The Main Holiday 2009.

May 2009 was a period of some uncertainty for me. At work we had been offered voluntary redundancy and I had expressed an interest. But the future looks turbulent for a time.

Nevertheless I am not one to ponder long on the “might be’s” and so I continued with my plans for a solo holiday which commenced on Sunday 3rd May with a train journey on Eurostar from Ashford to Paris.
Here it was a short walk to the Gare de L’Est where by connecting train down to Mulhouse was going to leave from. I had travelled first class in some comfort on the Eurostar but on the French railways (and the remainder of the trip) I travelled in standard class. The TGV train from Paris to Mulhouse was busy. In fact every seat was taken. Yje window seat that I had reserved was in fact a pillar between windows and because of the high back of the seats in front I did feel somewhat hemmed in and largely unable to view the countryside passing by. Therefore the TGV was a means to an end rather than an enjoyable experience. At Mulhouse I had booked a room in the Victoria Garden Suites Hotel which was a fair distance from the railway station. But it was a calm evening, not too hot but pleasant, and despite heavy bags I undertook the walk of a mile or so on foot. The hotel was modern but severely functional. The check-in was okay and the lift and especially the corridors to my room smelt extremely pleasant, as if just polished. The room itself was bland and overlooked a factory wall. It didn’t matter – it was a place to put my head down for the night.

I explored Mulhouse’s old centre on foot that Sunday evening. There was very little life in what I saw, especially bearing in mind that this is a student town. However, there seemed to be some “action” of a sort near an Irish pub and I had my tea at a nearby branch of “Subway”.

The next day it was raining heavily but a regular local transportation bus was able to whisk me to the railway station for one euro and thirty cents in less than ten minutes. I now caught the train to Basel where I was to change onto a Swiss railways service. I was stopped by the border police and briefly questioned before I was allowed on my way.

A train via Zurich to Chur, then a change onto the Rhatische Bahn, a narrow gauge system that traverses the Alps, were utlised to get me deep into the south east of that country in a very short time. Before I was fully aware my train was climbing and the air became cooler. Seeing snow and ice in patches soon became a case of seeing snow and ice predominate as my train crossed the Bernina Pass, near St. Moritz.

The train then descends in great loops and spirals into the green valleys in the vicinity of Poschiavo.

Finally my train reached my destination and base for the next seven nights, the town of Tirano. I spend days from here returning to those Alpine slopes on the train or else at Varenna on Lake Como where beautiful unspoilt waterfront houses make an attractive setting in comfortably warm weather against a backdrop of mountains.

The Swiss trains were generally on time and, of course, spotless. I was often the only occupant of the carriage which was great and enabled me to have the window down for photography purposes without worrying that any of my fellow passengers were going to be in a draught. This was especially important at such location as shown below (which is known as Bernina Lagalb).

When the trains were not running through snowfields they were running through green alpine valleys and calling at occasional villages. The light use of the railway at this time of year really makes it quite special and the hours passed quickly…..too quickly!

The Italian trains weren’t too bad. Quite comfortable although less immaculate than the Swiss trains and often unofficially decorated with graffiti. Their usage was much heavier. The Italian stations offered excellent bars where it was possible to buy local wine and snacks at reasonable prices. This is one of the main pleasures of travelling – to sit like one of the locals listening to chatter that you cannot understand while you sip very good local produce and eat fresh bread and some regional cheese or meat speciality. Never has waiting for a train been so pleasant and I repeated this on many occasions.

My hotel in Tirano was okay. A three star place with an efficient reception and restaurant. A narrow room opening out onto a communal terrace was comfortable enough but the accoustics due to paper thin walls were often unwelcome. This was a shame because it took the edge off of my pleasure in the place.

For my evening dinner which I had opted to take in the hotel I quickly became aware that my lack of knowledge of the Italian language was going to be a problem. They spoke no English and the menus were also purely in the local language. Oh well. I eat anything except goat products and plunged in at random every evening, choosing items because I liked the look of the words! It was fun, even if I did end up, one evening with three slices of cheese on my dinner plate accompanied by boiled potatoes and carrots. I still ate it.

After seven days of travelling from Tirano on day trips I decided to head on to Venice for my last two nights. The first train took me into Milan where I was surprised to find a big gap in the timetable for a Venice train. So rather than wait potentially at the mercy of petty thieves I decided to take a train to Bologna and a local train from there to Venice. It worked fine even if it was a long way round.

I stayed in a very comfortable four star hotel literally directly opposite the entrance to Venice Mestre station. This is not Venice itself but that delightful place can be reached on the train in ten minutes from Mestre and the trains run, it seems, every ten minutes or more.

