My passport has been released from jail.
It has been trapped in my filing cabinet on potential retirement for over two years now. It dusted itself for the Qatar Airways flight to Doha, where the passengers on their way to their final destinations in India and Armenia, decided to pack up most of Target and cram it in six matching suitcases which they then wrapped with clingfilm. An hour later me, my passport and my slimline blue case were told that it was a full flight and there was no hope for the next fifteen hours.
I have wiped these hours from my memory; of being inside what feels like a cardboard tube trying to unsuccessfully find a different way to place your legs and shoulders that would bring comfort. Of climbing over crumpled row mates as you see the red light turn to green on the toilet down the back.
Doha airport. A layover of four hours. A country preparing for the World Cup. Curiously overstaffed by young people in uniforms and ID badges. Security with their walkie talkies. Cleaners with big blue brooms. Shop assistants, selling fast cars and Penhaligon's perfumes. Obviously happy to have a job with suit and polished shoes. An odd oversized bear. Women top to toe in black. Young girls wrapped in bright colours and patterns with racy shoes popping out below. Harrods Tea room, with waiters in green waistcoats offering pots of tea in silver teapots and scones, crumpets and poached eggs on toast.
The Qatar flight from Doha to Capetown was seemingly for me and 49 of my new friends. Just 50 of us on this huge plane. even the crew seemed surprised. " sit wherever you like madam" they said. so I did. all four seats in row 33. stretched out like I was sunbathing. watching George Lazenby and Diana Rigg in " On her Majesty's Secret Service" ( It wasn't his fault, the script wasn't witty and there was too much snow)
I am here now. On solid ground. The discomfort of not knowing whether the time on my orange watch reflects where I started, where I was ending, or just passing through.
Traveling on long flights is an art that begins with having that small case open on your bed and making good choices with white T shirts and just the one sweater. It is all about the small bottles of rose water, the tiny pots of thick night cream, the comb and large hankie to tie round your hair when there is no curl or curve left in it. Not bringing that cut up pear, which, even with lemon juice, ends up brown, squashed and pointless. Borrowing your friends Bose headphones. Changing out of anything restrictive in the underwear line after you have gently requested a better seat at the gate, and getting on the plane. No one should attempt anything in an airplane loo apart from keeping your feet away from patches of unidentified wet on the floor. and, if possible, having done a course in becoming a pretzel. airplane seats, down the affordable end, are not meant for humans with bones. I rest my case. The small blue one. That I had to kneel on to close. I am sure the orange cardigan will come in handy. I am sure.
