Looking Up

Freeway tunnel ahead! Inflate lungs, assemble Iron-man face, and valiantly hold your breath unto the end—or at least longer than your brother.  In the earliest years of my life, we lived in Duluth, where I first learned the art of tunnel-breathing. Or should we say, not-breathing. Tunnels were so much fun. Every time our clunky grey Oldsmobile slipped underneath the tunnel entrances, I felt like I was being swallowed up by a dragon. Inside, the world transformed into a dark race against time, cheered on by those nifty lights on the walls. But the high point of tunnel, of course, was at the end— how soon that glorious burst of sunlight appeared was a key factor in proving who had the best lung capacity. Apparently, this superstitious tunnel not-breathing lasts into adulthood for some. Approximately one month ago, my college choir and I arrived via ferry in the port of Dublin. After we breezed through customs and hopped on a coach bus to head to our hotel, our driver ...