The flight is uneventful. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve been up in the air. I’ve been travelling by trains, buses and ferries, with the occasional hitched ride in a car. I’ve been clinging to the surface of the earth. When we land, they announce that we can leave the plane by either the front or the rear set of steps. This makes me smile, but I deliberately don’t look across at her. I notice the husband carries the younger daughter as she sleeps, that’s all.
As ever when you get back into Britain or Ireland, the difference in the weather gives you an immediate reality check. Not that it’s raining – just that it’s a few degrees cooler than in Italy. If you’ve been away for as long as I have, you forget you’re going to need a jacket or a coat when you get off the plane. And this is southern England – it’ll be even colder in Dublin. I run across to the shuttle bus, not feeling so good now about any fancy notions of looking like Brad Pitt.
It might be this, or it might be something else that alerts the attention of Immigration Control. They take me to one side, away from the passport queue, and ask me some questions. It’s so predictable – they stop young, single men; whenever I travelled with my family, I was never stopped. So, what do we learn? If you want to bring something illegal into the country, travel with the whole family and you’re sure to get away with it – unless you’re black of course, and then you’re fucked.
“Can I ask you where you’re travelling from, sir?”
“Pisa.”
“And your destination in the U.K.?”
“I’m travelling on to Ireland, to Dublin,” I say.
“Do you mind if I just check through your bag?”
I pull the small rucksack off my shoulder and hand it to him. He scans it first with a long stick of some sort, and then opens the buckles. What are you going to do? These people – their authority comes from your fear that if you kick up a fuss, they can probe in your anus with a camera. Like when you’re flying out of Shannon to the States and you’re going through the U.S. Customs check, and they take themselves so fucking seriously. All the forms you have to fill out to say that you don’t intend to stay in their country, and no, you’re not a terrorist – please tick the correct box. You feel like saying to them, your country just isn’t that great! You can’t even feed and house your own citizens; you have no health care; your nation is based on a genocide – get over yourselves! But you don’t, because you want to visit New York for a few days. So, here, I wait for him to go through my things; it takes only a few seconds.
“You live in Ireland, do you?”
“Yes,” I say, for simplicity.
“Do you mind if I make a note of your address there?”
Well, yes, I do mind, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I give him Siobhan’s address – our home, as was.
“And you’ve been on holiday in Italy, yes?”
Jesus – what is this?
“I’ve been travelling around Europe for a year or so,” I say.
“Very nice – and what do you do that allows you that kind of luxury?”
None of your fucking business, I want to say, but I just shrug and smile and reach for my bag. He doesn’t let me take it.
“Seriously sir, what do you do for a living? I just need you to tell me that and then I can let you go.”
Should I tell him? That I live off the money given to me when I agreed never to see my partner and child again?
“I’m a writer,” I say, dreading the conversation, but he releases the grip on my bag.
“Very nice, sir. Have a safe onward journey to Ireland.”
It’s routine, I know, but it throws me, and I have to remind myself of the reasons for coming back when there’s nothing here for me to come back for.
For the past two summers I’ve braved the high temperatures in Greece but, in retrospect, it was too hot for me – unbearably hot in fact.
I had a very bad experience one night on the south coast of Crete, when mosquitoes attacked me. I had a net, and repellent, and killer spray, but still they kept on coming at me. I’d made the mistake of leaving my window open during the early evening when I went out for dinner. I was exhausted – because I’d walked the Samaria Gorge that day – but nicely exhausted, with a huge sense of achievement. I’d basked in the sea at the end of the Gorge for over an hour, soothing the life back into my aching legs, and enjoying the sun on my face in the late afternoon. I caught a ferry and travelled along the coast to Paleokhóra, found myself somewhere to stay, and had a well-deserved meal in a restaurant by the beach. I realised what I’d done when I returned to the room. I closed the window, cursed my stupidity and killed the two mosquitoes that I could see. As soon as I lay down though, I could hear the drone of other mosquitoes trying to find their way inside the net. I tried to blank it out, to will myself to sleep, but I freak out badly whenever anything flies close to my ears. I lose all rationality; I sometimes think I would do a deal, any deal, if only they could listen, that would allow mosquitoes to suck on my blood all night long, so long as they promise not to buzz past my ears.
