Arriving in the Hot Place

It was a ten hour flight, in two legs, broken in the Middle East. When we touched down there, nearly everyone got off. I waited for the new people to get on, but only two or three of them did. When the plane took off again it had about fifteen passengers. On an Airbus A321.

 

About halfway through the second leg, I thought sod it, I'm having a drink. I wasn't going to, as the Hot Place is also dry. But there was a drawer full of wine, and nobody else to drink it, so I had one. The stewardess was happy to have something to do. 'All alcohol must be consumed on board', she said. 'Right you are,' I said. 'Can I have another?'.

 

We 'deplaned' in no time, obviously, down the steps into a hot moist night and onto a bus. Three fat men sprawled across the only seats, under a sign which said 'Seating reserved for women and children'. I decided not to make a point. It was a short and badly lit journey to the terminal, past big white UN planes that loomed suddenly out of the darkness.

 

I'm far from the world's worst flyer, but there's always something to worry about. Will they remember my vegetarian meal? (They did on the first leg, but not on the second, but they kindly picked the sausage off the pizza for me). Will my luggage arrive? (Yes, it did -- it was strangely comforting to see my bright pink case emerge, I'd imagined it being flung around an empty hold, scattering pants and instant noodles all over the place). Will there be anyone there to meet me?

 

Er, no. There wasn't. Now *that's* never happened before, and I didn't particularly want my first experience of it to be after midnight in a near deserted entrance way populated by a few rangy taxi drivers and a few mangy cats. And a man asleep on a bench.

 

Thanks to a roaming mobile and good paperwork, I could call the duty driver. His English wasn't up to much but I got the impression that he was 'coming'. Thanks to half a bottle of red wine, I didn't get scared. I just sat down away from the sleeping man, ignored the taxi drivers, got out my Moleskine and pencil and started writing this.

 

joella

Shape shifting

I am packing for the Hot Place. It is very difficult. I have been to hot places before, though not this one, and I have been places before where women need to cover themselves up. But I have never been to a hot place where women need to cover themselves up *and* look on the tidy side of presentable.

'Hot and smart?' I said to the person briefing me. That might be a challenge. You just wait, she said. Everyone looks immaculate all the time. I don't know how they do it.

Normally, I would take baggy-ish T-shirts. But these won't do. Most of my T-shirts feature holes, paint splatters or political slogans, and I sense that none of these will be acceptable. Man-made fibre is also not recommended, because of the heat, which rules out my super-easy-care travelling shirts. I try one on anyway, but my bosom is clearly discernible. This is also bad form.

So I have gathered together every flowing cotton garment I can find. I don't know if I can 100% avoid elbow and decolletage exposure, but I think most bases are covered.

joella

My dreams are so unoriginal

I don't really like remembering them, they are always anxious. It's a miracle I've got any teeth left at all.

Usually it's a relief to wake up thinking 'it's all right, I didn't really kill him'. But this time, I just told everybody he'd died. It seemed the only way out of the situation.

But it became unsustainable, because he was actually still very much alive. His mum was all upset, and it was my fault. There were job complications. Tax returns. He wasn't going to stay not-dead.

So he went home, and I went round wearing a bright orange T-shirt which said, Wire-style, MY BAD. *This * morning, it was a relief to wake up thinking 'it's all right, I didn't really not kill him'.

My *real* day went downhill from there. Let's just say I'm almost looking foward to spending the next fortnight in a place where the weather forecast looks like this:



joella

Stories from the lake #2: getting the hang of things

Shot plus sky plus lake
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

This is one of those stories best told with a photo.

joella

Stories from the lake #1: Team Antinranta

The weekend before we went away, I read an article in the Guardian about how you should never, ever go on holiday with your friends. I began to worry.

We were:

• Me: first most likely to sauna au naturel, eighth most likely to eat blood sausage and jam*.
  
• M, braver of cold lakes, lighter of fires, cooker of breakfasts. Usually in that order.
  
• Mr B, who has all the moves, including the ones that make the boat go in a straight line. He was oarsome.
  
• H, who brought glamour and intrigue: her continued presence was decided by Turkey's Constitutional Court.
  
• K, aka Sauna Girl. Löyly, vihta, implausible bikini, vodka. Repeat to fade.
  
• Dr A, researcher of indigenous foods and expounder of obscure philosophies.
  
• L, growing fast to fill the space where the Old Testament stops and pear cider starts.
  
• J, half boy, half biscuit. All about the show that must go on.
  

Me, Mr B and Dr A were all at university together. K was there too, though my orbit and hers never intersected at the time. There are few people I have known and loved for longer. What a ridiculous thing to jeopardise, I thought, while wading through mucus the week before we left. What made me think that a fortnight in rural Finland with *other people* and *other people's children* was ever going to be a good idea?

I don't know what made me think it, or even if it was me who thought it first, (though I seem to remember that alcohol was involved) but having done it, I say shame on you, Guardian Family Section. Find the right people and set them by the right lake in the right Scandinavian country, and you will have just about the best holiday imaginable.

joella

* This is not a Germaine Greer-style euphemism. That, I'd be much higher up the list for.