Tickets, please!

Posted on October 25, 2008 by Hails

In Tallinn, as in most European cities that I’ve visited, public transport fares are paid using an honour system – that is to say, you buy your book of tickets at a kiosk and then it’s up to you to be honest and stamp one of them once you’re on board.

I always do this, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, I’m a good girl. Honest, obedient, law-abiding – a model citizen. Secondly, I like using the machines. I think it’s fun. And thirdly, I could not handle the fear of being caught riding without a ticket. Despite my declaration that I always have a ticket, I’ll never forget the one occasion when I made quite a lengthy bus journey without one. I was in Bratislava, and it was not at all my fault, obviously. Bearing much luggage, and having just arrived from Vienna or somewhere like that, I stumbled around the decidedly frightening and smelly station, engaging in my favourite pastime of asking random strangers if they spoke English.

Absolutely no one did. Not even enough to understand the question, which was a first. All I wanted was a bus to the airport, but not even an intensive gaze at information posters was any help to me, since the Slovak word for airport is nothing even remotely like it is in other European languages. Normally you can at least take a guess, or they’ll have a helpful little plane symbol next to the word, but not here! I stood there, surrounded by rather scary, greasy men in Rab C. Nesbitt vests, and regretted having given up smoking several hours earlier.

Thankfully, as I was purchasing cigarettes (by way of pointing, miming smoking, and nodding frantically), I overheard a backpacker couple leaving the shop and talking in French about the airport bus, which left the station every half hour or so from stop 45. Having completely abandoned all hope of ever figuring out how to purchase a ticket, never mind where, I located the stop and got on to the next bus without the faintest idea if it went to the airport or to a small impoverished ghetto where I would be stabbed and eaten by hungry locals upon my arrival. I sat there, becoming increasingly nervous with every stop the bus made. Never mind the fact that I might have been on the wrong bus; there was also the deep fear that an inspector would appear and throw me into a very scary prison cell with cockroaches and a crack addict called Marge, for not having a ticket. The sight of the locals dutifully stamping their tickets – to the extent where, if it was not possible to get through the crowd to the machine, a ticket was solemnly passed along from hand to hand until it reached the person nearest the machine, who stamped it and passed it back to be returned to its owner – did nothing to reduce my terror. I spent the entire journey playing out all the possible Getting Caught scenarios in my head and trying to come up with a better defence than bursting into tears and playing the clueless foreigner card. I was never so relieved to get off a bus and enter the relative familiarity of an airport.

Anyway, to return to the present day, on my way back from the supermarket I saw the Tallinn tram police for the first time. Since July, they’ve started conducting random spot checks to ensure that people aren’t abusing the system. Sneakily, they park by the tram lines and stop the tram between two stops, so that nobody can sneak off out the back door or anything. Nosily (and almost getting run over in the process), I watched as several luckless stowaways were hauled off and – to my horror – taken into the back of the ominous-looking green van. The door was slammed shut. Filled with morbid curiosity, I lingered for a while, but no one emerged, and I reluctantly left the scene. What do they do to you if you haven’t punched your ticket? As a deterrent to fare-dodging, this sighting has certainly worked on me. Online sources say they fine you, but this definitely looked a lot more worrying than that.

I’m going to be so nervous when I’m on a tram now. There’s the added complication, you see, of the machines being different here. Unlike the electronic ones to which I’ve become accustomed during my travels (which make a reassuring BEEP and spit out your ticket with the date and time clearly printed across it), these ones are nothing more than glorified hole punches. Insert ticket, pull lever with some force, remove punched ticket. I always worry if my ticket doesn’t punch properly. Sometimes I attempt to repunch it, and inevitably find that this makes matters worse, since the holes don’t line up properly and it looks as if I’ve reused an old ticket, and the whole thing just makes me panic horribly and wish I had a car. In addition to this, the pattern of holes on the ticket is different every time (I believe they have a different pattern for each tram, so that you don’t just use the same ticket over and over again), and I have an irritating habit of shoving the ticket back into my pocket, only to realise to my dismay that there are also half a dozen old tickets in there, too, all with different punched-hole patterns, and there is no way of knowing which one is the right one, which would be difficult to explain in Estonian to a ticket inspector torturing you by inserting sharp things underneath your fingernails in the back of a van, when you’re still struggling with the present conditional tense.

