There she was again. About half a dozen people behind him in the passport queue, snaked back around the partition. Had she noticed him? Should he try and catch her eye? He turned his eyes back to his book and shuffled forwards again, smiling at the old lady in front. They had exchanged a few words when her husband was allowed out of the longer queue to pass through the empty gateway reserved for those with new electronic passports. “Just make sure he doesn’t get on the wrong flight now,” he'd told the lady. “It’s ok, I have his tickets. He can't go anywhere,” she said.
Now he glanced back over his shoulder at her again, she was looking away.
“Maybe see you on the flight back,” she had said when the taxi dropped him off a week ago. They’d shared a cab because no buses were forthcoming. Her friend was going to take an earlier return flight, she’d said, so now she was travelling alone. He didn’t find her attractive but she’d appeared clever and chatty a week ago, she was around his age, and he’d barely conversed with anyone for a week, not properly.
He shuffled forwards again, the old lady in front was beckoned to have her passport checked, before passing through to the gate. He resigned the pretence of reading the heavy book, and waited.
For fifteen minutes he sat under a small television screen with his laptop, half watching football highlights, half checking his emails, surprised there was a free connection in the lounge next to the runway.
Realising he was still quite alone and the seats around him hadn't filled with other waiting passengers, he checked over his shoulder. Fellow passengers were already queuing for the door, staff were tearing ticket stubs and people were slowly trickling out onto exposed concrete, towards the metal vessel. Still the queue back into the lounge was bottle-necked, a mess of fifty or so people straggled back out. Seats near the line were occupied by those apparently unfussed about the choice positions aboard the aircraft. He had wanted a window seat for the return flight but this now seemed unlikely. He slumped down onto a seat and waited for the clot of people to thin out.
She was sitting on a seat backing onto his. “Oh, hello,” he said, genuinely surprised because he hadn't noticed her when he'd decided to sit. “Hi!” she smiled, though she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to. She wore wooden jewellery – earrings and a necklace. He didn’t know what he thought of it. Ikea?
They exchanged the story of their week, fast-paced and generally positive. He grew giddy with freely speaking to another person, aware of speaking unnecessarily fast, blurting. He slowed and let her speak. He noticed she was reading a chunky serious book he’d also read and would comment on, if time and circumstance allowed.
They kept chatting: the holiday, areas of the island, walking, the day when it rained, tourism, travel, vehicles, motorbikes, driving. This took them through the door and out onto the runway where the plane waited. They took the rear staircase into the aircraft, had their ticket stubs checked a final time and looked for seats in the mostly full plane. There weren’t two together anywhere, even across an aisle. She took an aisle seat; he found a window seat further down with extra leg room, sandwiched between an emergency exit and an old couple.
*
The aircraft came to a halt at its destination terminal and the aisle seated passengers lumbered out first, unlatching the overhead compartments to withdraw their hand luggage. They stood waiting while the window-seated sat waiting, and the middle-seated hovered half up, half down, waiting.
He saw her standing waiting further back. They exchanged brave, tired smiles.
During the flight he’d considered giving her a business card. Her line of work wasn’t far removed from his. He had clients like her employers. He had no other ulterior motives, although if she did, would he be averse..? She was bright and interesting. He often wondered if he could convince himself to do that, compromise on physical attraction, block it out and pretend it wasn’t an issue if there wasn't any, as long as someone, one reasonable enough person liked him. If he could go through the motions because it was better than continued, protracted, maddening solitariness. Perhaps he could do it, for a while.
Finally at the aisle, he turned to collect his bulky hand luggage from the overhead locker. Just out of grasp, it was slid in his direction by a fellow passenger: the nervous looking young man who he’d almost dropped the bag on when hoisting it into the locker before take-off. He’d put an apologetic hand on his shoulder and said that he thought he’d distract him from any fear of flying. People around them had laughed. There was a warm buzz. He felt briefly liked.