I loved Venice. My only fear is that I can be so enchanted by photographic opportunities and the feel and look of the place that I could easily end up plunging into a canal. Not everyone seemed to be sharing by enjoyment, though. These four passengers in a gondola seem to have had a disagreement about something!

Venice was great for two evenings of strolling. On my free day I decided to visit a historical vintage tramway line that doubles as a funicular railway in Trieste, two hours away on the train. Here I found a real transportation gem and some very friendly people.

My holiday ended the following day with a flight from Marco Polo airport in Venice back to London Gatwick. It was fun and I can highly recommend it to others who may have similar tastes!

Fear of Flying.

Wednesday 13th May 2009. It is the last day of a holiday that I have conducted so far entirely by rail. From the UK I have travelled through France and Switzerland to Italy. My last two nights were in the town of Mestre which is just across the causeway from Venice.

When planning this trip I really didn’t want to spend two days getting home by train. I was travelling solo and certainly didn’t relish the idea of shelling out for a sleeping compartment on the train which I would have to share. So I had decided to book a flight. From Venice Marco Polo airport (the main one) to London Gatwick. Less than forty quid with easyJet.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have flown before. Many times. To and from Moscow on Aeroflot, to and from Tokyo on Virgin, to and from the USA and Canada on a variety of carriers, to and from Goa in the most cramped plane I’ve ever done long haul in (Monarch) and various locations dotted around Europe. But flying does give me a feeling of suppressed anxiety. It always has. Whether long haul or short haul, jumbo or turboprop, fixed-wing or helicopter, there is always something that I perceive as high-risk about allowing yourself to be carried to a great height at great speed and to put yourself completely in the trust of trained professionals and maintenance staff and designers and builders and all those people who go back to the drawing board.

I have watched movies like “Final Destination” – fiction so that’s okay. But I’ve also seen “Seconds from Disaster” which are factual documentaries available on YouTube which unfortunately feature many aircraft disasters. So it’s this that plays on my mind. Not obtrusively; I don’t board the aircraft bolstered by brandy or sit in the cabin a gibbering wreck but I am aware of consciously acting casual as if I am totally at ease with flying.

On 12th May, the day before the flight, I had visited the railway station at Mestre and made one last enquiry about railway sleeping car accommodation back to the UK. The supplement was aggressively dear, over twice the price that I had paid for the flight. It would also take over twenty times longer. So I walked away from the station conscious that I had let my “last chance” go.

On the morning of the 13th I rose in time to partake of a hearty breakfast at the Hotel Plaza in Mestre. Then I undertook the brief three to four minute walk down to place in Mestre where the buses leave for both Marco Polo and Treviso airports (as well as to other locations). A bus came in. There was nothing on it to suggest the destination but I heard the driver mention “Marco Polo” in an otherwise unintelligible sentence. I boarded, having paid the three euros for a ticket. I validated it myself and hoped for the best. Yes, this turned out to be the right bus and within half an hour I was standing in the departures lounge at Marco Polo airport. My flight, easyJet 5264 for London Gatwick, due to depart at 12.35 hours was not yet announced.

This is good for me for a start. I find that to watch hundreds of people milling around about to start their journeys to destinations around the globe reassuring. The time seems to go quickly. Soon the check-in is open and after waiting in a queue for a relatively short time I am relieved of my hold luggage and am now able to proceed to security so that I can enter the inner sanctum of those who are checked in and ready to go.

To my horror, despite taking off my belt and removing coins from my pocket I am carrying something that alerts the security staff and I am stopped. Am I carrying water in my hand luggage? I must look completely vacant. Then the reason dawns on me. A friend had given me a bottle of vodka in Italy and I was taking it home in hand luggage to avoid it getting smashed if the case was roughly handled. NOT a good idea. Stupidly I had completely forgotten about liquids in hand luggage being forbidden and so the untasted vodka was confiscated.

Oh well. At least I was now properly checked in. I went to obtain a light lunch in the cafeteria and was now able to watch planes moving to and from the runway. Again this is good. The almost dull routine of planes taking off and landing is therapeutic. I remember once going to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix AZ and just watching the planes for two hours on the day before I was due to fly home. The routine was so everyday, so normal. Why should my flight be any different?

Then I went to the gate for boarding and was bussed across to the aircraft. I was keen to get a window seat so I didn’t study the aircraft much as I hurried from the bus and up the steps. Another excellent distraction. I got a window seat in the very back row. I have long decided that I don’t care whether I’m at the front, middle or back of the aircraft, but I’d rather SEE what is going on outisde so I prefer a window seat (even though I might be the first to be sucked out in a structural crisis, haha!!).