It’s not easy being me.

Filed under: airport, bus, confusion, Estonia, Fear, foreign languages, trams, travel, uncertainty, worry | 3 Comments »

Withdrawal. Again. (Or “In which I kindly, with the patience of a saint, refrain from exploding and injuring all the imbeciles that seem to surround me”)

Posted on September 22, 2008 by Hails

Hey Hayley! screams the irritatingly enthusiastic message from Facebook. Now you can throw a spaghetti cat at your friends!

Isn’t that marvellous?

I have been up since the early hours, on train after bus after train and all but strip-searched at the airport by a possible witch (with PMS). I have been shaken around inside one of those fluroescent tin cans that Ryanair call planes, with my knees somewhere near my ears and my right ear so severely popped that no amount of swallowing is prompting a return to a normal level of hearing. I have only vaguely recovered from my food poisoning incident, and so the ridiculously-priced sandwich I attempted to eat earlier is now lurching around quite dangerously in my stomach. I have in my hand a ticket from Riga Airport to Riga Coach Station to Tallinn Coach Station – only it appears that there is no bus to Riga Coach Station, despite the fact that I have paid for it, and so now I must find a bus into the city and do all the ridiculous Excuse me, do you speak English? nonsense again. And probably pay more money, too. There is also a small child running up and down the airport lounge screaming blue murder, and his parents appear to be deaf or just defeated.

I may also need to mention that I have not had a cigarette since approximately 10pm last night, and I want to kill the small child, its parents, Facebook’s Superpoke team, Eurolines bus company, hotdog vendors worldwide, Michael O’Leary, and the Swedish airport shuttle driver who tried to draw it to the attention of the entire bus when I accidentally tried to pay him in Slovakian money, not really seeing the difference in the notes. I will not, of course, kill any of these people, because underneath it all I am actually a really nice person. Not quite Julie Andrews, but perhaps at least a little bit Marge Simpson.

And then I log into Facebook and see a new notification. Ah, I think gratefully, a little note or message from someone who loves me, is thinking about me, or just wants to say hello! But no. It is a message that proudly explains my new ability to throw spaghetti cats at my friends, as if it is something I have been longing for, and indeed something that will genuinely improve my life. I am disgusted with everything in general. I have just purchased a vodka at the bar. I do not care that I can’t afford it. It is the only way I am going to survive.

And it tastes crap without a cigarette. As does the world.

Filed under: airport, anger, cold turkey, complaining, decisions, mental health, rage, rant, smoking, tiredness, travel | 8 Comments »

I prefer trains.

Posted on September 18, 2008 by Hails

An hour. A whole sodding hour I spent packing and repacking my bag before I left Vienna to catch my flight from Bratislava. I really don’t understand how I have exactly the same amount of stuff before every flight, and yet each time it seems to take up more and more space in my bag no matter how much squishing and squashing and rolling up I do.

Still, I got it all in (and, you see, part of the problem is that I can’t just be content with that if I’m to get it on as hand luggage – it needs not only to fit, but to fit with room to spare. Not bulging at the sides, as on the rather disastrous flight from Eindhoven to Stansted, which saw me removing items in a fluster whilst on the plane, being watched by a disapproving flight attendant and several middle-aged Cockney geezers who felt the need to tut at me, as I attempted to make the bag go into the overhead lockers). And then I put on all my extra jumpers, jackets etc. to go through security. Waddling along like a plump little barrel, I deposited my bag and outer jacket on the conveyor belt.

Sadly, it seems that the fatness of my face does not quite match the fatness of my body when I’m wearing 10 layers of clothing, and the Slovakian security woman, suspecting that my body was actually a long way beneath my clothes, indicated that I should remove more jackets. Sweating unpleasantly, I struggled out of a few more items and added them to the heap before going through to collect everything at the other side.

But no. Open, said the next security woman, indicating my bag. I groaned inwardly, realising what was about to happen. And yes – she went through all my stuff in a very half-hearted, disinterested manner, pulling all my tightly-crammed items of clothing loose, and then said OK. It’s not even like there was anything in there that shouldn’t have been (and once again I think of the Eindhoven incident, where I ended up flinging my shampoo etc. at someone and saying Take it! Keep it! Throw it away, I don’t care – I’m going to miss my flight!). She just fancied a nosey.