A mosquito managed to get in beneath the net, and of course I panicked and brought the whole thing down. I jumped up, reached for my glasses, and set about killing the mosquitoes. However ridiculous you look as you creep around naked – trying to kill this tiny, blood-sucking fly – one of the joys of travelling alone, is that no one else is there to make you feel ridiculous. They say a man should never let his partner see him naked in his socks – which is unfair really, because women look so good when they wear nothing but socks – but chasing a mosquito while naked is much worse. You look silly, and no woman has any intention of having sex with you, believe me, even if you manage to kill the mosquito and be the hero.
Of course, all the mosquitoes disappeared once they saw me with my rolled up newspaper, but reappeared once I was back in bed beneath the net. And now I was so hot and sweaty, they were driven mad with desire to find a way to get in and at my skin. This went on all night; any other night and I might have coped, but I was too exhausted from my six-hour climb down through the Gorge. I had to retreat to the bathroom and lie on a towel on the floor; this seemed to be a mosquito-free zone. I had planned to stay in Paleokhóra for a few days, but I was up at dawn and caught the six-thirty bus out of there, across the mountains, and back to the north of the island.
I was bitten to fuck, my arms and legs were blown up like balloons, but it never occurred to me that this might signal an end to my travelling. This was where I lived now – wherever I happened to be. Over the winter, I moved across into North Africa – Morocco, mainly, and Tunisia for a while – before returning in the spring to the Greek Islands. As the temperatures rose, I had an idea to travel up from the bottom of Italy, inching further north each time it became too hot for me, or each time the mosquitoes moved in. And this is what I did, catching the ferry first to Brindisi and then either hitching or taking the train along the spine of Italy. I walked a lot of the way; having shipped my things up to Pisa in the knowledge that I could always just jump on a train, if necessary, to reach what I’d decided should be my final destination for the summer.
I don’t know when the idea crossed my mind to fly home to Ireland for August; some part of trekking across those barren mountains must have stirred a desire for the colour and the rain of Ireland. So I collected my few belongings from the station in Pisa and booked a flight for the following week to Dublin. I’d forgotten about the cold, and I still hadn’t really thought about where I should go once I got there. I think I’d become so independent on my travels, I felt self-sufficient and together enough to be ready for a return.
But I’m not sure I am – I’m already having my doubts, and this is only England. Where will I go, and what will I do when I get to Dublin? It’s one thing to wander through a foreign country in the sunshine, quite another through a country you know, in weather that’s changeable at best. Just being pulled by Immigration is enough to shake me out of the smug contentment I
’ve been used to. And just like those English voices on the plane, it brings me back into the real world. This is a world where you worry about the stamps from foreign countries on your passport, especially if those foreign countries are in North Africa.
This is England, as The Clash would sing.
I walk over to the baggage reclaim. The monitor says belt number one, but when I walk across, our flight number isn’t there; this is obviously going to take a while. I recognise a few faces from the flight; some decide to stay by the belt, while others return to the monitor. I notice a teenage girl looking at me, and how she quickly turns away. She looks good – tanned and well dressed, waiting for a jacket from her baggage, just like me. Her sister joins her and she’s just as good-looking – a little older, but still in her teens. They chat and they both look my way. Now I turn away, but it feels good. When I next look over, their father has returned from the toilet, and the family of three consult with each other. The girls walk by me on their way back to check the monitor – how come I didn’t notice them on the plane?
I stroll over to their father, catch his eye and shrug. He smiles – typical, his face says to me. I walk on to the toilet, and he’s still alone when I return.
