Travel broadens the mind the gap

I decided to escape the searing heat by flying to Equatorial Africa, as one does.  I write to you from 10,000 feet or thereabouts, over northern, approaching West Africa.  I am gently sandwiched between a kindly lady who seems to be faffing endlessly with about sixteen pieces of hand luggage and a less a kindly man who took my window seat – but I’m fine with that, no really – I didn’t handpick it or anything.  Really, it’s fine. 

It’s a miracle I have caught this flight – for some reason we were more than two hours late leaving London (despite the Royal Air Maroc website assuring me that the plane had left on time, which was perturbing as I was still in the boarding lounge, thankfully the rest of the passengers were too) – my new Gambian friend from the first flight who lives in Scotland and has un-naturally large feet that I wished he would stop picking – assured me that our luggage wouldn’t make it onto the next flight.   I’m hoping he’s wrong, although realistically, I’d just buy a handful of things and continue on my way.  I didn’t read the small print about my flights until we were approaching Casablanca, at which point I noted that my flights are not ABTA / ATOL protected.  Now, I’m not certain what that means, but it always strikes me as a good thing to be.  (I hasten to add that when taking groups abroad, I commit the small print to memory, but it’s a different story when it’s just me) 

So if Royal Air Maroc goes bust whilst I’m away, I may have to walk home.  I like walking, so that’ll be ok – but I might not be back until Christmas.  Christmas 2020.

The first flight was unpleasant – I don’t remember a flight as noisy as this one, both the engine noise and the noise of the passengers.  Even passing birds covered their ears with their tiny feathery wings as they flew past the Boeing 737.  I sympathised.

I variously snoozed, dozed and nibbled my way through chicken and rice, curiously accompanied by a slab of shrink-wrapped raw fish and a yoghurt.  Yum.  (although I had exactly the same meal on the second flight – I think it was even the same chicken).

I also started to read something I’ve come across recently called a ‘book’.  I borrowed one of these from the library recently, but as time went by I started to receive angry messages saying that the library wanted its book back! I do understand this, but I hadn’t quite finished reading it (or even got half way).  To be fair, it was in my trusty rucksack for three months and was taken on every journey I went on during that time.  But when I go on a journey, I morph into a mobile office, relentlessly churning out hundreds of e-mails to organise events, fielding e-mails from all angles, reading through training courses I’m en route to deliver, and trying to grab training work where I can; hence reading for pleasure is limited to my exploratory adventures.  I ended up taking that library book back and giving it to an angry, non-empathetic machine which demonstrated a stark lack of soft skills, gobbling up the book I'd become quite attached to and bleeping angrily – it was as if it knew that I’d failed to read it.

I do like libraries though, despite the angry book-gobbling bleeping machines.  I have spent a great deal of time in libraries recently for various purposes and have realised that they are places of joy, providing free and accessible meaningful entertainment for everyone, from tiny babies enjoying Rhyme Time with their parents and carers, to Book Groups full of people who have probably never had to return a book to an angry bleeping machine, English classes and all sorts of other sessions, free internet access, study space for whoever wants it.  Go and visit one today!

I made my first friend before I’d even left London Bridge station.  Due to the abundant heat, the trains were on a go-slow, with speed restrictions, meaning some trains may not reach their destination until Tuesday.  I was on the platform and there were two trains impending, both Gatwick-bound.  Just as I was endeavouring to calculate which would reach Gatwick first, I fell into conversation with a kindly French man who was wondering the same thing.  We chatted all the way to Gatwick and even onto the magic shuttle train – he then flew to Athens and I flew to Casablanca. 

I’d envisaged three hours in Casablanca, possibly even venturing out of the airport to re-visit the second biggest mosque in the world which I first saw in 2003, on an inter-railing jaunt through Spain, Andorra and Morocco; instead I found myself galloping through Casablanca airport like a horse possessed, worried that I’d missed the connection.  I had to gallop at even greater speed when I realised that I’d misread the board and gone to the wrong gate! Fortunately, my galloping skills are well-honed.  

I dealt with more e-mails in those two hours at Gatwick Airport than in the rest of the week combined, so if you were waiting on something from me, it may be sitting in your inbox.  More likely, it may not be.

More soon team - enjoy.