John Butleron a fraught, early-morning journey to the airport.
We are habitual creatures, and when it comes to travel, if you're used to taking a particular route month after month, year after year, it can be illuminating to go another way for once. At the airport, we move trance-like from departures past security, through duty-free, then stop at our boarding gate. Then we get on a plane and fly somewhere. This is what happens 99 per cent of the time, and it's only when it doesn't happen in this way - and with this hypnotic inevitability - that you realise how many small miracles take place between your home and your holiday destination.
The night before I was due to fly to Berlin for a weekend break, I realised that in my excitement, I hadn't yet booked an airport taxi. I was in a pub and didn't have my flight details to hand, but I remembered 8.30am as a point in time when something was due to happen. I booked a taxi for 6am and thought nothing more of it.
I was climbing into the cab the next morning when the phone rang. Rory wanted to know if I was nearly there, and I told him that I wasn't. He reminded me that the flight was at 7.30am, and that I was now in a rush situation. I relayed this to the driver, and it was taken as a criticism of his driving style. Yields were now stopped at, and stops took minutes. We were losing time and I still had to stop at an ATM. He chugged onwards, and we finally hit the motorway for the airport, hugging the hard shoulder.
The flight was leaving in 65 minutes when the cab rolled up at the airport. Sweating, mouth dry from panic, I ran into the terminal and stuck my passport page into the automated check-in machine. It refused to process my check-in and asked me to contact a humanoid. I found the line for the flight to Berlin, facing 10 empty workstations. Just 59 minutes to go.
An airline representative appraised the queue, took position at one of the terminals and lifted the phone. I could just about make out the discussion - she was trying to figure out when her lunch break came. I was relieved, it would have been really frustrating had the matter been trivial. I waited and waited and waited. By the time she called the guy ahead of me, my flight departure time was 50 minutes away. By the time she called me, the plane was leaving in 40 minutes, and she told me the gate had closed. She helpfully suggested that I get to the airport earlier next time.
My friends called again. They were about to board. I told them to press on, and that I would see what I could do to join them on another flight. A man at the ticket desk told me that the only other flight to Germany on that day was to Dusseldorf. I asked him if he knew where Dusseldorf was, and he said it was in Germany. He then explained that the Dusseldorf flight was now closing, and I had two minutes to buy a ticket, for an extra €90.
My friends know some things but their knowledge of geography is horrible. Still, I placed the call. "Any idea where Dusseldorf is?"
"Germany."
"Could you be any more specific?"
I could hear Rory cupping the phone and bellowing to the entire departure gate of the Berlin flight. "Does anyone know how far it is from Dusseldorf to Berlin?"
Silence. Everyone looked at him as if he was bananas. Back at the ticket counter, the man tugged at my sleeve impatiently. I had under one minute to decide. I took a deep breath and palmed over my credit card. Relief. At least I was going to Germany today. This was an achievement. As I walked away with my new ticket, I could hear my friends being paged over the intercom - a last call for them to board their Berlin flight. I would see them in Berlin later that evening.
I joined the security queue, and waiting for the X-ray machine, I tried to conjure up an image of Dusseldorf on a map. I sent my jacket and phone through the X-ray, and as I dressed myself on the far side of security, I could hear my name being paged for the Dusseldorf flight. I ran to the bookshop and scanned the shelves for a travel guide to Germany, feeling like Jason Bourne on a stag weekend.
I scanned the pages for a map, then stared aghast at a little dot called Dusseldorf, a considerable distance across the page from the Berlin dot. I could fit three fingers between the dots. I looked at the legend and it confirmed my worst fears. Hundreds and hundreds of miles separated them. My name was paged again - the last and final boarding call. Shaking, I flipped to the transport section of the guide book. Dusseldorf to Berlin was a five-hour, €150 train journey. I had already bought two flights to Germany. I had to go. I shut the book and ran.
At the gate, the flight attendant took my boarding pass and ripped it. I glanced at my phone. One missed call. Rory. He must have called while my phone was being passed through the X-ray machine. I dialled my voice mail.
"Yo John, it's Rory. We missed our flight. Turns out we were sitting at the Rome gate, talking to a couple of Italian chicks. No wonder no one knew where Dusseldorf was! We're having a smoke outside, thinking about getting breakfast."
There would be no Germany that weekend. No Berlin, not even a Dusseldorf. There would be only the usual trip, taken in reverse, from boarding gate to taxi, a drive through the waking city, and back to bed, some four hours - and €300 - later. u
John Butlerblogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com.