There must be something about airports that turns two otherwise functional, rational human beings into sleep-deprived, irrational versions of themselves! The night before the flight I set my alarm but wake up every hour to ensure I don’t oversleep. I’ve set it for a time that technically counts as ‘morning’ but only if I’m a dairy farmer or doing the milk rounds. This is because we have been advised to get to the airport three hours before the plane is due to take off. It’s take off time is 8:00 am.
The taxi is booked. My husband’s suitcase is already closed and weighed. I still have to pack my face creams and makeup so I need an extra half an hour to catch up. Travelling in my golden years was always going to be a relaxing pastime. I never factored in getting up at the crack of dawn to hear my husband muttering ‘This is ridiculous. There is absolutely no need to get to the airport three hours early to fly to Spain! Wake me up five minutes before the taxi’s due.’
Getting into the taxi after my last frenetic check of doors and windows, we wait for the usual ‘Have you got your passports?’ from the taxi driver. There is no response from my husband, who should have them in his bag, so I pass on the query. The look I receive says it all! ‘Yes,’ I reply cheerfully, ‘we’re ready to go’.
Arriving at the drop off zone the taxi driver pulls into a space, jumps out of the car, opens the boot and has most of the luggage out before we’ve even alighted. ‘We only have an allotted time to stay here before the cost escalates’ he reminds us as my husband is going through all the compartments in his man bag trying to find his wallet. ‘It’s in here somewhere’ he mutters as the taxi driver checks his watch again. Finally, taxi paid and bags gathered up, we make for the entrance.
Once inside the terminal, after wandering up and down to find our airline check in, we encounter the queue. The kind of queue that makes me wonder if we’ll ever get to the other side. ‘This,’ declares my husband who has morphed into ‘Victor Meldrew’, ‘is why sensible people don’t use this airport or prefer not to fly! Airports are a nightmare!’
The bag drop off is like a school exam. Everyone looks as if they know what they’re doing but most of them just wing it before calling an assistant. Walking up to the machine that expects you to register your passport, agree the flight number, then you must solemnly promise that you’ve packed and approved everything in your suitcase, before it will spit out your luggage ticket. Then it’s time to join another queue. When our suitcases finally trundle away on the belt, I feel like giving them a wave, wishing them the best of luck and hoping that we’ll get to see them soon.
Then we head for security where any remaining excitement goes to die!
Nothing brings out the irritation and sarcasm in ‘Victor’ like a long line snaking along at the speed of erosion! When we finally reach the trays I hear my husband mutter’ Oh great! Shoes off, belt off, jacket off, watch off, wonder why we don’t all just go through in our underwear!’ The cabin bags are placed on the conveyor belt and our trays filled before we head for the x-ray scanner.
This time it’s my tray that does a detour into the dark side where it’s selected for inspection. The first time ever because I am so careful. I had packed a plastic tub with my cereal, nuts, yoghurt and a drop of milk to eat at the airport. I never imagined that it would be deemed a weapon of mass destruction and have to be closely examined and potentially confiscated! I was asked to open the offending tub which is held aloft and taken to the manager for a second opinion. It’s then sent back through the scanner before given to me with a warning that it contained an unknown quantity of liquid. I’ll not do that again!
Finally, an hour later, we are once more fully clothed and heading through the Duty Free shops to find seats to while away one and a half hours before the boarding gate number is announced. Out come the phones, iPad, tablet and puzzles and, with a warm drink, manage to occupy us for an hour.
The last half an hour before the gate is announced feels less like thirty minutes and more like a small lifetime. Even the tricky crosswords are finished so the pair of us are staring at the departure board as though sheer willpower will divulge the state secret of our gate number and we can move on. We’re tired, frazzled and getting on each other’s nerves. And so we wait, marooned in airport limbo, where time stands still and the tannoy never shuts up!
Finally the gate number miraculously appears and we weave our way past zombie travellers until we reach our required gate, at the opposite end of the airport. Of course, reaching the gate doesn’t mean boarding the plane! We make our way to the small queue beginning to gather, proudly holding our boarding pass neatly tucked into our passport as we are in Group A. We’d be boarding the plane first! But no, deluded that Group A actually means something as we were in row 5, we never realised, in the joke that is airport logic, Group A means that we board the plane last!
We watch as all the other groups surge past us with mountains of cabin luggage, each determined to occupy an entire overhead locker on their own! With every bulging suit case or rucksack that waddles past us we become more annoyed and convinced that we’ll have to sit with our luggage on our laps!
But somehow, by miracle, luck or sheer determination, we eventually walk down the bridge, find the last overhead space and collapse into our seats. We buckle in as the engines roar into life. The air hostess launches herself into the safety briefing with cheerful optimism while I sit, glassy eyed, unable to concentrate.
Finally we’re airborne, leaving behind the queues and the chaos. At last the holiday can begin. We can relax for a few hours until we reach Spain and the airport nightmare starts all over again.👠
Jenny Burrell 