Okay, so I know there are travel companies out there who cater solely for people traveling on their own who advertise “no single supplements” – take a long hard look at their itineraries and prices. There is one company whom I have travelled with – but never again. Most of their “solo” tours are identical to the ones in their parent company brochure – with a couple of minor details. They may visit the same locations and stay in the same hotels but the overall content of the “solo” tour is less, such as fewer included museum and stately home visits, and no guided tour of the town. However, take the price of the regular tour, add in the single supplement and the price is the same as – and sometimes even less than - the one for the “identical” tour in the single traveller brochure. Hence, I had booked this holiday as part of a regular tour.
‘We’ll pay half each on the taxi fare and you can pay the extra fiver for the double pick up and drop off,’ I decided.
‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘While you phone I’ll make some tea.’
He must have been nervous.
The rest of my preholiday arrangements went as normal. I had already had my holiday pep talk at the doctors and the pre-requisite inoculations. I selected my clothes to take. I washed them. I discovered some no longer fit. I rushed out to buy some more (that way already washed and ironed). I reread the travel brochure. The tickets and further details arrived in the post. I checked the holiday instructions regarding money (currency restrictions), clothes, long skirts, keep shoulders covered (I rushed out to buy more clothes with short sleeves). I bought medications; I bought anti-diarrhoea tablets and more anti-diarrhoea tablets and indigestion tablets. Two days before I was due to fly out I did my ironing.
I don’t often visit the hairdressers before I go on holiday. As I usually travel to a distant hot country, once there I spend the days with my hair tied back as keeping your neck cool is the best way to keep cool in general. Actually, I try not to visit hairdressers too often anyway. However, I don’t usually go on holiday with a young man, even if that young man is Keith.
I debated the pros and cons of spending money on a hairstyle that may or may not suit me; previous experience has taught me that whenever a hair stylist asks a customer what that customer wants their hair to look like, they don’t really mean it and they certainly don’t listen to the answer. Even if you take along photos or magazine pictures you end up with the style the hairdresser meant you to have all along. After all, they only ever seem to be able to cut one style per year, look around you – most of the women all have the same hairstyle, don’t they? And usually so do the hairdressers.
Therefore, Friday evening after work I attended my appointment at the hairdressers. On arrival I was ushered to the chair in front of the mirror where I sat whilst the stylist looked at my limp locks, disdainfully raising one to peer at it closely. Yes, I thought, its hair. Hair that does not see straighteners or curling tongs or “products,” just shampoo and conditioner and a quick flick over with the hairdryer.
We discussed what “we” were going to do with my hair today, then I was steered to the row of sinks, a towel was clamped to my shoulders and a nice young man proceeded to wash my hair. My neck was obviously very dirty, as he washed that as well while he was at it. And my ears.
Sometimes when I have had my hair done on a Friday evening it gets quite busy. I sit in the chair while the stylist trims away and keep one eye on her and her scissors and with the other gaze around at the other people having their hair done. Tonight was obviously a slack period as it seemed the only other person having their hair done was the young lad who had just washed mine.
I measured my rucksack for hand luggage dimensions and selected my reading material. Then I packed my case and prepared to weigh it using the tried and trusted method of weighing me, then weighing me holding the case, and finally weighing me minus the case again. Then trying to convert from imperial to metric; one stone being roughly equal to just over six kilograms. I stood on my ancient bathroom scales that I had inherited from an aunt.
Three stone. I got off the scales, picked up my suitcase, and stood back on the scales.
Three stone. I dropped the case and bent over the window on the scales and peered closely at it. Three stone. ‘Damn,’ I muttered (or some other four-letter word).
Houston, we have a problem.
Chapter Two – The Journey
The day of our flight finally arrived. I got up early, unpacked my suitcase to check that I had actually packed everything before re-packing it again and affixing the supplied identification label – a slightly limp looking lurid green palm tree on a brightly coloured yellow background – to the handle. The taxi was due to collect me at 9.30am so I plonked the case out on the front doorstep at 9.15am.
Some people raise their eyebrows when I mention that I book a taxi to travel to and from the airport; but what are the alternatives? True, as a solo traveller I could struggle with my suitcase onto a crowded train that may or may not get to the airport terminus on time depending on whether there are cows or leaves or rain on the tracks. And to get to the train station I would first need to catch a bus to the station. Then on the homeward journey I need to hope that the plane is not delayed meaning that I might miss the specific train for which my ticket was valid.
Or I could travel by the cheaper option of a coach that would take several hours to wend its journey, as it collects other passengers on the way. And again, I would have to take the bus to the collection point, and also hope that I am not delayed and thus miss the homeward bound vehicle.
Whereas a taxi may seem an expensive, even luxurious option but think of the advantages: the driver – and I even once had a proper chauffeur complete with peaked cap that he doffed in greeting – arrives at my front door. He takes my suitcase and puts it into the boot of his car and then drives me more or less directly to the airport where he deposits me right outside. A good driver has an eye on the road and an ear on the traffic reports and can take a detour if there are any notified accidents and hold-ups, whereas a coach has a designated route to which it is required to stick.
