Lebensstücke Nr. 10

Going solo...

Sexta Vida: Back to Gray Britain

Last day in Tenerife. It's hot as ever and I have decided to wear black. Clever. Knowing that at the airport was going to be hotter than in the capital hasn't stopped me being silly and dress inappropriately. I hate farewells so from early in the morning I switch to moody mode so my mother is more wary when approaching me. I have packed last night but I know something is missing, although I KNOW I'm carrying too much weight. Coming home is never easy, especially when returning. The book fair didn't help and now I'm suffering the weight of my greed. My sister arrives and picks us up from the flat. There is still so much food left in the fridge. Mother and sister will have to come back and clear the mess. Selfishly I think it won't be my problem. My belly is overloaded anyway from two weeks of my mum's TLC so I don't feel guilty about the food left behind.
On the way to the airport the typical conversation about we-will-miss -you and are-you -working-tomorrow... Me-too, yes-I-am... And all that. We arrive sooner that I thought we would. Either my sister has driven too fast or the road is in a better state than I thought, probably the former. Surprisingly, there is hardly a queue. Previous experience has told me to be at the airport with plenty of time as British tend to queue to check-in hours before the desks open. This time I'm proving myself wrong and British gain my trust again. Four desks open and I only need to wait a couple of minutes. The ground staff who attends me is Spanish and with a complicity wink overlooks my 3 kilos of junk that make my luggage overweight. So know start the uncomfortable task of waiting for a while before going through security. My other sister is on her way to the airport with my niece and nephew. For the first time us three siblings and my mother will be together at the airport to say goodbye.
Now, this is the hardest part. I touch my forehead with my little sister's, our kind of greeting/farewell since we remember. I kiss my older sister as proper grown-ups. Kiss my niece and nephew and embrace in a manly way my two brothers-in-law (I forgot to mention them before, but they are here as well). My mother is the last one. It's the most awkward situation ever, so I switch again to very moody mode to get away from it. But she cries and clings to me for a while. I don't want to show, but it breaks my heart and I feel guilty. It shouldn't be like this, really.
After so many seconds, that feel like centuries we separate and I go upstairs. I don't tell my family that they can come with me up to security to avoid any more drama. I wave goodbye while going up the escalator. And now I'm going through security. Nothing eventful here. I still have more than half an hour before boarding, but this is the worst part. Waiting.
The plane arrives well on time from London and we start boarding in a much civilised manner (!). I normally get to the back of the plane where it's still empty. I don't understand why people tend to crowd at the front of the aircraft when there are sits available at the back. I know that normally we leave the plane from the front doors, but chances are that your luggage is the last one to show at the conveyor belt. I sit on the wrong side, where I won't be able to say goodbye to El Teide. I won't be able to know but I feel it's the wrong side anyway. For a couple of minutes I'm the only one sitting in my row. It doesn't seem to be a full plane, but, alas, I eventually get a travelling companion, a 6-and-a-half monster of a man who takes (don't ask me how!) half of my seat as well. Soon we take off, and sooner he is snoring louder than the plane's engines. I shouldn't say that, but fauna around me include a father travelling with his two sons behind me who can't stop talking VERY loudly; two women in front of me with funny hair that smell (the women themselves or the hair; it doesn't matter, it was foul) and plenty of cheap bling on them to start a scrap metal business; another woman one row in front to the left coughing so badly that I think it's not turbulence what shakes the plane.
My dream of finishing my John Water's book is shattered by the combined noises of my good old friend Mr Snore, Ms Cough and the group of scattered children and babies who cannot understand why their parents have put them through the ordeal of suffering earache for the second time in two weeks when they really didn't have that much fun in Tenerife (most of them are too small to ever remember they once went there when they were few months old).
So I decide to try to sleep. But it's not that easy. Budget airlines are what it says in the tin: cheap and cheerful (!). Noisy more like it. I take a deep breath, inhaling some of the germs expelled by Ms Cough on my left, and resign myself to the reality of the situation. She will never be ordered to get off the plane. It's too late: we are flying already. She was clever and held her cough long enough until we took off. Then she let herself go.
My mood is getting worse but I just can't do anything. Trying to remember relaxation techniques I start thinking about cotton fields and flowers and other beautiful things. It doesn't work.
And I understand that it's not the coughing, the snoring or the children shouting. I'm going back home. Britain welcomes me back with her best gray coat.

But then it's home.