Traveller’s Tales part I

Travel is a journey not a destination – hand driers and pyramids



Leaving aside that travel is said to broaden the mind, I’m always mildly surprised when asked if travelling on my own is a lonely business. To me the question misses the point. Having travelled from an early age, my parents were always keen to stress that the excitement of travel lays not the inanimate objects you see when you get there, but in the people you meet on your way. Anyone who has suffered the cathartic disappointment of finding that the famous pyramids of Giza reside not in the romantic barren wastes of the desert, but in the stinking suburbs of Cairo amidst bus parks, mountains of rubbish and swarms of unwashed beggars, tinkers, peddlers and tricksters of every description would surely endorse that view.

It always amazes me to find at all the world’s tourist hot-spots veritable legions of Japanese cheerfully clicking away with the latest photographic wizardry. Presumably soaking up ‘Western Culture’ and yet I have yet to ever interact with one, other than to be asked to take a picture for them with their camera. In fact it seems that they wish to sanitize themselves against contact with their fellow travellers, with the women frequently wearing masks and long cotton gloves even in the most stifling heat.

Travel for me is more about choices. You can either shun circumstance or you can actively embrace it. Seasoned travellers as a species are the most gregarious and interesting people you will ever meet. Wide, expansive, knowledgeable people, who see every minute as a learning experience, consequently to me the notion that travelling on your own is a lonely existence is a non sequitur.

I know there are friends of mine here who worry about my safety when I’m abroad. I would simply say to them that as long as one is prudent, dresses appropriately, courteous, knowledgeable of local customs and keeps out of the ‘wrong’ areas after dark most difficulties encountered when travelling can be resolved with a ready smile. It may surprise some when I say that virtually all the deranged, mentally unstable, wicked and potentially dangerous people I have ever encountered in life have been here on the internet. Of course you can meet many wonderful people here too, but for me travel is the real life-affirming process and as much as I enjoy my time here I never confuse it with real life. Anyway I digress, as I often do. My point is: the joy of travel is in meeting people from different cultures with different experiences, ideas, and beliefs. Even though the friendships are often transitory, they nevertheless leave one a little bit wiser even when the people appear very ‘ordinary’. However rather like diamond mining, sometimes you can find real gems, people who have a profound impact on your life. Such it was on my recent trip to the Balkans when I met someone I shall call Lily……

………I watched as my gate number came up on the screen, shouldered my Lowepro camera bag and dragging my suitcase behind me began the long trudge, dodging from side to side to avoid the swarms of lost souls that seem to inhabit modern airports. Eventually I reached the seating area and settled for long wait number two. Why airports insist you have to be booked in two to three hours before take-off always irritates me. Imagine if buses and trains did the same. I sighed. Who was I to question the airport philosophy of putting their convenience before that of their customers? Of course ‘terrorism threats’ have now simply compounded the grief by giving airports carte blanche to be as rude as they want with total impunity. I don’t have a fear of flying; I just hate the process. There was no-one at the embarkation desk yet so I decided to go and ‘splash my boots’ as we say at home. I listened for a full two minutes to those around me. There were no Scouse accents (American readers might wish to insert Bronx accents) in evidence so I decided it was safe to leave my luggage in situ – at least my camera rucksack looked little different to any other. The ‘Ladies’ room was nearby, so I set off briskly so I wasn’t away too long. Why Americans call it a ‘rest room’ is a mystery to me. Surely sleeping in the cubicles must be very uncomfortable as well as anti-social?

Once inside having completed my ablutions, I paused to check my hair in the mirror. My pony tail seemed to have degenerated to the extent that it now had hind-legs, as my father was wont to describe my frequent dishevelment. I checked my watch. What do you expect? Half the world was still in bed. An exclamation behind me brought me back to the real world.

‘Merde!’

I giggled. I don’t know why but I have a soft spot for women who can swear in French. The mot de Cambronne - the quintessential French oath. Made famous at Waterloo, when one of Bonaparte's generals, a certain Cambronne, when hopelessly outnumbered and asked to surrender, raised his sabre and hurled it across the barricades accompanied by the single, defiant word: Merde!

I turned to find an old dear tugging at one of those machines that dispenses condoms, packets of aspirins, tampons, hand wipes, tissues and pork pies and all the other requisites that that the modern woman flyer is deemed to require. A small elderly woman with grey hair streaked with black tied up in a bun, smartly dressed in what looked like expensive French chic thumped the machine and cursed again.

‘Putain de merde! Vous êtes aussi utile qu'un frein à main sur un canoe.’

I tried not to laugh. I assumed she had inserted her money and not had delivery of her condom or pork pie. One of her hands was wedged in the large aperture into which purchases are delivered. It was then I noticed her hands were wet and assumed naively this was to allow her to get her hand further into the bowels of the machine. Perhaps she was a retired gynaecologist?

She turned to me and hissed. ‘Don’t just stand there! Help me!’ As I approached she looked up at me. Well I say looked up at me, but more accurately she was looking over my shoulder. Sometimes I can be quite dense, and several moments elapsed before it dawned on me that the woman was blind. She clearly had mistaken the dispensing machine for the hand dryer.



The toilet had been fitted with the new Dyson airblade hand driers, which because you insert your hands in the top or sides are fitted lower down the wall and have none of the obvious feel of a normal hand drier. I gently guided her by the elbow to the drier and showed her how to insert her hands. Initially she seemed startled by the flesh wobbling force of the air current and then looked up at me and grinned. ‘Thank you!’ she said. ‘I knew I could ask you for help.’

‘You did?’ I replied perplexed.

‘Of course! You’re wearing Coco’s finest,’ she smiled warmly. ‘I could tell you were a woman of refinement.’ I suppose I should have told her that my Dad forever stuck for presents for my mother buys gallons of it and she not wishing to offend or discourage him simply passes several bottles a year onto me.

Once the old woman had finished, I guided her out and brought her over to sit with me. She was after all probably somebody’s mother and I hoped somebody would do the same for my Mum when she got older.

She introduced herself : ‘I’m Lily’ She was clearly educated and had an air of authority that reminded me of my maths mistress (teacher) at school. It must have been at this juncture that I erroneously assumed she was a retired teacher, one of the old school, who had been educated long before the mediocrity of ‘grey brick’ universities had been visited upon us. I didn’t know then that I couldn’t have been more wrong in my assessment of her career. Later it would transpire that she had once done some lecturing, but for the moment I couldn’t quite explain the considerable aura of gravitas she seemed to exude. While we waited I shuffled off to buy a couple of Cappuccinos and shortly after we boarded. I guided her to her seat in the steerage, said goodbye and headed back up front to business class……. to be continued.