Then after my holiday when I return to the airport, there is my driver holding up a sign bearing my name waiting for me. He again takes my case, puts it in the boot of his car, then drives me directly to my front door while I relax and fall asleep in the back. Nothing could be simpler. More expensive than a coach or a train plus bus, true, but simple, easy and direct. Well that is the theory and while in practice there have been a couple of minor hiccups, there has been no disaster necessitating me to change this plan.
I turned my attention to my hand luggage: tickets, itinerary, passport, insurance, taxi details for collection coming home, money (sterling to change into Moroccan dirhams - Morocco being one of those countries which do not permit travellers to take their currency into or out of the country - plus the odd Euro I was trying to get rid of), door keys, medical booklet detailing vaccinations, addresses for sending postcards, guidebook, book to read in the airport, cameras (digital and old 35mm as spare, just in case), travel sickness pills…oops, better take a couple now… The list was endless - all to fit into one rucksack, whilst making sure it corresponded to British Airways size and weight regulations.
Keith was already in the taxi when it arrived promptly on time. I had been keeping watch out the window and as the driver strolled up the front path I was already locking my front door, checking and double checking it was secure. He took my case and stowed it in the boot while I eased myself into the backseat. Keith was looking apprehensive. Either he thought he had forgotten something or now was the time to find out he was not a very good traveller.
Or perhaps it was the fact that he was sporting a new beard style – two long Asterix type plaits drooped down either side of his mouth. I did not know what to say, so decided to ignore them for now and say nothing. I caught the driver’s eye in his rear-view mirror. His smirk quickly changed into a look of sympathy. It might turn into a long fifteen days.
&nb
sp; I normally prefer my taxi drivers to be the strong, silent type, seen and not heard as they concentrate on the job in hand. This one had done his homework on his clients and obviously wanted to make an impression, which he did, but possibly not the one he had in mind. Perhaps it is a new style of customer relations.
After checking our outward and inward flight details and that the terminal numbers were correct he proceeded to share with us the fact that he, too, had been to Morocco. As part of a cruise itinerary he and his good lady had stopped off at Casablanca, he informed us. He then launched into an extremely detailed and excruciatingly boring memorised speech on the mosque. He had obviously crammed this last night as no-one could possibly have remembered all those details after a visit several years earlier, unless you were a fervent believer and mosques were your thing.
I caught Keith’s eye and he raised a brow and continued to gaze out the window. I got the impression that mosques were not his thing. I hoped he liked sightseeing. We had not discussed that aspect of the holiday. We had not in actual fact discussed many aspects of the trip and I was unsure whether Keith had begun to have doubts about his off the cuff booking. I did not think he was going to turn into one of those boring people who on holiday spend all their time propping up bars, but people do metamorphose into different creatures once out of their normal habitat.
With a jolt I realised that I did not really know that much about him. We had met on a bus. He worked in a shop. He had recently bought his first flat. He had a sister and a three-year-old nephew. He dabbled in photography as a hobby. I had found in him someone I could depend on in a crisis but when we were flung together for almost twenty-four hours a day for fifteen days, would I begin to find him irritating?
I was certainly finding our driver irritating. I had no idea if his descriptions were correct and I was not really interested. If, and when, as I was sure it was included in the itinerary, we visited the mosque, I would listen to the tour guide while I viewed this masterpiece. Hearing about it at a distance of a continent, its magnificence meant nothing to me.
To be polite and to prove that I was really listening I asked, ‘What tour company did you travel with?’
That flummoxed him and he was silent for the rest of the trip. Keith squeezed my knee, a little too energetically, in gratitude. A good job I had packed those long skirts; I bruise easily.
The only point of interest during our journey was when our driver nearly rear-ended the car in front as he was too busy looking out his side window at the man in the opposite carriageway being arrested by the police for some unknown traffic offence.
We arrived at Heathrow Airport in plenty of time. Keith immediately made for the toilets while I tried to figure out the intricacies of printing your own boarding pass from a touch screen computer at the automated check-in.
I keyed in the details with BMI as the flight provider, forgetting that they have been taken over by BA a few months back necessitating a change to the holiday invoice, so of course, the computer had no record of my booking, so after keying in the wrong number with the wrong airline I then needed to enter the correct airline and then insert my passport into the machine, but I inadvertently placed it in the wrong way around. Why confuse travellers by making a machine with a passport tray into which a passport fits whichever way you insert it? It’s not fair. Flying is stressful enough at times without having to book in via a computer that does not understand that some people fly so infrequently that they really do have no idea what they are doing.
I began to suspect that Keith’s visit to the toilet (which was taking a long time and they don’t normally have queues in the gents) was not out of necessity. The machine flashed up – and not for the first time – that I should press and indicate if I needed, “more time, more time.” Harassed I accept the seat offered me irrespective of whether it was an aisle or window seat, just as long as it was on a flight to Morocco, and while on a roll I booked Keith in somewhere on the same plane (and also hopefully our luggage).