Fuming, I stared hopelessly at my bag, once so meticulously organised, now in a state of disarray. There was nothing for it but to try to cram everything in again. And now, as I sit at the gate waiting for my flight, I realise to my dismay that the bag is once again bulging at the sides, so I’ve another battle with an overhead locker to get through before I can relax for an hour.

I hate flying.

Filed under: airport, anger, flying, packing, tiredness, travel | 4 Comments »

Where am I?

Posted on September 16, 2008 by Hails

I’m suffering from a severe case of haven’t-got-a-clue-where-I-am-itis, which means that the first few minutes upon waking up in the morning are becoming increasingly confused and disorientated. It’s a new ailment to me, since for much of my life it was a safe bet that when I opened my eyes I would be in Ballymena, Northern Ireland. Things are a little less certain these days.

I’ve had to develop a routine upon waking: firstly, don’t just assume that you’re in the last place you remember being, as sometimes the mind simply can’t keep up. Take a moment. Let your brain wake up before you attempt any complicated memory feats.

Next, try to remember which country you’re in. This is an extremely helpful step, and makes the next one much simpler. Which city? Cast your mind back to the day before, and gather all appropriate information: train journeys, names of stations passed through, people spoken to… it’s all relevant. Once you’re reasonably confident of your approximate geographic location, you can try to get more specific.

Open your eyes and look around – do you recognise the room? Initially, the answer tends to be “Erm… no”, but don’t panic: generally you can  retrace your steps from the night before, and at least recall the last person you saw before going to sleep. This tends to help narrow things down (consider what language they spoke, what their accent was like, that sort of thing – grab any stray pieces of jigsaw that you can find).

In the past week, I have woken up in Holland, England, and Hungary, and now sit dazed and confused in Austria. Three mornings in a row found me in three different countries. From a loft room in Utrecht, to a pink bedroom in Cambridge (I have been sternly reprimanded for calling it “London”, but it was close enough. I got to meet up with yet another internet acquaintance, mainly because of the proximity of his house to the airport, and to sleep in a real bed. Hurrah!), to a hostel in Balaton.  Since then, I’ve slept on someone’s couch in Budapest, and am currently in some guy’s flat in Vienna, looking out at the rain with a feeling of utter exhaustion. I do not want to see any more nice buildings. I do not want to ask anyone else if they speak English. I do not want to visit another museum, or climb another hill, or try to figure out how, where and when to validate tram tickets in yet another city.

I don’t mean that I don’t ever want to do these things again, of course. Give me a few weeks to recharge the batteries and no doubt I’ll be wondering which country I can visit next. For now, though, I’m knackered. I have no energy left: only this afternoon I got stuck in a set of tram doors, which rather inconsiderately closed on me as I was trying, in my feeble state, to struggle up the steps with my bags. I do not know the German for Somebody help me, I am going to be killed when the tram takes off with me half in and half out of it!, but fortunately Arrrrghhhh! seems to be universally understood, and a guy on the tram leapt forward to open the doors and haul my bags in with one hand, and me with the other, as the tram went merrily on its way.

No more! I want to wake up in the same bed for several days in a row. I want to spend an entire day sitting in one place. I want to spend some time with someone who actually knows me, and have real conversations. And so, after the weekend, I’m heading back to the familiar surroundings of Tallinn and the comfortable company of Riho. Ah, Tallinn: where everything is cheap, people speak English, and my biggest problem is being unable to identify the ingredients for my speciality dishes in the supermarket.

Just need one final spurt of energy for a whirlwind tour of Vienna, a train ride to Slovakia, a flight to Sweden, sightseeing in Stockholm, a flight to Latvia and a six hour bus ride to Estonia, but sure that’s nothing…

Filed under: airport, confusion, conversations, England, flying, foreign languages, friends, Holland, hostels, Hungary, normality, time out, tiredness, trams, travel | 7 Comments »

Tired and Hungary

Posted on September 12, 2008 by Hails

I was utterly unprepared for my trip to Hungary.

