"Oh, we're all going on a...reasonably priced city break...with no more worries for a...day or two!"
I am taking dreadful liberties with Cliff Richard as I run round our flat preparing to leave for gay Paris (note to self; check if this description is still allowable under SOS Homophobie guidelines. Author would not wish to cause unintentional offence...not when intentional offence is so much more fun.)
The flat is empty, as the others have wandered off to Marrakech. That's the way it goes on a year abroad, we go where the wind takes us, and if we happen to leave one of our number alone so she feels it acceptable, nay, necessary to re-enact Tom Cruise's dance scene from Risky Business then so be it.
Pizza consumed, dance scene complete, it was now time to catch the Metro at one in the morning. No sleep was on the cards for the weekend. This is a sentiment that would come to be regretted/regretten but that mattered not because, like so many things, that was a problem for tomorrow's Aileen. And I am not that unhappy wretch yet.
I arrived at Alonso Martinez and toddled down the stairs nodding amicably at the little old cleaner who looks like Manuel from Faulty Towers. I generally nod or speak to everyone, which makes me very unsuited for village life back home especially during those times when civil blood makes civil hands unclean over "what her Karen said about our John that time at your Bernadette's wedding, so don't give them the satisfaction of speaking to them."
This is where gentle musing descends into "ohshitohshitohshit" as I realise my plan of catching a train at quarter past to catch a train at twentyfive past to tie in neatly with when the Metro stops at half one works in world built around my plans and forgets about the fifteen minute gap between arrivals. I panic and make a snap decision...nothing for it but shelling out for a taxi to Plaza de Cibeles and the bus.
"Oye, oye mi hija! Que vas a otro sitio? Que pasa?"
This is Manuel; and he has asked "My daughter, are you going somewhere else? What's wrong?"
I do not wish to be rude and explain the predicament with "Tren...retraso...aeropuerto...no puedo"
He replies; "Sí, si nena! No te preocupas, que vas a llegar Que corres como el diablo, no esperas, corre!"
"Yes, yes pet. Don't worry, you'll make it. Just run like f**k, don't wait, run!"
And so with his cries echoing behind me I do exactly this...run like blazes and arrive at the metro to the airport just as the buzzer signalling the Closing Of The Doors sounds. It was rather Disney. I genuinely believed this was impossible, but continued anyway on the advice of an old man and so the day was saved and I got my ass to the plane on time. A short Disney film to be sure but Morgan Freeman if you're tuning in there's a casting opening for Manuel in the movie adaptation of A Cautionary Tale...call me...
The Crook in the title can be no other than Michael O'Leary who abuses me dreadfully on occasion but yet I always go back to dear Ryanair sooner or later. On this particular occasion it was his cheery insistence that Beavais is a hop, skip and a jump away from Par-eeee. No, no, no, dearest Michael, that was a description of your landing.
It was because the pilot was from Dublin and was possessed a a beautiful lazy southern lilt that these next words washed over us almost unnoticed;
"Ah, right now ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be attempting to land in Beauvais in the next five minutes or so. If we are, for any reason, unsuccessful in this attempt we'll...ah..get back to you shortly with more information."
None of the Spaniards caught the mere suggestion in the remark, that getting back to us might just mean buying us a drink in the Afterlife bar and discussing how big those flames were back there. Nasty suspicions rose in my mind and caused me to look out the window...
...whereupon I saw nothing. This was not necessarily comforting as seeing nothing meant that two feet from the window a dense, clinging fog obscured everything from view. I instantly reassured myself that flying these days is all done by lasers and infra-red and such and the pilot is only really there for the look of the thing.
This opinion was quickly revised as the tarmac suddenly loomed out of the mist and the pilot took evasive action which was to swoop back up into the sky. Good plan that man. When in doubt, retain altitude. No one has ever successfully collided with the sky.
Eventually land we had to and I can only presume that Ryanair will now be refitting chair covers and tutting over nail marks. I enjoy a bit of life or death action as much as the next lady but I would prefer next time for wings not to graze the runway, if Michael doesn't mind.
La France, la belle France. Nous sommes arrivés. The extra ninety minutes in a bus would mean nothing...for, as we shall see in the next thrilling installment, it pales in comparison to baguettes, Hermés, Chanel, Haussman's doing with Paisian architecture what Colonel Sanders does to chicken, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and much much more debauchery...
Apologies for a blogging trilogy, the first of which dealt with planes, trains and automobiles. I love travelling in ways that begin to seem slightly deviant if you squint.
Á toute a l'heure xo
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