“No sign of the bags, so?” I ask.
“No, nothing yet,” he says. “My girls are over by the monitor; they’ll let us know if there’s any change.”
He’s very affable, very easy going – I could be his friend, in another world.
“Have you far to go, once they decide to give us our bags back?” I ask.
“Not too far. Cambridge.”
“That’s a nice part of the country.”
“You know it well, do you?”
“I’m often there through my work,” I say, lying. “Are you in one of the colleges?”
He laughs.
“Is it that obvious? Yes, just been away for a few days with the girls – try to instil some culture in them.” The belt starts up. “Ah, maybe now,” he says.
“Best of luck,” I say, and move over to a space by the belt. His daughters are making their way back over, and I don’t want to be too obvious – caught talking to their father.
Yes, we could be friends. I could meet him by chance one day in Cambridge, in town or in his college – invent some business or other. Fancy a pint some time? Is he alone – separated? Sees the girls occasionally; I could be there by chance one time and get to know them. Not move too soon, build up the trust. Our parents don’t understand us, they’d say. I’m a little younger than their dad; it might make all the difference. See both sides – he loves you, you know; don’t give your dad a hard time. Find a shared interest with the girls – the movies, perhaps? Ask his permission. Probably pleased to have them taken off his hands – safer off with me than out with some of those young bucks. Where’s the mother – some frosty academic bitch? Too busy doing research to take time off for the family holiday? Might be something there for me too? I could fuck up his life big time. If I can’t have his happiness, at least I can take his happiness away.
I smile at the ease with which my world might change. Who knows what may happen? I take one last look at the girls – yes, I’m right, there could be something there for me – and turn my back on them. I watch out for my bag.
My family of six approach the belt, now that our luggage is about to appear. They have two trolleys – Bob wheels one, Laura the other. Her husband carries their sleeping baby, while she holds the hand of the elder child, Jenny. No culture trip to Tuscany for these guys, I think – they’ve been in Viareggio for the week, maybe caught a glimpse of the Leaning Tower, but almost certainly didn’t make it as far as Florence.
They stand close by; it’s one of those days when what I wish might happen does happen. I’m glad, because if I’d been coming on too strong, I think she might have deliberately avoided me. I get the feeling she’s happy to be seen with her family – look, see what I have here, she’s telling me. Bob stands beside me with the trolley behind him; he’s the luggage man. I consider using the same conversation I had with the Cambridge professor – try to discover where they’re heading – but again, I don’t want to be too much, too obvious. It’s enough that she’s standing close by; I can listen in on their happy family group.
The bags go by on the belt. I see my own as it appears down at the far end, and I decide not to take it on the first run past.
Bob muscles in to pick up a huge suitcase. There’s an identical one immediately behind, and I can picture how it is – Bob and Laura have one case, while the family of four share the other.
“Is this one yours too?” I ask Bob. I can see him struggling with the weight of the first, trying to lodge it on to Laura’s trolley.
“Cheers mate,” he says, twisting around to look at the bag.
I drag it off and on to Bob’s trolley. I catch a glimpse of the label – Springfield, I think it says, and Brighton, although that’s a long way from Stanstead. I know she’s watched me lift the bag, and I walk away, further along the belt.
Cheers mate – fucking English, commonly used by blokes who wish to get along. Can sometimes be said in an aggressive way, but not in this instance. Brighton – Jesus, that’s a long way. I’d have thought Gatwick would have been better? Surely there are flights out to Italy from Gatwick? Yet I can just picture them all, piling into the husband’s SUV – yes, makes sense in a way. Last minute booking, cheap flight – come on, let’s fuck off to Italy for a week. Cheers mate!
I see the Cambridge professor walking away with his daughters; the younger one throws me one last look – yes, I could do that, I think. Be the first, spoil her for everybody else, make it so that only I will do, and then move on to her sister. Sibling rivalry – could I manage them both? Be worth trying, at least – be fun trying.