For a start, I completely failed to think about the fact that there might be a severe lack of English-speaking people here – probably not such a relevant issue if I’d been going to somewhere like Budapest (that’s still a few days away), but as it was, I flew into a little airport in the middle of nowhere, near Lake Balaton. The hostel’s website had apparently simple instructions for getting there – take the airport shuttle either directly there, or to a town called Keszthely. Since the airport wanted to charge me €40 (!!!) to go directly there, I chose the latter, “where there is regular public transport to the hostel”.

You can ask at that building for information, said the driver, pointing towards a desolate booth before leaving me standing at the dusty roadside, sweating profusedly. I trundled somewhat dubiously up to the booth. Excuse me, do you speak English? I gave the man my usual conversation opener. No, he said. We looked at each other for a moment. I was uncertain of how to proceed, given that the usual response to my question at such places is either “yes” or “not very much”, making it possible to proceed, however long the conversation might take with a few French/Dutch/Estonian words thrown in for good measure.

Erm… I battled on, showing him my scribbled hostel directions, train? Bus? I looked hopefully at him, and he shrugged. OK, I concluded with a weak smile. Thank you. He slammed shut the window, leaving me staring at the rather misleading “Information” sign.

I had an emergency cigarette under the ineffectual shade of a leafless tree, and located the train station. Nervously, I approached the woman behind the desk.  Excuse me, do you speak English? That’s going to be the name of my book, by the way.

No, she said.

Once again I waved my bit of paper, and once again I got a blank stare and a shrug. Defeated, I slunk off to a corner to open my laptop and check for WiFi availability. Of which there was, of course, none whatsoever. Seriously alarmed now, and picturing myself having to live forever at the side of this road in the arse end of nowhere, I used my phone to google the hostel, and found more specific directions. Trying to breathe deeply, I returned to the desk. Here? I asked, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

She looked as relieved as I did when whatever was on the page made sense to her, and she wrote out the train changes for me, and sold me a ticket (for 900HF, which I believe is something like €4, as opposed to €40: ha!). Rather naively thinking my problems were over, I went out to the platform. Nothing was marked, and it was one of those train stations where, if you wait for a few hours and are lucky enough, you might just see a train.

It was 29°C, I’d been up since 6am, I was at a train station somewhere in Hungary with absolutely no idea where to go or how to get there, and nobody spoke any English. I’d actually like a huge big round of applause for the fact that I didn’t curl up in a corner and burst into tears. And that I managed three changes of train all by myself, each with at least an hour of a gap in between them and nothing to indicate that they were the right trains. I slept for a long, long time last night.

It was, however, worth all the trauma. Just you wait till you see where I’m staying…

Filed under: airport, changes, confusion, culture, disorganisation, Fear, foreign languages, hostels, Hungary, sun, tiredness, travel | 8 Comments »

From Luxury’s Lap To Rock Bottom

Posted on August 18, 2008 by Hails

Oh, crap.

I have just realised that I’m homeless. I actually am a homeless person, that is to say, a person with no home. I am sans domicile and without casa. I have no abode. This sobering realisation just hit me in the face like a branch that’s been pushed forward by the hiker in front of you, who has then rather selfishly let go of it. Whack! Homeless! It happened when I noticed that it’s only a week until the house owners return from their holiday and will most likely expect me to leave. Panickily, I went on to couchsurfing.com and started firing away some pleading messages to complete strangers, asking if they’d take me in for a night or two. It was at this point that I thought to myself “Hmmm. If someone was homeless, this would be a really good way of getting somewhere to stay. Sleep on a different couch every night.” My thoughts snowballed, as they so often do, and suddenly it became glaringly obvious to me that I am, in fact, one of those homeless people doing exactly that. It was most unsettling.

I have also had to buy a smaller bag, because my next month of travelling is going to be a far cry from the cushty lifestyle that I have experienced in the House Of Luxury, and I cannot possibly carry that monster of a backpack around with me without causing permanent damage to my back. This means that I really am travelling light, with only a few changes of clothes, a passport, and a bottle of shampoo to my name. Add to this the fact that I have no confirmed places to stay for the next month, and that several nights are likely to involve roughing it, sleeping at airports, crashing on couches, or as a very last resort shelling out more money than I can afford in order to share a dorm with 15 other people in a smelly youth hostel, and you’ll see I’m really no different from the guy curled up outside Tesco with his bag of belongings and dependence on the kindness of strangers.

