Embarrassing luggage

October 29, 2009

Just before leaving for the airport in the morning I managed to finally reconcile hours of indecision
about how many clothes to stuff into my suitcase for a 7-day trip to what was forecast to be a warm Andalusia. And I did so by packing enough for 14 days in the Arctic. Whatever happened to those days past when I would set off south on a whim with a hickory stick over my shoulder and a polka-dot hankie wrapped around the end, a few necessities for the care-free travelling man poked inside? Yet I have a photograph, and here it is on the left, of me packing just a small holdall for a trip to Lebanon in the 70s, no laptop, no Blackberry, no Zen video player, no camera, cards and battery packs, no mobile phone, no electric toothbrush, chargers, batteries, books, mags - I probably didn't even have a jacket to pack back then.

Punishment came later that day in Spain, as we failed, again, to find the hotel in Jimena de la Frontera despite my confident assurances that I remembered every tight little turn, every impossibly narrow one-way street, and I ended up, again, having to drag an extremely fat and heavy suitcase across the village square and up and down through the back streets of the village. The suitcase clattered loudly and embarrassingly on the cobbled stones, echoing among the narrow corridor of whitewashed houses with their wrought iron balconies and bay window grills, causing a few bored locals to open the shutters on the upstairs windows and look down, shaking their heads and chuckling. This was the most fun they'd had since the corrida of 2007 and the inexplicably cruel, and I kid you not, "See whose donkey can carry the heaviest weight" contest that marred the opening of the festival for us.

Click here for my Flickr photos of Andalusia

Forking out

October 29, 2009

Hanging around at Birmingham Airport, so I ordered coffee at Costa. "Chocolate sprinkled on your cappuccino sir?", asked the averagely-friendly barista. "No thanks", I replied, clearly. So he liberally sprinkled chocolate on the cappuccino. A fun moment illustrating human foibles. But the fun was just starting - try walking sensibly to a seat with your coffee cup balanced on one of those stupid saucers that only Costa use - the ones where the centre ring of the saucer is placed off-centre, leaving enough room for a baby-sized cake on one side but making the whole thing frighteningly lopsided.

On board I quickly remembered that these "cheap" flights are an opportunity for the airline to sell like crazy to a captive audience: a bacon baguette, announced the stewardess, "is priced at" £3.70, a hot drink "is priced at" £5. The wording seems to imply that the price is open to negotiation, "We've selected a cheekily high amount, feel free to come in lower".




The great news was that the too-loud-for-so-early-in-the-morning fancy-dress stag party group was on a different flight. The only baby was two rows ahead, bordering on dangerously too close if it started to bawl. But I was equipped with noise-cancelling headphones, earplugs and a grumpy glare - that was bound to do the trick.

British people seem quite attached to their notion of good coffee being a spoonful of instant powder plus luke-warm water added. And they are willing to pay £5 for it, served in a paper cup on board the plane. Virgin Trains are cheeky enough to serve this gruel, too.

I can't believe what airline passengers stuff down their throats as soon as the food and drinks trolley comes round. White wine at 10 am? I mean, really, are they all alcoholics suddenly? Sadly, yes.

I was getting sleepy, but I knew that I mustn't fall asleep - who would be there to fly the plane, to make sure the captain and flight deck crew are paying attention and not undergoing an "interpersonal communication failure experience"?

So I remained on full alert. Should I close the "worried a bit about flying" file I had open in my mind and open the "gosh, isn't technology marvellous" one instead?

Fear of the Web
The night before we left I discovered a number of websites which made me aware of a threat to my safety I would rather have known nothing of: Europe's most viciously aggressive funnel web spider which, to my total discomfort, turns out to be found predominantly in the Nature Park where we hike, Alcornocales, living under the rocks and in fallen logs, those very rocks and logs where we used to plonk down our gear and stretch out to rest and eat. No more.

Click here for my Flickr photos of Andalusia

On-Board Entertainment

October 29, 2009

As the plane drones on, cutting its way through the blue stratosphere, the announcements from the cockpit are soft and a little tinny. Those from the eager salesperson/flight attendant are, by contrast, very loud and far too clear, waking a few sleepers up with a start. "Ladies and gentlemen, xmas is just around the corner and you can purchase xmas gifts from us here on board at high street price, to spread a little cheer". It's October 29.

