Getting from central Amsterdam to Schipol airport couldn't have been simpler. No, I didn't walk it, I simply didn't have time and besides, I've got a heavy suitcase, it would have taken me ages and I would have missed my flight. I took a train from the Rai station and about 10 minutes later I arrived at the airport. The check-in was very smooth. I didn't even have to take the lap top out of the case. Passport control was good too, although I've noticed how the officials are being jokey about Brexit, saying stuff like, "Even British passports accepted." Ho, Ho, Ho!
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| View from a train window |
If the truth be known, I don't want to go home to England, it's a horrible place, full of the wrong kind of attitude, there's a lot of inequality, a lot of horrible people, I just hate it, and it's much more pronounced after spending time outside of the country. Tories and Brexit are the root cause. People have a go at remainers and say they're too aggressive, but I find that leavers (not all of them, but, perhaps, the stereotypical 'Brexiteer') is kind of annoying in a Mark Francois sort of way. What a horrible man. He's like the boss you hope you never have to work for: irritating, arrogant, clueless - we all know a boss like that, always trying to screw you over, not pay you what you're owed, underrate your contribution to the business, the sort of person you dream of whacking around the head with a splintered piece of timber pierced here and there with rusty nails.
I found myself at Bread, a bright and breezy food establishment beyond passport control and security, offering panoramic views of the tarmac and the planes on it. A huge KLM jumbo jet being pushed out by one of those airport vehicles I always fancy owning myself. I imagine it parked on the drive back home. Totally unsuitable for shopping, but fun to drive with its huge wheels and tiny cab upfront. Just room for one more inside. I remember a movie about that phrase, and the premise was simple: the person who took up the offer of the bus conductor or whoever, ended up dead, be it from a plane crash, a bus crash, any kind of crash you can think of. It was an old movie, but I can't remember the name.
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| Wandering around the airport... |
I ordered a ham roll on crusty bread with plenty of other stuff thrown in: salad, honey mustard, tomato, you get the picture. I also ordered a yoghurt bar and some weird tea that was very tasty indeed. After phoning home, I took out the lap top, the one I'm using right this minute, and started writing the opening paragraphs to this blogpost. I kind of got carried away and nearly missed my flight. There were some English people sitting close by and when they got up I asked them if they were on the Gatwick flight. They were, but the flight hadn't been called yet. Fair enough, I thought, I'll stay put for a while longer, but soon I figured I ought to make my way to the gate. Except that I got confused. I looked at the destinations board and saw a flight for London Gatwick going out of Gate H5 and headed in that direction. I was conscious that time was running out and quickened my pace only to find, on reaching said gate, that people were queuing and I hadn't missed the flight. Except that I was at the wrong gate. H5 was the easyJet flight. I started to panic inwardly. Where, then, was the BA flight? Perhaps if I'd looked at my boarding pass I'd have known it was Gate D8 - which was miles away. Literally miles. I'd forgotten how big Schipol airport was and really had to hoof it. I think it took me longer to reach the gate than it does to fly from Amsterdam to London. Perhaps that's a slight exaggeration, but time was ticking by, the flight was due to take off at 1920hrs and it was now 1905. I was cutting it fine, but I made it with time to spare, although I was sweating profusely.
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| Looking for the plane home... |
Once again it was a full flight, except that this time I was further away from 'Club' - or whatever BA calls its poncy upper class section of the aircraft. On the flight out I started to experience status anxiety. Why should I be stuck in pleb class while some fat bastard gets given hot towels and treated like a member of the royal family? It annoys me. But fortunately I wasn't up close and personal with the nasty little grey curtain that is drawn across to separate those in cattle class from those who can afford a bit of luxury. I mean it's nothing special, but they don't pay for their food, it's all free (although if you believe that, you'll believe anything). Nothing is free. They might not believe it, but they are paying for their hot towels indirectly and their 'free' food is also included in the price. I'm reminded once again of the first Clash album and the song, Garageland.
"They think they're so clever/They think they're so right/But the truth is only known by...gutter snipes!" Something like that.
The flight home was smooth, just like the flight out and it was still light when we landed. Summer is well and truly here, folks. The plane made its way to the terminal building and once off of the plane and through passport control I picked up my bag and headed home. As I say, I wasn't glad to be back having enjoyed a relatively chilled out time in Amsterdam, wishing that I could somehow get Dutch citizenship, but knowing full well that it was out of the question. Sadly, I reflected as I left the airport, I was English through and through.
On a completely different subject, I've never been one for taking a photograph of the plane that's going to fly me home. Somehow it's tempting fate. But on this occasion, I did just that: I took a shot of the plane that would fly me home and this is it. Some say it's bad luck and, to be honest, I agree with them. Fortunately, I'm still alive to tell the tale.
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| My flight home awaits me... |
