Right now, I should be in South Africa, eating a steak and drinking red wine from a glass the size of my head. Instead, I am in London. I was supposed to fly out on Thursday night but all the planes in the UK have been grounded. There’s a giant ash cloud floating somewhere above me, the spit and guts of some bad tempered volcano in Iceland. It was my birthday yesterday and I should’ve been home for it, but like Detective Greenly so eloquently put it, I’m goin’ fuckin’ nowhere.
I don’t usually get too riled up either way when it comes to my trips back and forth and all over. I don’t get all that excited when I am heading off somewhere, just as I don’t get teary at airports when I leave. I don’t get excited when I book tickets, I don’t count down in calendars. I don’t pack a week before. I wake up on the day of travel, sort my luggage out, get a train to get to my plane to fly off to wherever it is I am going. It’s just easier that way. I just go. However, this time was a little different. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen my Mom, Dad, Brother & Sister for a few months more than I’d like. Maybe it’s because we’ve been dealing with some pretty hectic family stuff over the last few months, almost all of which I’ve had to do remotely. Meltdowns over electronic devices are hard to contain; the constant crashing of the latest (shitty) version Skype and repeated lapses in cell phone signal makes for frustrating communication. Needless to say, there is a dire need for some face time with the family and sentences that run on without long radio silences. Maybe it’s that I moved out of my last permanent residence in February and have been house sitting since then and my sense of permanence has become permeable once again – I ache for roots. So for the first time in god knows how long or how many trips, three days before I was due to fly off and away, I packed my bags. I sorted my goods into essential and non essential items, hauling the non essentials up precarious ladders into dusty loft spaces, cob webs tickling my nose, the groaning beams sounding like ghosts, scaring me more than I knew they should’ve.
On Thursday morning I woke up ready to fly the same route I’ve done countless times. And then, at 9am, my sister called me. “Have you seen the news? You need to check your flight, there’s volcanic ash in British Airspace.” What followed was a flurry of phone calls between South Africa and England, The SAA help desk and constantly checking for updates online. No one was saying anything. I was still holding onto the hope that I would be able to fly or at worst, be delayed for a few hours. I went to go and say goodbye to Laura at her shop up the road and on my way back, stopped to by something to eat. I looked at the time on my phone. 13:01. SAA said that they would release a statement at 1pm, finalising their flight plans for the day. 13:01. I dialled their number, now imprinted in my brain. An automated voice service crackled across the line “Due to the volcanic eruption in Iceland, all SAA flights departing London today, the 15th of April, have been canceled. We apologise for the inconvenience.” And I don’t know if it was because I was dead set on being home for my birthday, or the fact that I was slightly shaky with hunger and had an express train of PMS related hormones bulleting through my body, but I just burst into tears; big, shaky, hiccupping tears, right there, in the sandwich aisle of Marks & Spencer.
I did what anyone in my position would do. I went home, ate a sandwich, picked up my bags and went to Shelley and Paul’s house in Chiswick. When in doubt, go to Chiswick. This is a failsafe option that has saved me many, many times. Sad? Go to Chiswick. Drunk at 4am and unable to get into your house? Go to Chiswick. State of occasional pseudo homelessness? Chiswick. Hungry? Chiswick. Lonely? Chiswick. So when I found out that my flights home was canceled and I was in crying in the sandwich aisle territory, I knew I needed to go to Chiswick.
The birthday that I had planned fell by the wayside, and instead it was that I woke up in Shelley and Paul’s spare room with the phantom beast that is the occasional April sunshine streaming in through the windows. Lunch was a cheeseburger at Sam’s Brasserie, quite commonly known to the very best burger to the found in London. In the evening, Magpie traipsed through to Chiswick bearing gifts of Falke tights and Mac eyeliner and we went to Sam’s (again, sometimes once a day isn’t enough) and drank rhubarb cocktails and Sgroppinos and ate plates of cheese and helpings of lamb koftas with harissa yoghurt. It wasn’t a total bust. In fact, it actually turned out to be a really good day.
I’ve rebooked my ticket twice and at the moment I plan to be flying out on Sunday night, but as it stands the Volcano continues to spit up into the sky and the wind continues to blow over England and since I’m quite safely out of the crying in the sandwich aisle territory, I’m not holding my breath. I doubt the airports will open by then. I hope to fly sometime in the next week. But until then.... I’m going fucking nowhere.