My bag comes around again – a small sports holdall that’s seen me through the past three years – and I grab it off the belt. I don’t need a trolley. It’s easy to travel light when there’s only the one of you; once I’d sold the laptop and given up on the whole writing thing, there wasn’t much baggage left to carry. I have a few T-shirts – faded by the sun and due to be replaced – a change of trousers, and some underwear. I wear my walking boots when I’m travelling because they’re easier to carry on my feet than in a bag. The only other shoes I own are a pair of sandals – again about due to be replaced, but so comfortable I’ve been putting it off. I guess it’s walking boots here for a while – I’m going to need a few pairs of extra socks and I wonder if I should look for a pair of comfortable shoes? Back to rip-off Britain or, worse, Ireland – just about everything is cheaper on the Continent.
It’s a pain having to check in all over again, but it’s simple enough in Stanstead. I walk over to Departures; the desk is just about to open at the far end of the Checkin area. There’s already a small queue, and I tag on to the end. I’m on autopilot here, taking out my passport and reservation number. I don’t even stop to pause for thought when I see Dublin written on the screen behind the desk. Behind me, the queue has grown – I must have timed it perfectly. I notice from the boarding card I’m given that I’m only the eleventh person to check in for the flight; I’d given myself plenty of time in case the flight from Pisa had been delayed.
Once I’m free of carrying my bag, I revert into that independent traveller state of mind. I’m hungry, and I decide to eat on this side of passport control. The queues are heavy but moving fast; I’ve been through Stanstead enough times to know they could disappear in a matter of minutes. There are almost two hours before my flight. Ten minutes for passport control, and then a twenty-minute walk on the far side – I have over an hour before I need to go through.
I walk the entire way back along the concourse. There’s an Irish pub at the far end; I hesitate at first, but then I think, what the hell. The food looks good on the plates as I walk up to the bar to place my order. I know I should wait until I get to Ireland, but I order a pint of Guinness – it’s so long since I�
�ve drunk a pint, I won’t know the difference any more. It looks like a nice pint and I carry it over to a table and let it settle. It tastes good and I drink nearly half of it without even thinking. I’d have liked to try some English beer in England, but I don’t think this is the place, and anyway, the Guinness will do just fine. My food arrives and I order another pint. It’s good, everything is good, and I relax into the ambience of the bar.
Is it the Guinness that gets me thinking, or is it the time I have to spare before my flight? Where am I going to go once I reach Dublin? I’m so used to arriving in new places, finding accommodation and then exploring my new surroundings, that to be somewhere I know is going to be strange. Where will I go for a cheap room in Dublin, and do I really want to stay in the places on offer? In Italy and Greece, cheap means humble and basic, in Dublin it means seedy and unsafe. Maybe I should splash out the cash for a few days, find a nice room, while I figure out where I should go? I haven’t really thought this through. I can’t just contact friends again after three years and expect them to put me up for a while. Besides, I’ve alienated just about everybody I ever knew – including my best friend Danny, though he no longer lives in Ireland – and cut myself off so completely, I doubt I have any real friends left.
Suddenly, I’m not so confident that returning to Ireland is the right thing to do. I try to recall the state of mind that led me to book the flights to Dublin. Am I going back for good – is that it? And where, exactly, did I anticipate settling? There are certain no-go areas for me there, and these tend to restrict my options. Plus, it’s easier to forget, easier to find oblivion, while you’re away – am I going to have to face a flood of memories in Ireland? Am I ready to go through that again? And am I strong enough?
The time passes quickly. I pay for my meal, but I don’t move. I can’t go back to Ireland – what was I thinking? A couple of months ago I was as far away from Ireland as I could be in Western Europe; what dragged me all the way up from Greece, through Italy, and on to that plane? I could have travelled on through France. Had I tired of the travelling – was that it? What was calling me home? And where did I think that home might be – Ireland? England?
Dancing to the End of Love Page 2
