In which I go FUCKIN' NOWHERE!

There’s a great scene in the Boondock Saints, where a detective stands over the heavily bandaged and previously bleeding body of a dead Russian mobster and yells in his thick Boston accent, “He ain’t goin’ nowhere! He’s goin’ fuckin’ nowhere!” He leans down, “Where you goin’? Nowhere!!”

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 15^th 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.

Home is where the race day buffet is...

I should have known that when I left London and my beloved Race Days five races before the best season ever ends, the F1 gods would not smile kindly upon me. I told myself it would be alright, that I was pretty safe in Germany, F1 wise. How wrong I was.
I should have known off the bat that things were not going to go my way after I arrived at my new abode and found it without a TV. Now, I wouldn’t usually care. Sitcoms dubbed into German, game shows and 11pm soft porn (cue Pablo Francisco's "Ya wanna see?!" gag) are not that high up on my list of priorities, but Sunday afternoon race viewing most certainly is. Anyhow, finding myself without a TV, I decided to be proactive and scour the internet for F1 viewing spots. I even posted a message on forums intended for English speakers in Berlin, asking where one might be able to view the race. The recommendations that I got back were not all that helpful, suggesting bars in Spandau. That’s akin to asking where to go watch a race in London and someone giving you the name of a nice little spot they know in Surrey. Anyway, I decided not to venture to Spandau. I figured, how hard could it be? This is GERMANY after all. There are five German racers on that grid. One German team. 8 German engines. The greatest race driver of all time is German. Obviously this is a sport that must have some semblance of a following in this major city. So on Saturday morning I venture out to find a bar or coffee shop, or fuck it, even a kebab joint screening the qualifying. Now, everywhere seems to have TVs, but no ones interested in the F1. So I walk and I walk and ask around and look in places and walk some more and ask some more and eventually, dejected, tired, a little sad, I give up and think that if I race home I can probably catch Quali 2 & 3 on some dodgy streaming website. But as I turn into my street, I see something that I havne’t seen before. On the corner there is a little shop, black out windows and those cheap Chinese flashing signs boasting OPEN and 24 HOURS! and there it is.TOTES SPORTS BETTING SHOP.
I actually OMGed. As in, “O.M.G.” As in, I have no full words for this moment. So I go into the shop/cafe/bar. It was like something out of Guy Ritchie movie, but instead of East London it was East Berlin and instead of crack heads and gangsters there were loads of Chinese men and instead of being run by a funny motherfucker with a cockney accent it was run by two young Turkish dudes and instead of everyone sitting with their papers betting on horses.... actually that part was exactly the same. All the Chinese men were watching the 10 or so TVs and betting on horses.. And I’m pretty sure that whoever owns that place ransacked an office to do it, because there were blue carpet tiles underfoot and tables that I can only describe as desks. Anyway, one of the young turks speaks English and happily puts on the qualifying for me. So that’s where I watch it, just me, drinking a beer, watching one TV surrounded by Friedrichshain’s Chinese betting population. So qualifying ends and while I’m happy to have found spot I can call my own on race weekends to come, I’m a little upset because the Brawns aren’t exactly where I would like them and Hamilton is on pole and Nico, in an embaressing 18th place, is dead to me. But still, I wave goodbye to the dudes behind the counter and say, “See you tomorrow for the race.”
And the nice English speaking man says, “Yes, see you tomorrow.” and I leave.
On Sunday morning I wake pretty excited. It’s race day. I love race day. I try not to think about how in London Shelley is probably preparing an Italian feast so delicious it would make Giorgio Locatelli weep and that Kyle and Amy are on their way through to Chiswick to eat that delicious feast. At least, I tell myself, I don’t have to see Paul gloat at McLaren’s fine showing. It’s cool, I’m going to go drink beer for breakfast in a betting shop. So I go. And horror of horrors, my English speaking compadre is not there. I try in my rudimentary German to ask his friend to put the race on for me, thinking he would remember me from yesterday (I had this crazy notion I would be pretty memorable. Female. Not Chinese. Motor Sport fan. But apparently not.) Eventually I understood that he was telling me that he could not turn even one of the TVs onto the race, as there was some German football match that was far more important. We had an awkward half german, half English argument for about three or four minutes when I realised that I wasn’t going to win and not only was I not going to win, if I carried on at this losing battle I was going to miss the start of the race. So I literally sprinted back to my apartment and started searching the internet for a live stream of the race. Knowing the race was about to begin, I called Robin in a panic and insist that he commentate the start of the race to me. Which, like my own personal Murray Walker, he did. That’s love.
Anyway, I did eventually find a website that had a bad live feed and german commentary, and from there I watched the race, huddled over my laptop, alone in Germany.
I’m starting preparations now for the Singapore GP next Sunday. Karmic retribution for leaving London Race Days or not, I refuse to be shown up by the F1 gods again. Wasn't that poor showing by Williams punishment enough?