I find myself at an airport, one of several in the next couple of weeks, I’m not quite as much of a travel bunny as some of my friends, but I’m off to Gatwick now, back to TFS, TFN to Arrecifie, then Fuerteventura, Las Palmas and TFS.  With numerous taxis, a yacht and a ferry somewhere in between.  By which time I hope to have a Cruising Instructor licence to sit alongside my Yachtmaster Offshore.

I don’t mind airports, the anticipation of being somewhere different in just a matter of hours offsets all the queues and stupid people you inevitably encounter: not airport staff, they generally understand what’s going on, it’s the clientele – people leaving London, for instance, who still don’t understand which side of the escalator is for standing.  And, of course, it’s totally acceptable to have airport wine no matter the time of day (unless you have to drive imminently) (or sail).  Transfers on long haul can also be fun, you’re in a weird limbo and it could be any time of day or night – usually a bit of both if you’re traversing time zones – so it’s a bit like being stuck in Ikea, but with bars.  Alcohol bars, not window bars, although they may as well, you’re not going anywhere!

There’s also the fact that so many people are thrown and trapped together in one place, with rules, which some obey to the letter and others breach frivolously.  I am somewhere on the fence.  I check in online before I arrive and accept the middle seat if that’s where the algorithm lands me, I don’t break the carry-on restriction, and I take my shoes off before going through the scanner.  And only once have I taken my own booze to drink on a plane*.

I don’t believe in getting to the airport three hours before a flight and I don’t trust them when they say that the flight is boarding, that clearly just means it’s time to go to the gate, via WHSmiths and Boots.  Because there’s always stuff to purchase at the airport.  Especially if you’re expat, there’s a certain need for more painkillers, antihistamine, suncream, and the ubiquitous trashy magazines which are four times the price abroad, plus Pellegrino and snacks for the plane…..

Of course there are too many people, lots of whom are there far too early and just milling around in the way.  Sometimes I overhear people on the inter terminal shuttle at Gatwick at 6am discussing the next four hours they’re going to spend at the airport; and I want to ask why they aren’t still in bed.  Surely there’s no need to require more than one glass of airport wine, and once you’ve done WHSmiths and Boots – and perhaps Accessorize for flipflops or pyjamas – there’s nothing left to do…..

Perhaps have a second glass of airport wine before you trot to the gate at a pace slightly quicker than a fast walk?

This could be why I have, possibly more than once, been on the receiving end of a name-and-shame final call.  But not today; today I have not been distracted, I’m obeying the gate instructions and I’m officially off to Gatwick. 

See you on the other side!

~~~~~

*This was after the mugging incident and I’d researched the in-flight wine prices for my particular airline, and discovered I didn’t have enough cash (and no bank cards) with which to purchase a glass of wine onboard, so I spent my last euros and cents on a vino at the airport and smuggled it on in my handbag.  However, disaster, Portuguese mini bottles have a cork, not a screwtop!  I couldn’t even drink my smuggled on wine.  The disappointment was spotted by the lady sat next to me, and she kept me in wine for the flight back to London.  This actually reminds me of the blog I posted previously; I wonder if she ever thinks of me, the lost soul she comforted on a flight back from Faro after the August bank holiday in 2014. 

Thank you, lady, I promise I’ll pass it on one day.