Now standing in the aisle with his bag, he realised that he was about half a dozen people in front of her again. Would he stop somewhere and give her his card, mention business, 'if your employer needs..?' He paced down the aircraft, down the steps, across the new exposed concrete, into a door and on down the long connecting corridors. He felt free and fast, unshackled by too much trailing hand luggage, children, babies or companions to keep pace with. Finally he was halted by the final passport control.
It wasn’t long before she joined the same queue, snaked about half a dozen people behind. Another exchange of tossed eyebrows; this whole passport nonsense eh?
He was summoned, boredly checked and waved through.
Having no other luggage to arrive on the carousels, there was nothing stopping him from walking out and away. But he paused, waited to see if she’d enter the baggage area soon. She wasn’t that far behind, after all, only six people or so. He waited for ten more seconds, gave up and passed under the Nothing To Declare sign.
Thursday 28 October 2010
Thursday 21 October 2010
getting away
I solemnly kicked the tyre one last time and told it not to be flat when I returned. It rested snug and full on the gravelly airport car park, but at half past eleven the following Monday night I did not want to be calling roadside rescue. On discovering the flat tyre, a neighbour had loaned a fancy electric pump, I had pumped the tyre, and despite parking it a short limp away from the closest garage overnight, pumped it had stayed. By not reporting the previous evening’s finding to a garage, it was a possibility I was gambling with and an outcome for which I should be prepared.
In the litany of queues which led to the aircraft, in front of me was an unnecessarily urgent, twitchy woman, the air of spinster about her, but with a man her age; and an elegant, attractive, solo-travelling woman was at my rear. I knew which I preferred to be sitting next to, and which not.
As it turned out, it was neither. By the time I boarded the sleasyjet budget flight, only aisle seats remained. I plonked myself next to an affluent looking couple and, specifically, a man with a boastfully loud voice and proud collar and tie. I was sure to give him no encouragement at all to speak to me, nodding a polite hello before opening a book.
The book was David Mitchell’s latest, highly rated, booker nominated effort. Only a short way in, I was struggling and disappointed with it. Little was going in. Half way through the flight I swapped it with Tom Perrotta’s debut (awful cover), which I’d picked up cheaply a couple of months earlier. As predicted, it was an easier read.
A sense of traveling inside a flying television advert was transmitted through most of the journey; that relentless cajoling of Stewards and Stewardesses to buy unnecessary and overpriced items. I’d never heard the term ‘ad-funded’ applied to flights, but saw no reason why it wasn’t. It seemed equally as applicable here as everywhere else. I wanted them all to leave me alone, yet there were folk like the affluent, proud but airy couple next to me who appeared to buy almost every time. Drinks, snacks, lottery tickets. “You’ll buy anything, won’t you?” I cheerfully commented to my neighbour at one point. Not sure he was too pleased.
The other surprising source of amusement was a generally well behaved eighteen month old. Confident, loved an audience, did little short of marching up and down the aisle towards the end, introducing herself and waiting to be cooed at – which she predictably was. I saw her father donate her mother his iPhone across the aisle, and attempt to entertain her with.. photographs (photographs?) – apparently unaware of the glut of iPhone applications which cater to tots. I donated my iPod, pointing out the Wheels On The Bus app. This was gratefully accepted and kept the infant entertained for a good half an hour. Further tips were given to mother and father when the plane came to a halt.
My hefty sports holdall had survived the crate size test without too much of a squeeze at departure, so had been allowed aboard as hand luggage, much to the surprise of my neighbour when I swapped Mitchell for Perrotta. “However did you get that on as hand luggage? It’s massive!”
This allowed me what would’ve been a quicker exit, had it not been for my need to buy a plug adapter, forgotten twice earlier in the day, and the need to rehydrate – having spurned all offers of heinously priced sleasydrinks.
