On the move

An unfamiliar cityscape rolls past smeared windows, and I squint to make out lights – red, blue, white mainly, on predictably tall buildings. Tinny speakers on the airport bus churn out Bon Jovi at low volume, competing, just, with the engine noise. As the bus comes to a slow halt, I resignedly pick up my bags and walk through another grey airport corridor that will lead me, I’m told, to the domestic terminal, and my connection. I’m traveling again.

Whoever said traveling for work was glamorous obviously went on one exciting trip to a Munich tradefair in 1987, the hard bed and eyes scratchy from aeroplane air long forgotten. This morning I splashed cold water on my tired face at 6.30am, early for a Sunday, early for any day for me, and dressed in carefully thought-out black layers for the change in environment. I’m grateful now, as I stop at a bench to peel off my cardigan. It’s warm, warm enough to feel unsettled and slightly queasy. The food on the flight was below-average, and I suddenly realise that I’m ravenous… A glance at the departure board tells me there’s over an hour before the flight boards and I feel like a salad. But it’s Sunday evening and most of the shops are closing. I hurry, hoping to catch a café before closing... no such luck. I sigh and make do with a packet of rice crackers on the flight.