Home Sweet Home

If you discount the fact that I have yet to enter the confines of an airplane without being absolutely convinced that the flight was doomed to end someplace unpleasant and nowhere near an airport, I actually love to travel.
 
Seeing new places, tasting exotic foods, meeting people from different cultures and, in general, enjoying the novelty of unfamiliar territory brings me great pleasure. A more subtle pleasure gained from travelling, however, is coming home again.
 
No matter where I am, after a week or so I begin to miss sleeping in my own bed. And, while I might be enjoying the local cuisine, I eventually find myself wishing for a simple, homemade meal and, God help me, a nice cup of tea in front of the telly.
 
Spain was like that. Despite the warm sun and pampered existence, when Sunday morning dawned I was ready to go home. My wife and I gazed one last time at the view from our terrace--the sky was aquamarine and the slanting rays of the rising sun coaxed brilliant greens and browns from the shrub-covered hills and engulfed the scattering of villas in nearly audible bursts of brightness--it was going to be a grand day. We went back into the room, collected our bags and began the trek home.
 
Air travel, in addition to being terrifying, is mind-numbingly boring and carefully calculated to impress upon you that you and your fellow passengers are nothing more than cattle being feed down a chute. The sooner you get over this, the better off you'll be. 
 
To keep myself entertained, I engage in various mental exercises, speculations and self-assigned tasks.
 
For example, when checking in, I imagine I'm being processed into Auschwitz and that the smiling BA ticket agents and grim-looking immigration officers are really Nazi bureaucrats. This isn't exactly a difficult exercise, but it keeps me amused.
 
On the plane, there is no shortage of things to do: keep an eye on that left wing (is it supposed to wobble like that?), watch the other passengers, calculate how far it is to the ground and what we would all look like if we suddenly fell to it from this height, things like that. And no matter how hard I try to recall my high school physics, I cannot accept that a gazillion ton tube of metal is capable of floating five miles above the earth. I don't care about thrust and lift and all that; it simply isn't possible. Yet I have to admit, the ground does appear to be a long, long way off. Thinking about these things keeps me occupied for hours; then I ask the flight attendant to bring me more beer.
 
Without question, my absolute favourite part of the journey is landing.
 
My first few flights happened to be to the Caribbean where they have the most delightful custom: when the plan lands safely, all the passengers applaud. I love that. I enthusiastically joined in, thinking this was what all passengers in all airlines did every time a plane landed.
 
Consequently, when I made my first trip across the Atlantic I actually brought my hands up to begin clapping as we landed. Then I looked around and slowly lowered them, with the feeling I used to get at Catholic Masses when the congregation suddenly stopped chanting the Lord's Prayer halfway through while I, the lone Protestant, would mumble on for a few seconds before realizing I was the only one who knew all the lyrics.
 
So now, upon landing, I simply say a quiet, "Hurrah!" and give an enthusiastic "Well done!" to the pilot if he happens to be standing by the cockpit door as we are all herded out for deprogramming.
 
The processing at Gatwick was surprisingly quick, but that meant we arrived at baggage claim before our luggage. We waited, and waited and waited some more. Eventually, I ran out of WWII prison movie scenarios and had to content myself with speculating on why it was taking so long for our bags to show up. Hadn't the ground crew had enough time to ransack through them yet? Were they no longer content with simply taking what they wanted? Were they inviting family and friends in to pick them over as well? I think that's a bit over the top, don't you?
 
Forty-five minutes after landing, they arrived. Intact. There was the usual flurry at the feeding trough while we all picked out our things, then we were away, through customs, to the shuttle and on to the train station.
 
A short while later, I was wheeling my suitcase down the walkway out of Three Bridges station. I looked up at the grey slate sky and felt the chilly wind blowing drops of icy water against my sunburned face. I took a deep breath, taking in the scents of damp earth and petrol fumes.
 
Ah, it's great to be home.

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