Once this was done I exited the building and broached a hazy, sticky evening. No buses or commercial bus stops were quickly evident. I saw the two plain girls who’d been sitting around me on the plane inspecting a solitary signpost. “Have we figured it out yet then?” I asked as I approached. They turned round, smiling and human. One of them was half Portuguese so spoke the lingo. She also dressed like an old lady, a cardigan done up to the neck. We agreed to share a cab into town. During the twenty-minute ride I chatted with the other one in the back, a London born software engineer. Smart, well-travelled, interesting, not quite as plain as her friend. There was the unspoken potential of swapping details and meeting up while we were both in the area, and I was clearly alone. I considered offering a card but didn’t. We settled up the fare at a narrow old street which the cab driver assured me led to my hotel. “Maybe we’ll see you on the flight back!” one of them said. I nodded maybe, waved and clunked the door shut, before embarking on yet another frantic inventory-check of pockets. I had everything, yes, didn’t I? Yes. I had everything. They drove on.
The cab driver was correct; it was an easy, short walk. I was greeted by a plump, professional native receptionist with huge breasts and a low cut top. All that quite necessary leaning over the desk at forms was rather traumatising, the dark lolloping parting staring me out. Paperwork completed with the minimum of fuss, she handed me a key to Room 101. I knew a few people who might put me there.
Room 101 turned out to be rather better than just one room of bad, wrong things cast into oblivion for all of time. A large, high-ceilinged, ensuite bedroom adjoined a separate kitchen and living space, enabling me to cook from my paltry canon of meals and keep a reasonable amount of food. This cheered me, although this was tempered by finding that the power-points failed to match the adapter I’d bought in the airport.
However, that provided the next exchange of note. After a small grocery shop at a nearby supermarket I asked the checkout girl who was dutifully packing my bags for me. A short girl with a pretty cherub’s face, she somehow immediately knew my nationality and spoke to me in perfect English. I explained the plug dilemma and she wanted to help so much I was almost compelled to hug her. I said that I’d looked in the appropriate aisle but I didn’t see one, so not to worry. She seemed sure there were and, as there were no other customers, we walked back over. She was crestfallen to find there were none. I was sad and touched that she was so sad for me and I wanted to take her home. The customer service difference compared to back home bludgeoned me over the head with a baseball bat.
Zigzagging back through the muggy damp, hue-moistened streets to my apartment, I was stopped. “Eh, Amigo,” the handsome young guy of a handsome young couple said to me, before opening a map to consult. “Ai! Ingles, desculpe!” I shook my head, he tutted and shook his; his cute girlfriend smiled and we walked our separate ways, me floating lightly on the perverse thrill of being taken for a local here of all places, where most people are tanned and beautiful.
In the litany of queues which led to the aircraft, in front of me was an unnecessarily urgent, twitchy woman, the air of spinster about her, but with a man her age; and an elegant, attractive, solo-travelling woman was at my rear. I knew which I preferred to be sitting next to, and which not.
As it turned out, it was neither. By the time I boarded the sleasyjet budget flight, only aisle seats remained. I plonked myself next to an affluent looking couple and, specifically, a man with a boastfully loud voice and proud collar and tie. I was sure to give him no encouragement at all to speak to me, nodding a polite hello before opening a book.
The book was David Mitchell’s latest, highly rated, booker nominated effort. Only a short way in, I was struggling and disappointed with it. Little was going in. Half way through the flight I swapped it with Tom Perrotta’s debut (awful cover), which I’d picked up cheaply a couple of months earlier. As predicted, it was an easier read.
A sense of traveling inside a flying television advert was transmitted through most of the journey; that relentless cajoling of Stewards and Stewardesses to buy unnecessary and overpriced items. I’d never heard the term ‘ad-funded’ applied to flights, but saw no reason why it wasn’t. It seemed equally as applicable here as everywhere else. I wanted them all to leave me alone, yet there were folk like the affluent, proud but airy couple next to me who appeared to buy almost every time. Drinks, snacks, lottery tickets. “You’ll buy anything, won’t you?” I cheerfully commented to my neighbour at one point. Not sure he was too pleased.
