Fan Art courtesy of Luna Staple!
I’d insisted on getting a transfer flight rather than travel
all the way down to London for a direct one, so I had a million pieces of paper
with details of airports and phone numbers. I had to get from Brum to Amsterdam
and then on to Rome. Plenty of time to deal with it all – I had an hour in
Amsterdam airport to chill out, buy some clogs and be on my dutch way. Not
difficult. So I chilled out on the plane with my free and very horrible biscuit
and horrible but who cares it’s free glass of wine.
We landed a while later at Amsterdam airport, which didn't look very big. I always dress nicely for travel after seeing a woman complete a
12 hour red eye flight to New York in a white linen suit, and deciding although
she’d clearly had 40 years experience over me I could easily do the same thing.
So I was bedecked in tall wedges and a nice little skirt and blouse number,
just in case it turned out dutch men were hot. (They’re not)
I then heard the tanoy announcement from the pilot telling
me the weather was lovely and he hoped I’d enjoyed my flight etc etc and the
local time was 3pm. Ah. This might be an issue. My next flight was at 3pm. But
that wasn't right – I had an hour to chill out and buy those flowers you get in
Holland or wherever I was. Err Tulips! Where was my tulip time?
Then I realised.
The transfer hadn't accounted for this godforsaken hell hole
to be an hour ahead… I was already late for my next flight with no idea how to
get to it and for godssake turn the bloody passenger seatbelt sign off and let
me get off this plane and work out where I need to be!! I grabbed my
handluggage and jammed to the front with all the other crazy business people
(now you know why they all have BO they’re all already late for their next
flight)
Although Amsterdam airport is small, it’s a lot bigger when
you are running the ENTIRE LENGTH of it in wedges. My name had already been
read over the tanoy a few times in broken Amsterdamese, I had to wait for my
baggage to come out of the carousel thingy, then recheck in through customs
which involved me taking my shoes, my belt my glasses and my tongue bar out,
then put back on my wedges, shove my tongue bar in my mouth (not through my
tongue- oh no – literally in my mouth and hope I didn't choke) stop to admire
the tulips (and stop myself from collapsing– clearly all the wind turbines are
stealing the oxygen) and finally, blessedly, reach my gate after shoving a
small child out the way on those rolling flat escalator things.
Time for another horrible biscuit, 2 glasses of wine (I’d
more than deserved these babies) and a quick text to everyone I’d ever met to
tell them my name had been read over an airport tanoy! (That’s practically fame
in my book) when we were off again.
We finally arrived at 8 o'clock I was starving and grubby
and wanted to pull my pyjamas out and put them on right there in the airport. I
clambered into a taxi, and after a bit of dodgy Italian where the driver nearly
took me to the Vatican because I politely enquired where it was (2 hours away
from Rome – he must have thought me a really devout person till I started
slugging the duty free vino rosso in the back of the taxi) I got to the
Raddison hotel.
Ah. Peace. Quiet. Bed. Sleep and room service.
I got collared at the reception by the client. I didn't have
time to put my suitcase upstairs I went straight in and worked till 3am. My
personal highlight of this first night was meeting the head of the very large and
important company (a deceptively jovial Italian) while I had my first (and
therefore massive) bite of club sandwich – you know the kind where you take a
huge bite and then realise you can’t even more your mouth to chew or swallow
and you need to just spend a few minutes trying not to panic and accept that
eventually the food will have to exit your mouth somehow.
He seemed to take it all in his stride. After all, he was a deceptively jovial Italian.