Anyway. I’m trying not to panic about it, because I did say I wanted to see the world, and until I can afford to stay in fancy hotels and have people carry my cases of designer label clothes around, this is the only way I can do it. Did I tell you about the Ryanair sale? At a fiver per flight, it was a lifesaver! And so, my plans for the next month are as follows: get a lift to The Netherlands and spend a few days in Rotterdam, a few in Amsterdam, and a few in Utrecht, working my way around by train and eventually catching a flight to London (because that was the easiest place to go in order to get flights to further afield… not because I’m suddenly missing the UK or anything). Then it’s off to Balaton, Hungary. No real reason. Is the “but the flight only cost a fiver!” thing enough?! Will check out Budapest, of course, and then on to Vienna to catch a flight to Stockholm.

I’ve always wanted to go to Sweden. Partly because my A Level history teacher was a bit obsessed with the place, and his enthusiasm rubbed off, but also (less understandably) because I absolutely adored an obscure song entitled “Sweden” by the Divine Comedy at roughly the same time. Months of tunelessly howling “I would like to live in Sweden… Sweeeeedennnnnn….!” to the funky orchestral music must have brainwashed me a bit, because I want to go there more than could reasonably be expected from my limited knowledge of the country. Anyway. It’s not quite living there, but a few days is a nice introduction. And did I mention that it’s only a fiver to get there?

Then on to Latvia, where I will catch a bus and make the six hour journey back to Tallinn – which somehow seems like home to me now, when I think about it. After that, who knows? The world’s a big place. And, err, I have no money. But I’m enjoying exploring the various ways of travelling cheaply. If anyone has any other ideas, I’d be delighted to hear them! And until then, does anyone want to buy a huge, oversized backpack, nearly new, containing several (not nearly as nice) items of clothing?

Filed under: advice, airport, changes, contemplation, decisions, disorganisation, simplicity, travel, uncertainty | 9 Comments »

The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself

Posted on August 14, 2008 by Hails

I’ve just been trying to plan some interesting activities for my remaining time in Belgium, as – oh, joy! – my new bank card finally arrived and I can now afford to treat myself to a few train tickets.

I have no real interest in going to Brussels, to be honest. I know little about it, and what I’ve learned from my research doesn’t really grab my attention. However – I am in Belgium, a return ticket to the European Capital only costs €6, and it would be a bit embarrassing to say I hadn’t even spent a few hours in Brussels during the course of a month. So, I’ve picked out a couple of things that look interesting, including the Main Square and a flea market (so that I can pick up a few more insects, because I haven’t got enough here)*. However, what really got me enthusiastic was discovering that the Waterloo Battlefield is only 20 minutes from Brussels.

I’m not great with geography. Until approximately 15 minutes ago I had no idea that Waterloo was in Belgium. I know bits and pieces about the battle, and about Napoleon, and – most importantly – all the words of the Abba song. But quite often I can accumulate lots of information about something without ever thinking to ask the most basic of questions: in this case, Where is Waterloo?. Still, I know now, and I’m going there this weekend, because -get this! – they’re doing a battle re-enactment! This sounds so much more fun than looking at EU headquarters and stock market buildings. I hope they play the Abba song while the battle’s taking place. I expect that they will. Abba was probably Napoleon’s favourite band.

I was also amused to note a piece of advice on the Brussels Wikitravel page. All the oral information in the train stations is only in French and Dutch. Do not hesitate to ask someone if you do not understand what has been said. It’s a bit late for that. How was I to know that the message I heard at Bruxelles-Midi on my way here from Paris was to inform me that my train had been changed to a different platform? Oh, this is a pretty language! was my only thought as I listened to the lilting but incomprehensible Dutch words. Train arrived, I got on.

Upon my arrival at Brussels Airport, at the end of the railway line, I looked at the man beside me in some confusion. Why are we at the airport? Why didn’t we stop at Diest? I asked him. Because, he explained politely, this is the train for the airport, and not the train for Diest.

