Ah, Ryan Air...
They're like -
The New York City Subway of the sky.
They herd you onto a bus, and then release you at the airplane like a herd of cattle to cram your way onto the converted Boeing 737 and grab whatever seat you can. The seat backs are bright yellow and have the minimal safety instructions pasted at eye level. These include panels prohibiting glasses, earrings, high heels, and false teeth (presumably on the inflatable escape slide?), and detailed instructions for how to open the emergency doors.
Short but practical - Only the essentials...
I don't know whether to be comforted that most of the things they go into on the bigger airlines seems unnecessary, or unsettled by the fact that it feels like this information comes from experience...
They also advertise on the overhead racks. For Bullseye Baggies. "Premium Hard Liquor in a 75ml bag for 5 euro". Buy one, get one free.
...
If I could have caught one of the flight attendants, I would have bought one.
But once we take off, you only catch glimpses of them in passing - surly Irishmen handing out RyanAir magazines on the sly to a random selection of people, pushing the portable bar around and collecting money for cups of water or hotdogs, shuffling your luggage around without asking...
Oh Ryan Air! You couldn't care less if I fly with you, could you?
On the other hand, they get you there on time.
And somehow the turbulence you experence isn't nearly as dsturbing, because your standards are so low at ths point that you can't believe you're still in the air.
But I'm getting ahead of myself...
- So I went to London for the weekend.
It only took me 14 hours to get from the villa to Zoë's flat.
And I did it all in my traveling hat and boots.
((because my life is one giant Grotowski exercise))
But let's get to the point:
(here's a hint - it's in the title)
That's right, my friends,
DUTY FREE.
After perusing the luxury perfumes, I turned to the alcohol,
and lads, it was PLENTIFUL...
In the end, I bought each of us a present.
For Zoe - a bottle of Balsamic Vinegar from Modena. For Me, a bottle of Proseco, and for Catherine, a bottle of Absolut Pear that just made me happy to purchase, despite my aversion to Vodka.
And then I had to carry them.
In my high heeled boots, and my red riding-hood coat, and my felt hat.
At 2am on the streets of London.
The cabdrivers seemed to like it.
The hat was a big hit with that crowd.
Of course, it didn't help me get a cab for the hour that I stood there in front of the Liverpool train station at 1am.
But I made it to Zoe's flat at last, and I didn't even have to go floor to floor calling her name, because she was sitting in the hallway waiting for me, with a jar of peanut butter, some chocolate Digestifs, and a bag of British pancakes.
*Tangent*
So, in England, apparently pancakes come in a bag.
They're FANTASTIC.
I'm not kidding.
I flirted briefly with the idea of buying a suitcase just so that I could take some home with me.
(I can see the homecoming now - "Hey mom and dad! This is my new suitcase, Aaaaaand these are my pancakes.")
*End Tangent*
That being said, Saturday was worth it.
We met Catherine on the street around 10am (I always pictured us meeting this way - we see each other across a crowded street in an exotic locale. You've got on white sneakers, and I'm wearing a hat...) and got all day Tube passes. For lunch I insited that we go to the Hard Rock Cafe for a burger and fries with a chocolate malt that literally cost me $40, and a cheeky spanish waitress named Charo who told us about her trp to Ibiza and probably does very well for herself in tips.
Then we just sat in Hyde Park on a bench.
We took pictures of each other and I made a fuss about the fall and the light.
It was... nice. It was wonderful. It was comfortable and comforting.
I toyed with buying an oil paintng of pirate ships at sunset and finally we made out way back to King's cross and Zoe's flat on Langton Close, stopping at Tesco on the way to pick up yogurt and honey icecream, chocolate, and strawberries for dinner, which we enjoyed with the bottle of Proseco I picked up. Now, Prosecco - a well known type of Italian "vino frizzante", famous for its role in the traditional Italian cocktail, the Bellini - is not, in itself anything that needs to be raved about. The bottle I picked up (8 euro!!! (...yeah, maybe that's it...)) from Villa Sandi was Di Valdobbiadere. Any chance that means 11% alcohol by volume? Because it was. In any case, it was a highly enjoyable champaign. Totally decent. I would describe it, as forte, I think, to borrow a word from the Italians. It was a forte champaigna.
What was amazing, was how Dave got the cork out of the bottle once we'd mangled the thing (it looked like it should pop but heaven help us...!). He used a knife to shave part of it out and then a fork to pry out the rest. I don't want to start shit - but I'ma have to go ahead and say that it officially beats the fork cork screw. Sorry, I just call 'em like I see 'em.
After an evening in at Langton Close, Catherine and I walked back to her recently vacated double (now a single - Thanks Jessica) at Nido and stayed up to talk about... like, getting older, making money, paying for utilities...
It was odd.
And not entirely bad.
...
The return trip only took me about 11 hours. In the airport I bought a mug (yes, I NEEded it) with a map of the London underground that reminds me to Mind The Gap, and a bunch of postcards. I made it back to Termini train station in Rome in time to make the 17:50 train, and fell asleep in the compartment I had to myself, waking to the soft "Buona sera" as the conductor passed through and trying to read city signs as the sun set behind hills that suddenly seem familiar. I got off at Arezzo and the half hour walk back to the villa was like that hike up the stairs in Raymond, and when I walked n the door, there were people there to hug me and food waiting in the mensa.
After a weekend of old friends and my native language,
I found myself glad to be Home,
and excited to be thinking of it that way.
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