The other surprising source of amusement was a generally well behaved eighteen month old. Confident, loved an audience, did little short of marching up and down the aisle towards the end, introducing herself and waiting to be cooed at – which she predictably was. I saw her father donate her mother his iPhone across the aisle, and attempt to entertain her with.. photographs (photographs?) – apparently unaware of the glut of iPhone applications which cater to tots. I donated my iPod, pointing out the Wheels On The Bus app. This was gratefully accepted and kept the infant entertained for a good half an hour. Further tips were given to mother and father when the plane came to a halt.
My hefty sports holdall had survived the crate size test without too much of a squeeze at departure, so had been allowed aboard as hand luggage, much to the surprise of my neighbour when I swapped Mitchell for Perrotta. “However did you get that on as hand luggage? It’s massive!”
This allowed me what would’ve been a quicker exit, had it not been for my need to buy a plug adapter, forgotten twice earlier in the day, and the need to rehydrate – having spurned all offers of heinously priced sleasydrinks.
Once this was done I exited the building and broached a hazy, sticky evening. No buses or commercial bus stops were quickly evident. I saw the two plain girls who’d been sitting around me on the plane inspecting a solitary signpost. “Have we figured it out yet then?” I asked as I approached. They turned round, smiling and human. One of them was half Portuguese so spoke the lingo. She also dressed like an old lady, a cardigan done up to the neck. We agreed to share a cab into town. During the twenty-minute ride I chatted with the other one in the back, a London born software engineer. Smart, well-travelled, interesting, not quite as plain as her friend. There was the unspoken potential of swapping details and meeting up while we were both in the area, and I was clearly alone. I considered offering a card but didn’t. We settled up the fare at a narrow old street which the cab driver assured me led to my hotel. “Maybe we’ll see you on the flight back!” one of them said. I nodded maybe, waved and clunked the door shut, before embarking on yet another frantic inventory-check of pockets. I had everything, yes, didn’t I? Yes. I had everything. They drove on.
The cab driver was correct; it was an easy, short walk. I was greeted by a plump, professional native receptionist with huge breasts and a low cut top. All that quite necessary leaning over the desk at forms was rather traumatising, the dark lolloping parting staring me out. Paperwork completed with the minimum of fuss, she handed me a key to Room 101. I knew a few people who might put me there.
Room 101 turned out to be rather better than just one room of bad, wrong things cast into oblivion for all of time. A large, high-ceilinged, ensuite bedroom adjoined a separate kitchen and living space, enabling me to cook from my paltry canon of meals and keep a reasonable amount of food. This cheered me, although this was tempered by finding that the power-points failed to match the adapter I’d bought in the airport.
However, that provided the next exchange of note. After a small grocery shop at a nearby supermarket I asked the checkout girl who was dutifully packing my bags for me. A short girl with a pretty cherub’s face, she somehow immediately knew my nationality and spoke to me in perfect English. I explained the plug dilemma and she wanted to help so much I was almost compelled to hug her. I said that I’d looked in the appropriate aisle but I didn’t see one, so not to worry. She seemed sure there were and, as there were no other customers, we walked back over. She was crestfallen to find there were none. I was sad and touched that she was so sad for me and I wanted to take her home. The customer service difference compared to back home bludgeoned me over the head with a baseball bat.
Zigzagging back through the muggy damp, hue-moistened streets to my apartment, I was stopped. “Eh, Amigo,” the handsome young guy of a handsome young couple said to me, before opening a map to consult. “Ai! Ingles, desculpe!” I shook my head, he tutted and shook his; his cute girlfriend smiled and we walked our separate ways, me floating lightly on the perverse thrill of being taken for a local here of all places, where most people are tanned and beautiful.
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