Flight X

As a younger man I did a fair bit of travelling.

I once found myself in Helsinki airport with five hours to kill before my flight. Now as anyone who has spent time in one will testify airports are routinely dull places in which to kill time. Add to this that I had finished the book I was reading on an earlier flight and the batteries on my walkman had died and things were looking rather grim. I therefore decided that my options were

1. Retire to the bar to drink beer and smoke cigarettes
2. Go and find a place to eat
3. Visit the duty free shop
4. Go and explore

Each option was considered in turn with my thinking being…

1. Five hours in an airport bar = drunk passenger and the possibility of being declined access to my flight thus necessitating an overnight stay and the purchase of a new ticket the following morning. Risky and expensive.
2. Airport food is generally shite and prohibitively expensive so this was quickly ruled out
3. As I was already carrying the maximum permitted allowance of cigarettes and I don’t wear aftershave or have anyone to buy perfume for this one was also ruled out.
4. This seemed the cheapest option and who knows what may turn up…

How prophetic this thought turned out to be. After navigating my way around the corridors and concourses past restrooms and prayer rooms I found myself in front of a door labelled sauna/massage parlour. Being rather younger and a little naïve I immediately concluded that Finland was a crazier country than I thought. After all at home sauna/massage parlour is a euphemism for brothel which means that the “masseuse” would clearly offer “extras”.

Confused and somewhat intrigued by this state of events I elected to retire to the bar and ponder this quandary. After a couple of glasses of the local brew (Lappin Kulta) I decided to retrace my steps and pay the masseuse a visit purely in the interests of research you understand. It was my intention to play the ignorance card if things got out of hand (or should that be if things got taken IN hand?)

After sheepishly knocking the door I was greeted by a stunning Norse maiden who clearly was no crack whore. In perfect English she beckoned me in and enquired as to my needs. After staring at her blankly for what felt like an age she took pity on me and listed the services available. I elected to have the “house special”.

I emerged about an hour later exhausted but felling like a $1,000,000.

I am delighted to report that nothing untoward occurred. After a relaxing steam in the sauna the young lady showed me to a table where I lay down and allowed her to knock seven shades of shite out of me for thirty minutes before relieving me of nothing more than a few foreign notes.

Stranger In Paradise

It is Christmas Day 1999 and having just enjoyed a shower I find myself in a bathrobe on my hotel balcony in India sipping a large gin & tonic.

Why India? Well I’m still unsure as to why I have just quit my job and landed here but what the fuck!.

The western world is in the grip of Y2K paranoia and here I am in this idyllic paradise far away from the fear and stress secure in the knowledge that if it does all go wrong I will enjoy much less of an impact here than at home. From my balcony all I can see is palm trees and the Arabian Sea. It is around 6pm and as I watch the beautiful sunset I think of home.

Around this time I figure it may be an opportune moment to call home and wish those I left behind a Merry Christmas. I retrieve my cell phone from the dressing table and call my sister’s number. Three rings and I’m connected. I duly chat with my sister and her husband before asking if I can speak to my dad. Whilst my sister is handing over the phone the weirdest thing happens…

A real live elephant wanders up the road outside the hotel without a care in the world. For a city boy like me this was something of a shock...

Well bugger me with a fish fork I think…this might well be the best Gin I’ve ever tasted. Just then I snap back to reality when I hear the familiar tones of my father.

Smoke 'Em

Saturday afternoon and having been locked out of my Highland retreat I found myself in the local pub. If I was nowhere then this pub was surely the middle of it. It was perched on a mountainside in the centre of a loose collection of homes in varying states of decay. One or two of these properties were clearly in the middle of being refurbished going by the volume of plant scattered around.

Anyway the bar is L-shaped and furnished in 70’s chic. It wasn't retro the furniture was original. The tables sported chipped Formica tops in burnt orange which complemented the nicotine soaked walls nicely.

I sat at the corner of the L with an unobstructed view of the pub including the alcove which is out of sight of the bar. To my right sitting in the alcove are four 40 something men who from their accents are clearly not local. For the last ten minutes they have been throwing back pints of Stella in between using the Formica tops to “chop up” lines of coke that would have made Scarface envious.

Each of them in turn snorted their lines. Throughout this I was trying to keep my eyes on the novel in my hand but as the group got louder the task became more difficult.

After a couple of drinks and a line or two of the finest Columbian the men all rose in unison before donning their coats and disappearing outside.

They returned five minutes later smelling of cigarette smoke and ordered more beers before retiring to their seats in the alcove. Clearly they believed that observing the public smoking ban was important. After all they wouldn't want to break the law now, would they?

Truly a sign of the times.