Then there is the crew. They do this journey day in and day out. The cabin staff are there to give the safety information and then get on with the job of selling refreshments and finally perfumes and train tickets to London from Gatwick etc. Two blokes and two women. Cheerful and obviously unphased. They go through the emergency evacuation and “brace! brace!” information procedures looking slightly bored. I’m sure that this is rehearsed. I like cabin crew to look bored when they do this. If they looked serious/concerned I would be horrified.

Then there is a slight setback. The sealing of the doors. The sensible side of me is glad that we are now on our way. The supressed side whispers “you can’t get out now, even if you wanted to!”

The plane starts to move and, compared to the larger city airports, we taxi to the end of the runway extremely quickly. I am lucky to be seated behind a young couple from Essex who clearly enjoy flying. Their chirpy tones ease me. Because take-off is, for me, the worst bit. “We’re on time!” the sensible me thinks as the jets roar and we scud down the runway. “This is it. In another few seconds you could be enveloped in a ball of flame!” hisses the devil on my shoulder.

One, two, three, four………twelve, thirteen, fourteen…..we’re still on the runway. Shouldn’t we have taken off by now? Fleetingly I recall that a woman I work with lost two relatives in an early jetliner crash at Orly in Paris in the 1960’s when the plane failed to achieve take off…..but then we’re off the ground and climbing. To distract myself I reach down for the camera and start to take pictures while the ground is still distinct. We’re still climbing, everything seems good.

Suddenly a woman gets up and walks down the aisle to get to the toilet. She is obviously a hardened traveller and has no fears. But she is told to return to her seat at once and she does so grudgingly. I resent her brazen arrogance and envy it too!

Then comes that blissful moment when the cabin crew start moving around. Ah! Everything is normal. They have received the message that the take off has proceeded according to plan and they can start getting on with their duties.

Now this is a cheap flight so if I want coffee or food I have to pay for it. I find that when this kind of thing is included it is a wonderful distraction. Now, however, I got out a book and pretended to read. Occasional chimes sounded which I am used to but I always watch the cabin crew after each just to be sure. And I always check the seat belts sign too. Just now it is still on.

After a few minutes the seat belt sign goes off. Another excellent development. I look down out of the window and see that we are crossing the snow-capped peaks of the Alps.

The pilot makes an announcement. He too sounds slightly bored but informs us that we are flying at thirty eight thousand feet (“that’s a long way down!” hisses my inner voice of doom).

Everything continues normally for five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes. My seat belt is still securely on.

Then, bump, bump, bumpetty bump and BUMP! Turbulance. The seat belt signs remain off. The crew continue their rounds. We are now over Paris by my reckoning although cloud cover prevents me from seeing the ground. Then the bumping starts again in magnified form. The sign to fasten belts lights up. The crew return to their jump seats. Ah!

There then follows a period of probably no more than six or seven minutes of profound bumping and jerking. I decide to pick up my book and look (but am very far from feeling) placid and relaxed. I am thinking of auditioning for an acting school because I think that I have the talent, haha! I discreetly tug at the seatbelt to ensure that it is secure. Somebody near me remarks “I’ve never had it as bad as this!” Oh, thanks for that! My real fear is of a sudden drop like being in a lift when the cable is broken. I had it happen to me only once on an Icelandair flight in the mid-eighties. I hated that. Air-pockets! However, we were fine and the turbulence was confined to shaking us around rather than giving us the roller coaster effect.

Then the crisis is over and the crew resume their rounds. In a very few minutes we begin our descent.

Bizarrely I am completely as ease with landing. I actually enjoy it. On this occasion the cloud cover was so thick that by the time we could see the ground we were about twenty seconds from actually making contact with the runway. I was momentarily alarmed because I have only ever landed at Gatwick making an approach from the easterly direction. I didn’t even know that they landed the other way. So I was expecting to see the railway lines just before the tarmac. They did bot appear and we were virtually on the ground. Then the proper runway markings came into view and I realised. The Essex couple’s female member remarked “Oh, we’ve made a westerly approach this time!”. The landing was fine. The reverse thrust kicked in and then we were soon on our way to the gate.

The devil over my shoulder hissed grudgingly “Well, that’s another risk you’ve run!” while the sensible side of me reflected shamefacedly on my unwarranted concerns. Now….time to go and pick up the luggage……

“Did you come by train?” “No, I flu!”