Swiftly the sales assistant cum flight attendant moves on to the lottery ticket sales, then the charity appeal, then the cigarettes and perfumes. Never a dull moment on board, meaning I don't get an opportunity to sleep. And that's good, because I don't want to put the pilot in the position of trying to prove he can fly the plane without me.

What do you know? I was right about the lottery and the Children's Charity cards! We've got you here, and we're going to unleash an onslaught of high-pressure sales routines onto your captive heads. What could be next, I wonder? A "guess the weight of the fattest person on board the plane and win a creamy bun" competition?

And it's quite a tatty plane, too. From my new vantage point over the wing (I crept into a row of empty seats) I can see all the dirty indications of a plane that's been put to a lot of hard use over years, groaning with the weight of overstuffed, wine-quaffing tourists. Include me out, because I am smugly eating a home-grown apple. I like to think, rather snottily, that I am making a statement against the excess of my fellows on board.



Many of the passengers live in Spain, something you can easily tell by their permanently lobster-red faces, and their easy conversations with each other that contain a smattering of Spanish terms. They have a slightly disinterested manner, as if to say:
"Look, I've been doing this flight many times a year", and their appearance suggests: "I maintain wardrobes of casual clothes both in the UK and Spain, hence I am dressed
for the beach already". And what a fashion statement that is - pink kneecaps peeking out from below tight shorts stretched to bursting around copious beer bellies. And that's just the women.

I love the way passengers gingerly feel their way to the toilet door, slightly hunched, tippy-toeing so as not to attract too much attention to themselves, although they know this is their big moment -"You're on, love!" and as if afraid they will open the wrong door and a lot of brooms and saucepans will come crashing out and embarrass them. And as they come out they kind of stride down the gangway quickly, as if to say "I didn't just do something unmentionable in there, you can be sure of that". Or with a slightly arrogant "I dare you to look at me and embarrass me as a result" glare. This is a very interesting flight indeed.

Oh no - disaster! The woman to my left has decided it's perfectly ok and fully in keeping with in-flight etiquette to take her shoes off and let her sweaty feet have an airing. Once in a hot and humid cinema in Munich a woman placed her bare feet either side of my seat in front of her, wriggling her toes to let an imagined cool breeze clear out the dankness. Of course I complained - at one point the feet were on the back of my seat at neck level (I'm short). And she actually argued her corner, and claimed I was being too sensitive and she had a right to .... etc. I dragged her by the scruff of her neck and threw her out the cinema, dusting off my hands like in a cartoon. Of course, I didn't throw her out. But someone should have.

Now passengers around me are shutting down the window blinds, throwing us into darkness, as if recovering from an exhausting night shift. Five minutes on board and they act like their body clocks have gone haywire. You may have a window seat, old chum, but that brings with it many responsibilities. One of which is to politely ask your fellows: "Do you mind if I ...?" to which I could reply, "Well, yes I do, actually."

There are many seats free on the flight so I take myself off and claim a row for myself. Many passengers are crammed in their tight rows of three seats, yet no-one seems to want to claim more space - maybe they think they're not entitled to. Maybe they're simply not fidgety and fussy? Maybe, as it turned out, they knew something I didn't ...

Scolded - but still all smiles...

October 29, 2009

A smooth flight, slightly spoiled by the pettiness of one snappy air stewardess. I apparently have had the audacity to spend 10 minutes in a window seat by the exit at the very end of the flight - thereby cheating the company out of a few valuable pounds, "You can't just go and sit in any seat you like, you know", she scolds. And her shrill tone and unnecessary volume makes sure everyone on board gets to hear. For a moment I imagine all the passengers will rise as one to defend The Customer, but a quick glance round shows me they are cowering in their seats, looking out the window.
"People pay a premium for those seats" she barked and yelped.
Well, obviously not, for they were all empty.
Victory to The People.

Now we're walking past the smiling immigration policeman (UK border control staff take note) out into the beige and brown of Malaga airport.



And even as we wait among the noise of the taxis and buses out front for the courtesy bus to take us to malagacarhire.com offices we know this is going to be a fabulous trip. Smiles all round while I snap a photo of my wife against the brown plate glass windows of the airport lounge as we wait in the queue.