I had to take three different trains to get to the place I’d originally wanted to be in, which was not fun in 30°C and with all my worldly possessions on my back. Still. If I was keeping a little notebook entitled “Lessons Learned”, then “always ask someone if you don’t understand what has been said” would now be in there along with “don’t carry a purse” and “never trust a parrot” – and when you’ve learned something the hard way, you don’t tend to repeat the mistake.

It’s very educational, this whole travelling thing.

*Right up until my mid-teens, I really did think a flea market was a place to purchase fleas. No, I don’t want your pity…

Filed under: advice, airport, Belgium, culture, day trip, fighting, foreign languages, fun, tourists, travel | 7 Comments »

One night in Berlin

Posted on July 4, 2008 by Hails

I can’t say I was terribly taken with Berlin. Of course, I’m willing to acknowledge my extreme tiredness by the time I arrived there, coupled with my distress about the laptop death, and it’s perfectly plausible that I am just associating Berlin with these feelings now. Also, I didn’t actually see much other than, erm, the airport. However, I did think that the people I encountered were a little… abrupt. They weren’t exactly rude, but I didn’t feel very welcome, as a foreigner - the opposite of how I’ve felt in Estonia and France. 

In Estonia, most people speak English to some extent, and are happy to do so. In France, fewer people speak English, but they appreciate you making the effort to speak their language, and are very pleasant, patient and helpful as you stumble around in your faded memories of auxiliary verbs and the imperfect tense. Conversations take much longer, and can be quite embarrassing, but all my exchanges thus far have been friendly and punctuated with jokes and smiles. In Germany, I felt a bit stupid and snubbed every time I tried to ask for help or directions. Sad and weary, I finally retreated to a quiet corner of the airport and sat down to read my book.

An elderly gentleman approached with his luggage, indicating the space beside me and asking something in German. I nodded politely, indicating that the seat was free, and he sat down, arranging at his feet two battered leather bags and, quite inexplicably, a tightly sealed crate of bananas. I continued to read. The man fidgeted for quite a while, and then said something else, clearly hoping to have a conversation. This was impossible, because of my tiredness and the fact that I didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Ich spreche kein deutsch I said haltingly, shaking my head with an apologetic smile. He rolled his eyes and gave an annoyed grunt, muttering something under his breath. I chose to ignore this, and continued to read.

Eventually, he got up and just sort of shuffled off out of sight, leaving his luggage behind. I eyed the crate of bananas somewhat suspiciously, and decided to take advantage of his absence to move to a free bench at the other side of the lounge, where, exhausted, I curled up underneath my coat and tried to get some sleep.

I woke up to find myself staring at a gun.

This was a little unexpected. I blinked several times as I emerged from my doze, and let my eyes travel upwards to take in the uniform and face of the gun-wearer: an airport policeman who had apparently been told that I was seen talking to the Possible Terrorist who had abandoned his banana crate/box of explosives. Good grief. More than a little nervous, I explained my non-involvement, feeling the disapproval in his voice and expression, and hoping that he wasn’t going to arrest me. He looked at me with what I can only describe as a sneer, and nodded tersely before turning and walking away to deal with the bananas. Sleep was impossible from then on.

And that was Berlin. It was… an experience.

I note from my blog stats that I have some readers in Germany. I wish to make it clear that I have nothing against Germans – especially the ones who read my blog! Please don’t hate me. I’m simply reporting an experience. For all I know, they thought I was the rude one…

Filed under: airport, Berlin, confusion, conversations, Estonia, Fear, foreign languages, French, how rude, stress, tiredness, travel, unexpected | 6 Comments »

Tere, Eesti!

Posted on May 13, 2008 by Hails

Tere! Tere! Tere!

They say “Tere!” a lot in Estonia. They say it when you arrive in the airport in Tallinn, they say it when you go through passport control, they say it when you get into a taxi, or enter a shop/restaurant/coffee shop. This is perhaps not terribly surprising when armed with the knowledge that “tere!” means “hello!”, but it’s strange how unaware you tend to be of the number of times people say something in any given day until it’s the only word you actually know and recognise. Then it just sounds like it’s the only thing anyone is saying, ever. “Get some new words!” you feel like screaming, completely oblivious to the fact that the strings of rapid-paced vowel sounds being casually spouted all around you are, in fact, words.