As I walked towards the baggage queue clutching the boarding passes I noticed an airport employee helpfully hovering at the automated check-in booth; he had been indecisive regarding offering his services. Perhaps previously other passengers had told him where he (and his computer) could go.
My efforts with the check-in computer where not in vain. Ensconced inside the correct plane to Morocco with Keith sat across the aisle from me, I discovered I was sat next to possibly a retired couple.
I had hardly settled myself in my seat, on the aisle, when the man by my side in the middle seat unfolded one of his newspapers – he appeared to have helped himself to one of each of the free choices on offer from the bins as we had walked down the corridor to the plane – and covered my lap as well as his. I had been trying to peruse the in-flight magazine. I decided not to bother as a), I could not see the page as it was under sheets of newsprint and b), having extricated it I had discovered it was slightly out of date, advertising the “forthcoming” 2012 London Olympic games, which had taken place a couple of months earlier. I allowed a smile to form remembering how delighted Colin had been to see himself on television during footage of the local torch relay past my bungalow.
I then tried to unfold my (single) newspaper that I had selected using the drop-down table from the seat in front for support, however no sooner had I smoothed out the pages then the man proceeded to pull down his table top and lavishly covered my table as well as his own. Well he can stop that I decided, folding the newspaper away and deciding to read my (smaller) paperback novel instead. And not only did he acquire my table space but he spread his legs and his left knee firmly nudged my right knee. He placed his elbow on the armrest between our seats and then his foot knocked against my foot. I bit my tongue, silently cursed manspreading but said nothing, however I left my foot firmly in place and resisted the urge to kick him back.
Experience has told me that there was a very good chance that the couple beside me were booked onto the same tour as Keith and myself, the company having block booked a section of the seats. I sighed and in the confined space just about managed to cross my legs. It was too early to annoy fellow traveling companions – obviously a travel hint to which my neighbour was oblivious.
He spoke to me only once and was an amazed, ‘How did you get that?’ after I had asked the flight attendant for a bottle of wine with my meal as he had settled for an orange juice for himself and water for his wife. One of the advantages of an aisle seat is that not only can you monitor the progress more easily of the meal carts but you can watch other passengers order their drinks and discover what is (and is not) on offer.
The flight itself was uneventful and we touched down on time. Once through immigration Keith led the way to the luggage carousel. Why couldn’t he have been more masterful when I was struggling with the check-in machine at Heathrow?
I had to break into a trot as amazingly, what looked like my case was in imminent danger of going around on the conveyer belt for a second time. I made a lunge and grabbing it, hauled it to safety. Luckily it was indeed my case and it was none the worse for my energetic manoeuvrings; being a relatively new case only having been used on one previous holiday, it still looks in reasonable condition with no scuff marks or dents, compared with my previous case, which had suffered with each successive trip that it had accompanied me on my travels.
We had to wait several minutes before Keith’s case appeared. I was not surprised that my case had been trying to create some distance between itself and this monstrosity. I had not seen it in the taxi as it had been packed in the boot before my pickup and in the departure queue it had been stood upright with Keith’s jacket draped over the handle. Lying full length on the conveyer belt it revealed itself in all its glory: it was battered, of an indeterminate dark colour with what looked like a bright purple belt around its middle holding it together. There were splotches of colour over its surface, possibly the remnants of ancient luggage tags and sticky hotel labels.
There were no other cases near it on the belt; it looked a social pariah and I felt that all eyes were glued to it as it made its journey round with everyone seemingly keen to ascertain who would have the nerve to claim it as their property. Keith seemed totally oblivious to the interest in it and completely unabashed swung it off the carousel with ease as if it contained very little. With a fifteen-day holiday in front of us I hoped it contained at the very least several changes of underwear.
We wheeled our respective cases towards the exit. I followed my normal holiday protocol of looking out for people with similar labels on their luggage that marked them out as possibly being on the same trip and thus being in search of the same tour collecting agent and transfer vehicle to the hotel. I use it as indicator as to whether I am in the wrong place; if I spy someone with the same label I follow them and we can be lost en masse, which I much prefer to being lost on my own.
However, using my trick of identifying the luggage label the tour guide stopped me as I proceeded to walk straight passed him. He waved his clipboard, which featured the same garish design of a sickly green palm tree on a lurid yellow background, under my nose. I watched as he ticked off “Carrie Fellowes” and “Keith Ladd,” then we waited slightly behind him as he rounded up his other stray passengers. I tried to peer over his shoulder at the list to see how many names it contained.
Not that many it seemed.
Already grouped behind him stood an elderly lady sporting ramrod straight blonde hair next to a nondescript man, standing slumped wearily against his suitcase as if he already had had his fill of the holiday, whereas most other people in the airport seemed keen and alert, and whose only distinguishing feature was that he appeared to have forgotten to shave that morning; and these were indeed the couple who had been sat next to me on the plane I realised. I heaved a sigh of relief that I had not said or done anything antisocial on the flight if they were to be our travelling companions as part of our group for the next fortnight. I stared unabashed at them for several seconds after only having had a restricted side view of them previously on the plane.
Thirteen in the Medina Page 2
