than you think you'll need), but it still felt very far away. At least until my tickets arrived.

As I waved a final goodbye to my parents and stepped through the one-way doors at Terminal 2, it occurred to me at last that I was setting off on a completely unexpected adventure. While I always expected to live abroad at some point I never imagined it quite like this. Though I wasn't the first and definitely wouldn't be the last Irish person to get on a plane with a one-way ticket off of the 'Aul Sod, I felt like there probably was very few of us who were off to serve drinks at 35,000 feet. One of the few lads anyway. I had one last pint of Smithwicks and headed off to the gate, where I realised I had been bumped up to business! Though my desire to take full advantage of the amenities was tempered by my innate yearning to “not be a bother”, I did take full advantage of the free champagne. After all, without a liquor license I was probably going to be rather thirsty in the desert. Even though the flight went through the night, I couldn't sleep. Excitement, nerves, the fact that even if I fully reclined the seat into a bed it was about three inches too small – who knows why. Perhaps a bit more sleep would have been nice for my first day on a new continent.

Whenever I'm sleep-deprived, I describe myself as feeling “greasy”. Every movement feels like it's taking place in an unwashed frying-pan. I blearily stared at the various queues in Abu Dhabi International Airport, not really sure where to stand. After some trial and error, I realised that I had to go and collect my visa, followed by an eye scan and copy of my fingerprints. Somehow I managed to stay one step ahead of the hordes of Chinese tourists for both the visa queue and the eye scan queue, and when I finally stumbled through immigration I was told by the handsome and helpful Etihad staff that I was the first of the new batch of trainees to get through. Luckily, a girl from Ireland followed quickly after me. She was nice, even if she was from Cavan. We were loaded into a taxi – I had actually packed more stuff than her, and in a lovely inversion of gender roles I had to get help jamming my suitcases into the car – and dumped off at our new home, a collection of high-rise apartment buildings surrounded by a calamity of construction sites and open pieces of desert. After some more trial and error, two words which sum up much of what I do, we found our buildings and headed on into the unknown.

I turned my key in the lock, and following a satisfying click the door opened. Slightly. It had been chained from the inside. Of course. A combination of desperate clawing and shoulder charges popped the chain off, and I was in. Wary of the fact that I had no idea who my roommate was, whether they had just gotten back from a flight or if they knew I was coming, I crept through the apartment. There was a few personal touches around the place; a large pile of shoes, some takeaway menus and, hilariously, a Korean newspaper. I managed to find my room, a good-sized space with a high ceiling and some seriously pimping curtains. A cardboard box, about 4ft tall, sat in the middle of the room. I checked through the list I had been given along with my keys, and began digging through the box. A duvet, pillows, some instant noodles, cereal bars and other quick and easy food. After going through all of it, at the very bottom I found two sets of knives, forks and spoons. Just as I reached them, the call to prayer began to echo off the walls of the surrounding high-rises. I think at that exact moment, with the sun beating down on my box of cutlery and a foreign language ululating through loudspeakers outside my window, I felt more alone and far from home than ever before.

Since then, things have picked up. I actually feel like I'm coming home when I collapse through the front door after a night flight, and those tall white walls have been softened by posters and photos. I even managed to fit an old Turkish prayer mat in my suitcase after my first visit home. Don't worry mum, I'll put it away if any Emiratis come to visit. Next time, I'll talk a little about my basic training. Sorry for anyone expecting more useful information!