A travelling Blogger

After soaring the heights of a chocolate and all 'things that are bad for you' free week I tumble to Earth through a deluge of fat ridden snack foods, sugar laden coca cola and chocolate. The fault of course is Ryanair and Easyjet's. Cheap flights they may be but if you count the most expensive pastime in the world - hanging around airports and the nullifying effect on expensive gym membership (and the cost of the associated Lycra) then I'd have been as well flying first class with Cathay Pacific. But then I'd have been stuck in the bubble of a 1st class lounge and would have missed the great diversity of human life that's passed before me. Ms 'I'm 60 but God how I wish I were thirty' in tight leggings (White rather than the usual black in a nod to the season), teetering gladiator S&M sandals and a boob tube top that clings to drooping breasts like a very good friend. Botox, in helping to iron out the ravages of time and too many vodka and oranges has left a constipated expression. She hangs on the arm of a could-be 60s train robber-done time on the Costa del Sol, possibly more of a sentence than the Scrubs. The gold tiled, chunky gold bracelet and neck medallion have proved good investments in these precarious times. Always good to put your cash, or someone else's cash, in gold.
Mr and Mrs Home Counties are standing in the queue at Starbucks waiting for a cooling Frappucino. He's nattily turned out in pressed (I'd go as far as to say knife-edged pressed) beige shorts -the only indication that they haven't graced the golf course during his two weeks away being the pocket on the thigh - that makes them 'Cargo' not Wentbridge. A pink Crew Clothing polo shirt worn outside the shorts and well polished brown leather deck shoes complete his ensemble. Pro, his wife sports pristine White Capri pants - Capri not cropped - a Matelot T shirt from Boden and a cashmere sweater swung about her shoulders (even if it is 25 degrees in the shade). She wears pale blue loafers and ladies I have to tell you, yes they are genuine Todds. No rucksack hand luggage for her. She's in holiday mood with Cath Kidston.
And then whilst searching for that little lady sign (I feel as though I've been three times round the board without passing go never mind passing water and I feel as though I'm going to pass out) I trip over the gap year set who seem to spend a lot of their months of helping muck out in elephant irohanages in Sei Lanka or building schools in African villages lying on the floors of airports (avoiding the many free seats because the floor is the place to find real travellers. 
As I climb over cinnamon stick like limbs and dusty back packs that look larger and certainly heavier than their bearers, a waft of the souk mixed with unwashed youth enters my nostrils and stirs memories in my brain of when I was grasping at the adventure of new places and people -and that was just last week. Sun bleached tresses beaded into corn row plaits atop earnest faces that mothers can't wait to kiss.
A family passes, mum, dad, two little children, two teddy bears, one double pushchair, umpteen bags of paraphernalia that goes with those early years. A child cries and strains to escape and slide on the vast marble floor of the departure hall. But mum knows best-tearful maybe but at least she knows where little Jonny is. She delves onto one of the overstuffed bags and produces a stick of carrot. Surprisingly it seems to do the trick and the crying stops. Toddlers seem easier pleased these days than I remember. 
And what about the woman in the White linen dress, the one with the self-satisfied smile and an almost drugged demeanour as though she's been at the most estful place on earth for a week, who looks as though laughter and camaderie are her best friends, who walks the long way round between terminals at Barcelona airport just to squeeze every last second of sunshine out of the picture perfect sky, who's just bought an expensive Lancome lipstick because she thought it was the very shade of pink to show off her tan and then mentally debated whether 8 euros for a sandwich could be justified or should she starve, who's now writing on the tray liner (succumbed to the sandwich) because she's packed her notebook, who's going to look very silly at Geneva airport scantilly clad and with beaded flip-flops - oh yes, that"s me.

People cluster in the duty free shop, bored at the endless wait. They walk like sleepwalkers round the glitzy goods on offer and do their best to avoid temptation. Some throw caution to the wind and swap their last few euros for bars of over priced Toblerone (which will probably melt anway before they get home but granny won't mind). Glazed faces listen uncomprehendingly to unending announcements, straining to hear the familiar name of their destination. Panic subsides when they do -the flight does go from this terminal. 
Queues start as Gate numbers are called. No sheepdogs needed here, not for these cooperative Ryanair passengers with unallocated seats. A competition then to get on first and grab the best positions, whatever they may be. The seasoned travellers of course  advertise their credentials by remaining seated in the lounge and then strolling nonchalantly through the Gate at the very last call "It's not as though it's a bus and we're not going to get a seat" a little bit of smugness perhaps. They climb the steps and run the gauntlet glares  of those with luggage stowed (in the overhead lockers or beneath the seats in front of them as directed by the charming air hostess now cabin crew who tries to imagine she is on long haul in first class, or at least business class . A feeling of resentment at being kept waiting is almost palpable.
Safety instructions are studiously ignored-let's face it we all know that if the worst happened the last thing we'd be thinking of is removing our shoes before sliding down that yellow plastic thing into freezing cold water. Women and children first, Titanic style? I think not. It would be worse than a queue for an Austrian ski lift- the best man or best pusher would most definitely win. And of course someone would insist on opening the overhead locker to save that souvenir they spent hours haggling for. It's to be hoped that the plane isn't perilously positioned at this point or my earlier passage over sleeping bodies in the lounge may seem like a walk in the park.
"Please do not remove your seatbelts until the plane has come to a standstill and the captain has switched the seatbelt sign off" is of course ignored. Those so anxious to get on first are as keen to be off before the luggage has left the plane so they can stand longer round the carousel complaining at  how long they have to wait "couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery". Unlike good old Blighty then where airports teem with stag night inebriates.
And now let's complain about the weather. Let's act surprised that it's no longer 30 degrees when we emerge on an English evening into rain and a chill. Why are we cold? Why are we wearing the beach wear that should have been packed away with the memories of balmy evenings    and Sangria? Why indeed.