Image care of Estan Cabigas
So another two month single Mother stint begins. Hopefully the last for a long while.
Brad's gone on ahead of us. Back to London. Launching full tilt back into work. Preparing a little bit of financial padding before we arrive in July.
He almost didn't leave, which had nothing to do with the usual culprits like killer hangovers and sleeping in. His plane was grounded for security reasons. It seems someone had left a mobile phone on the plane. These days that's enough set off a full blown security panic and totally screw with a whole plane load of passenger's plans.
Meanwhile, somewhere else, the mobile phone owner was experiencing that sinking moment of realisation and panic whilst pulling apart the contents of his bag.
Brad missed his connecting flight in Dubai and is now pacing the halls of the airport. No doubt cursing the phone dude, but perhaps quietly wondering whether it's his karma after all.
He left his phone at the departure desk during a recent trip. It was 6am, he'd been up drinking all night. It was a predictable outcome. I wonder now if a similar security situation occurred. Whilst he snored and dribbled onto the passenger beside him, back at the airport all hell was breaking loose.
I noticed that a friend had recently joined a new Facebook page entitled something like: Bin Laden is dead, so let me pack my shampoo already!.
Indeed the liquids restriction has been an international travel disaster. I know it came to play in the hope that it would divert a real disaster. But the collective heartache and anger it has caused us travellers could surely create enough force to manifest it's very own large scale natural disaster. I have seen people in tears, fuming with rage as their recently purchased duty free items have been confiscated at security.
When the liquid ban first came down it was a blanket NO LIQUIDS at all. I often wondered what happened to all those full bottles of Channel perfume I'd see lined up behind the x-ray counters at security.
It must have been a lucrative time to be a security officer at an airport. A bit like being a waiter in a fine dining restaurant where the tips are revered. At the end of the shift they all sat around sharing out the days goods.
Later, when the liquids rule changed, it never seemed to be the same set of rules in every country. What was OK in the UK was not the same in Singapore. This surely encouraged the continuation of a whole new black market trade in confiscated goods.
I went to Europe last year and stopped to transit in Bangkok.
Transit: a timeless space, a limbo land. Where sleepy, discombobulated passengers float about in a daze. A large cavernous place that echoes with both silence and chatter all at once. Where an odd energy permeates the air, a mixture of excited anticipation, anxiety and melancholy.
I tend to buy a litre or two of water for the plane ride in whatever airport I am departing. I have learnt now to only ever do this once past security. Pay the premium, but at least board the aircraft with my precious hydrating liquid.
Once off the aircraft in Bangkok, before being herded into the transit area, all passengers must first go through security where the usual 'no water bottles' rule applies. The fact you have clearly just gotten off a plane with that bottle of water in your luggage doesn't seem to count for anything. But rules are rules. What are you going to do? Make a scene? And what time is it anyway?
I found a spot to purchase more agua, a cheap joint on the lower floor away from the Cartier boutiques and overpriced seafood bars. The time was approaching to snap out of the transit fug and find the boarding gate.
As I paced towards the gate I could feel the distance growing between myself and Transit, and with it an increasing sense of direction and purpose. I really had someplace to go. A destination awaited me. Suddenly time was relevant again.
But alas, yet another security check ahead. The Liquids Nazi strikes at the very last hurdle. I was disgruntled to say the least. I pleaded. I disputed. I made a scene.
In that echoing soundless space my rage was palpable and I didn't care. The ridiculousness of it all was infuriating. I threw my unopened water bottle into their clear plastic bags with the most graceful attempt at contempt I could muster.
I realised then why the water was so cheap in that last stop shop. It's recycled. All those misguided travellers. The shop owner has never experienced such a prosperous period of growth in profits.
I've been in transit for a while myself now. Discombobulated, (how cool, I get to use that word twice in the same post) in the beginning at least. But this last year or so certainly in limbo, between places. Seemingly floating, timelessly, through days and weeks. No fixed direction. A friend suggested that perhaps that's just how we all feel after having a few kids. There could be some truth in that.
But I know am going somewhere now. I have a direction. Purpose. I am heading towards that departure lounge with long, steady confident strides. A whole new chapter awaits for us to begin. We are gathering momentum.
Boarding.
