Sleepy Suffolk

The London City

Here we are, some 8 hours before our planned departure for sunny Portugal. Yet another night spent in the brisk cosiness of Stansted Airport. And amidst the newly padded blue-shaded benches, a mighty Christmas tree cheers the atmosphere. At least 15 ft tall (Laurine reckons 20), with a myriad of bright white lights and several stars (not to mention tinsel and other sundry), it seems this conifer is now the pride of the airport, or perhaps even Essex (and its notorious girls).

More on our trip soon…

It’s funny how people associate places with specific icons or memories. Take for instance Dublin. Many a tourist thinks for Guinness or perhaps Saint Patrick. Dear I wish I were one of those.

But unfortunately, to me, Dublin will be associated with the worst airport experience ever - soothed by a pintful of refreshing Irish cider - but still quite bitter.

In barely four days, the Ryanair-infested airport has witnessed one strike and two false bomb alerts the latter causing much delay. Using this security issue as an excuse, Ryanair - which flies some 10-odd services to Stansted from Dublin - told its customers all the planes were delayed by no less than 2 hours provided you had a bit of luck with. The irony: luck in Ireland, where tourist shops teem with bright green plush shamrock for kids to play with.

Better yet, Ryanair must obviously be run by leprechauns, those little two-feet tall mischevious creatures. Flight 294 departure initially planned at 3:35 PM was delayed off to… 11:50PM. Do the math: yes the time gap is a tad more than the one to two hour delays announced. In addition, the delay was by no means caused by the bomb threath in the early hours of the morning, au contraire. I learned, much to my surprise, that there was no available aircraft to take us to Stansted? Had the originally planned aircraft flown straight over the Bermuda triangle? Had the leprechauns stolen it? Only God knows.

The adventure finished off by Andreas and I buying a new ticket at the Aer Lingus Sales counter. I always wanted to fly an airline that has a shamrock as a symbol. We’re currently sipping on two pints and playing around on our computers waiting for the long awaited flight.

The airport I had spent most time at was up to now Gatwick (9 hours waiting for a connection) but I reckon Dublin’s beaten that record easily. If I can learn a lesson from all this is Don’t take Ryanair as the only solution anymore*.

* Our Ryanair flight was 200 euros apiece bought a day in advance whereas the Aer Lingus flight was a mere 90 euros piece bought three hours in advance.

Sunday evening saw the Boss, Andy and I off to Italy - where the real coffee really comes from. The approach to the airport was in itself an adventure: the Boss took us on a longer shortcut and suddenly we all realized how precious were the minutes slowly ticking away. We eventually stormed into the short-term parking area and as the Boss reeled his car into a parking place, we sprinted on to the terminal.

Once inside we sped down the hall (it’s funny how they seem to stretch endlessly when one’s in a hurry) and got to the check-in counter just in time to show our ids, get the plane tickets, pass throught security, and board the plane.

Onboard the plane, snuggily sitting in the emergency exit row (the cosiest and widest seats on a Ryanair flight), we sipped a couple beers, munched on a few peanuts and tried keeping busy.

– if laptops had wireless energy supply, this post would’ve kept on — Stay tuned for more pepped-up posts.

It all started very early on Wednesday morning. Wake-up rush: I emerged from bed, slid down my bed’s ladder, slipped into smart clothes, stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, out again and finally all the way down to the front door, lugging my bag along with me trying not to hit scratch or otherwise tamper with the cream-white walls.

As I unlocked the front door and opened it, an insomniac cat made its way through into the house annoying me deeply as the taxi driver was already waiting outside by the sidewalk and as the train wouldn’t wait for me.

I went on a wild-goose chase up the flight of stairs (again) looking for the feline culprit. The race cut short when the kitty surrendered itself into my arms and I shooed it out for good. Once in the cab, we drove off in the night, picked Andy on the way and arrived at the train station in due time some seven pounds and a nice conversation later. Cab conversations are quite a phenomenon. I guess it’s even more of a riot when you’re the taxi driver. Our fellow driver talked about football players and the likes he sometimes drove around at night.

The train ride was a short (and punctual one) two stops down the track: Colchester North Station where we met up with Theo before speeding off to Stansted in a chorus of screeching tires.

The flight was eventless, the plane shiny new (a Germanwings bordeaux-red and bright green A319), and breafast on board the usual boring sandwich not looking nearly as salivating as the photo boasting the rocket salad carefully laid on a slice of prime German salami.

As dusk loomed over Stuttgart, Andreas and I paced up and down the main streets looking for a pub where to watch the Champions’ League game Arsenal vs. Villarreal. When we were about to give up, at the end of a long (and not narrow) street, we spotted the famous toucan in a black ellipse symbol, pride of Dublin, the Guiness symbol, also known as the tip of the iceberg (where the iceberg is an English pub).

We paid our way in and settled in on two stools right in front of the only TV showing the game while in the background some local Germans were clashing their vocal chords in a Karaoke contest. A few pints and a caipirinha later, the game ending in a one-goal win for Arsenal, Andreas and I headed for some food at a local sushi bar before travelling back to the hotel.