An American friend who kindly comments on my flickr photos recently made the tongue-in-cheek observation that he “didn’t use the city buses because he didn’t want to travel with “the great unwashed”……

He has a car and the buses don’t offer the convenience that he wants for himself and his family. I don’t blame him. The “great unwashed” was a humourous flippancy. However, as I have no alternative other than to use public transportation I can, occasionally, be subjected to anti-social activities of my fellow travellers who may not actually smell or be picking their noses but whose behaviour betrays lack of basic social consideration skills (in other words they are a bleedin’ nuisance!).

Now, the media-hyped horror of the “imminent pandemic” – the swine flu – means that public transport users seem to be at greater risk than their car owning fellows. Indeed, there were even rumours that the Mexico City subway was to be closed in order to prevent the spread of infection and numerous news channels carried pictures of be-masked individuals travelling on said system. (Followed, closely, I might add, my some entrepeneur hoping to make a quick buck by offering for sale “designer face masks” with all sorts of styles to suit all pockets and facial structures!).

On my daily commute by rail to work the carriage chuckled about the mass-hysteria being whipped up by the press. Yet, if a fellow passenger boarded with a cold and proceeded to cough repeatedly or sneeze before being able to recourse to a tissue those chuckles and smiles took on a “frozen” quality (and we may have quietly wished for the availability of a medicated nosegay!).

Today I travelled by train and bus to make a weekly visit to a family member. I boarded the train at the start of its journey and was somewhat discomposed to find that the carriage that I had chosen to sit in was fast becoming the favourite of everyone else (it seemed) on the platform. People were sitting in front of me, next to me, and behind me. I am due to start a ten day travelling vacation tomorrow and the thought crossed my mind “if one of these buggers starts coughing and sneezing then I’m off!” The air-conditioning in the train seemed, to my mind, to be sucking in numerous viruses, treating them to moisture and then, after these germs had bathed and multiplied in deliciously perfect temperatures, had expelled them, refreshed, into the atmosphere. Sense told me to stop this nonsense. But then I considered that I should moved to a part of the train where I could spread out (purely for comfort purposes, OF COURSE!). I pretended that I had seen someone walk past on the platform who I recognised (as if, for heaven sake, anyone would CARE about me moving seats!!). I smiled and nodded at the non-existent person outside on the platform and jumped up to move. I walked into the next carriage to find it almost deserted except for a rather loud young family at the far end. I congratulated the alter-ego side of my personality that had encouraged the move and dismissed the chiding voices that admonished me for being “ridiculous”! The family at the far end were chattered away. The father coughed…..”You’ve got swine flu!” declared a junior school age child in the group. Everyone laughed.

Upon arriving at the city where I had to change onto a bus for the last forty minutes of my journey I walked through beautifully manicured public gardens to reach the bus station. Everything in my world looked lovely. The flowers were blooming, the grass was lush green and the birds sang with fervour. And tomorrow was the first day of my two week holiday. I reached the bus station and saw that the double-decker bus was already loading. I joined the queue and, once on board, chose a seat halfway down the upper deck and regarded with some surprise the number of people who were proposing to be my fellow passengers (normally I get this bus and can be one of, at most, a dozen people on a seventy-seater vehicle). Then – shock, horror!! A group of maybe twenty children with a scattering of their adult carers became the prospective passengers. Their Latin-American looks suggested that they might be, yes, WERE, MUST BE from Mexico, that cradle of media-hyped infection. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. They would stay downstairs of course. After all, the carers would not want these rampaging kids (sneezing and coughing, naturally) to be running amok on the upper deck. Then came the dreaded stampede and UP they came. One sneezed almost at once. My muscles tensed. They sat in front of me, behind me, next to me. I was effectively SEALED in a vacuum of pestilence. I listened anxiously for words like “Zapata” or “Amigo”. But my paranoia was instantly assuaged when I heard the sarf-east Ingerland intonations of children and carers alike. “Got enny sweets on yer?” The child who sneezed did so again. “Swine flu!” screamed the others in mock horror.

Needless to say I completed my journey without let or hindrance or air-borne pestilence. Like the time when I arrived in Japan for a week’s dream holiday and had a child sit behind me who demonstrated all the symptoms of whooping-cough on the bullet train to Himeji – there was no cause for alarm.

Tomorrow I set forth on a European tour, by rail, which will doubtless result in me using crowded Underground railways and busy overland trains in warm conditions. And to crown the cocktail I am flying back.
I do not expect to quarantined, nor exposed to anything more risky than usual either as regards infection or the activities of the anti-socials. I will continue to travel with the “Great Unwashed” and become part of them.

(My will is written)