And they don’t just say “tere”, either, in a what would be a very convenient “everything is pronounced exactly as it’s spelt” manner. They pronounce it “ted-day”, rolling the ‘r’ in quite a sexy, Spanish-sounding kind of way. This caught me somewhat off-guard in my enthusiastic “I’m going to speak every language in every country”, particularly as I didn’t expect to hear it before leaving Dublin. “Tere!” said the flight attendant to the person in front of me as we were boarding the plane. “Tere!” replied the person in front of me. “Tere!” said the flight attendant to me. At the last possible second before my bewilderment at all this apparent teddy-talk became undisguisable, my brain caught up with what was going on. “Tere!” I exclaimed suddenly, a little over-dramatically. The flight attendant looked startled at my jubilance, and I hurriedly moved along the aisle.

Estonian is a tricky language, but I’m determined. It is this determination that made my flight here extremely uncomfortable, as I picked up one of the free newspapers in an attempt to soak in as much of the language as possible and fool my brain into thinking it could learn it without exploding in a confused mess. Of course, seeing people reading newspapers turned out to be the flight attendants’ easiest method of identifying which passengers were Estonian-speaking, and which were English-speaking. This meant that I was spoken to in Estonian for the duration of the flight, despite only just having worked out the whole “tere!” thing. In the end, I curled up to go to sleep, so that I wouldn’t have to keep pretending to understand what they were saying to me. I saw people around me requesting pillows. My neck was sore. I would have liked a pillow.

However, I could not ask for one. Asking for a pillow would have meant speaking in English to the flight attendants who thought I was Estonian. I would have let myself down a bagful, and Ireland not even out of sight yet! No, that wouldn’t do at all. And so it was that I slept for a large part of the three-hour flight with my head balanced most uncomfortably on a metal armrest.

My back and neck have been decidedly stiff ever since, but at least those flight attendants don’t know I’m a Fake Estonian.

Filed under: airport, confusion, Estonia, foreign languages, travel | 11 Comments »

Automatic doors: bringing outside, inside!

Posted on December 11, 2007 by Hails

E2 and Jay are coming home from their trip to London. Hooray!

I am happy to be meeting my friends. I am less happy about the fact that I am standing in the Arrivals Lounge at Belfast International Airport, watching my breath form clouds in front of me and wistfully pretending I am smoking a cigarette. ‘Lounge’ is perhaps too generous a word. It is in fact more of an extension of Outside, with a roof, a couple of plastic chairs nailed to the wall, a vending machine that earns a living by stealing money, and a little screen to tell you exactly how late all the flights are going to be.

I always forget how extremely toe-freezingly cold it is in this place. It is actually colder than the Real Outside! This is a mystery that has often puzzled me, but as I seem to have spent an awful lot of time here lately, waiting for various friends and relatives, I have had the good fortune of being able to observe the situation and work out why it is so. The answer: automatic doors. They fly open if someone so much as entertains the thought of walking past them, or maybe just glances in their direction. Every time this happens, a gust of icy Outside air blasts in, and - because it’s being pushed in with force by the doors – carries with it a wind chill factor that you wouldn’t experience if you were just standing outside in ordinary Outside cold conditions.

I hop from foot to foot to stave off frostbite and maintain the circulation in my legs, as I need them in order to be able to drive home. I finish my third imaginary cigarette, and eye up a passing traveller who has a sexy, dishevelled look going on. He looks strangely at me and I panic for a moment that I have suddenly and inconveniently sprouted a white hair from my chin or something. Then I realise that I’m jumping around on the spot, smoking invisible cigarettes and coming up with clever theories about automatic doors in my head whilst staring distractedly at him in a way that could quite possibly be coming across as intimidating. He is perfectly entitled to glare defensively at me. I’d judge him if he didn’t, to be honest.

I am relieved to see Jay and E2 skipping towards me. Happily, I receive a lovely (warm) double hug and we leave the Amazingly Pointless Automatic Doors behind us forever. Or at least until the next pick-up. I ponder some of the advertising slogans I have come up with for automatic doors.  Automatic doors: it’s just like being outside! That’s my favourite one.

Filed under: airport, automatic doors, boredom, cold | Leave a Comment »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.