Following on from yesterday’s post about the new EES checks, or lack of them, I was reminded of Rhodes airport. To lighten the strain of reading this tale, I have, as usual, added random photographs, because it has been clinically proven that the insertion of a visual holds a reader’s attention. These ‘clinical trials’ apparently can also be invented to prove the whitening effects of toothpaste, the absorbency of lady-wear (now available in more technically accurate colours), and cat food. In this case, I just need to make the page look more appealing, and this is easily done when your husband takes such photos.
And so, to Rhodes airport.
The first time I stepped off a plane there in 1996, the first thing that hit me was the late August heat and the accompanying smell of exhaust fumes and Hawaiian Tropic. The second thing, which was far more impressive, was the way we were allowed to walk from the plane to the cattle grid; none of that being bussed five yards on that occasion.
A couple of years later, Neil and I were back there, and for a reason too complicated to explain in detail, endured a self-inflicted twelve-hour wait. We’d not used the outward tickets and wanted to make sure the return ones were still valid. This was a simple case of finding a company representative and asking them to check. Except it wasn’t, as there was no assistance to be had from that company, not even for a bribe. Not knowing Rhodes then as we do now, we knew of nowhere to store our rucksacks, and we didn’t fancy carting them around all day waiting for take-off at midnight. In the end, we spent twelve hours watching wave after wave of pink and red holiday makers rolling in, queuing up, shouting at children and grandparents alike, and watched it all from the upstairs café. We took it in turns to pass the time by walking up and down the length of the building, reading, and, in my case, writing scenes for a revue, until the hour of our own wave of passengers was upon us. There then followed a two-hour delay during which we sat on the floor with Morcheeba and talked about music and Symi. What better way to pass the time?
That was one self-inflicted delay. Another was out of my control, and it happened more recently when I was due to fly to the UK for a little family tour. First stop, London, to catch up with an old school friend I’d not seen for over 40 years. He was flying in a day after me, following a family holiday in Italy, and had only a couple of free days before flying back to New Zealand, where he’d settled. The planning was intricate, with, for me, a night in Brighton, a trip back to town, a night at a hotel in the West End, our lunch together, and then off to visit other places. It all began at nine-fifteen in the evening with a flight from Rhodes.
Except, it didn’t. We could all see the plane from our seats in the departure lounge, but was there any activity around it? Was there ’ell as like. Of course, this being EasyJet, the passenger selection did not disappoint. It wasn’t long before Mr Angry from somewhere dubious to the East of London was canvassing for a rebellion, Mr And Mrs Particular from the suburbs were fussing about insurance, and Mr Big-Business was on his phone to a great glass tower in the Docklands demanding repatriation by his firm. (Why did he need to fly with EasyJet?) The trouble was, there was no representative from EJ to be had, and I am sure the Angry family tried blackmail as well as bribery. It fell to a diminutive but forceful airport lady to tell us the flight was cancelled. It being gone midnight by now and still no activity outside, we’d already guessed this.
I can’t remember how I found out, by luck, I think, but if one went to a specific desk back out in departures, one could secure a replacement boarding pass for the flight, now due to leave at three the following afternoon. It was around 01.30 that I had to download an app to my phone, log in to an account, click this and that, and find my new boarding card magically in my hand. Virtually. The next problem was what to do for the next fourteen hours, and sitting around the airport again was not an option.
I should have gone to the Plaza and asked to kip on their sofa, or, as I was allegedly on holiday, book a room, but instead, I ended up at a hotel I shan’t name, but it’s in Mandraki and, for a reason I have never fathomed, popular with Symi visitors. A room at two in the morning? Yes, Sir. Here you are. Fifty euros.
I entered the set of a recently abandoned porn shoot. Both single beds were unmade and still warm, there was condensation drifting from the shower, where every towel was wet, and I had to check the wardrobe to ensure the recently copulating were not still doing so in there. (I’ve known stranger.) I had the impression that they would soon be back for scene two, and I knew I should have gone downstairs and remonstrated, but frankly, it was nearly three by this point, I’d come over on the ungodly-hour ferry nearly 24 hours previously, and all I wanted to do was sleep. Which I managed to do fitfully for two hours, with one eye on the chair blocking the door, while lying on a scabby spare blanket which, although it might have been bug-addled, was at least dry.
Just after five, I hauled myself around to the Plaza, and began making new arrangements to meet my mate, cancelling this pickup and that hotel while adding in another, and so on, until gleefully returning to the airport to once again go through security. It was while doing this that I realised the perfect way to lose weight was to stay awake in the manner of a Jesuit Priest writing poetry, endure an eighteen-hour delay, and fret a lot. Having removed any trace of metal from my person, including my belt, I stepped through the machine, put out my arms as instructed, and felt my trousers hit the floor.
Perfect.
Not so perfect was the plane taking off another two hours late and, having not been restocked, only having the dregs of the trolley to choose from. I snaffled the last remaining KitKat as my in-flight meal, and felt no shame. I mean, once you’ve dropped your trousers to a uniformed Greek security guard and not even turned a head, there is nowhere lower to go. Other than Easy Jet’s reimbursement scheme, where, after days of sticking receipts back together, finding proof, gathering ‘clinically-tested’ forensic evidence, and providing fingerprints, they still claimed I couldn’t claim, not even under the EU compensation scheme, because the delay was caused by God. (He/She, apparently, was and presumably still is, a squall over North Macedonia.)
I flew back from my trip with Jet2, who, at Stanstead, gave us continuous updates about, and apologies for, a ten-minute delay which came to nothing as we set off on time. And, with trousers.
