I should have known when I busted the zip trying to do up
the first suitcase that I’d overdone it on the packing front. But no. I just
dragged a bigger version out of the attic and found even more crap to fill that
with.
I’m not naturally one to travel light.
That said, the preparations for this trip have been a particular
nightmare. With so many different eventualities to plan for, I’ve found the
whole thing an exercise in torture. Firstly, there’s the whole hair mousse
situation. I’m away for six months and frankly I’d rather die than spend a
single day sporting a ‘do reminiscent of a circa 1970’s Michael Jackson. So
that’s 15 or so bottles of product - around 10kg’s - right there.
Then there’s all my yoga paraphernalia. I plan to practice
twice daily while I’m in Goa – and pick up a bit of teaching work while I’m at
it – so I need a variety of options. Add to that bikinis, sarongs, sundresses,
a few smart outfits and a couple of pairs of heels for business meetings, trainers,
flip flops, some colder climate clothing (just in case), medical supplies, a
few books, a couple of handbags and the full spectrum of underwear – for everyday,
fat days, period days and those times when I’d like my man to know that I’m
sluttishly available – and all of a sudden, I’m packing some serious poundage. I
nearly broke a toe hoiking this little lot down the stairs last night.
But it was only when I arrived at check-in this morning that
I discovered just how ludicrously over-bloated my load really was. For a start,
I had to recruit the help of a porter and a nice American chap checking in at
the counter next to mine just to lift the damn case on to the scales. It came
in at 40 kilos…almost the same weight as me. No worries I thought. Only double
the allowance. Perhaps a small excess baggage charge to pay.
But the jaw-on-the-floor expression I got from ‘Anne’, my check-in
lady, told me otherwise. Apparently, my suitcase had cruised way beyond the
limit of excess baggage, past the territory of ‘heavy load’ and had veered into
the arena of health and safety regulations contravention. My case had been
grounded.
But Anne - God love her -had a plan.
I needed to get myself a second case. Anne suggested a
carry-on as I was allowed to take two of those on board. She just needed me to
jettison 15 kilos to get my big case down to into the respectable heavy load
bracket, which she said she’d waive the charge on. Then I was good to go.
Sadly, this was not as straightforward as Anne had made it
seem. The only place that was selling luggage that morning was a store located
at the farthest end of the terminal. A twenty-minute trek away. No mean feat
when you have a two-ton travelling tumour to tow behind you. Nevertheless, I
did manage to find a nice compact wheelie companion for it, before setting off
on the long haul back to Anne’s loving bosom.
Only by the time I got back, Anne wasn’t there. She’d
finished her shift. Some woman named Sinead was now in her hot seat. Sinead had
a face like a sucked mango and the swagger of a person who thoroughly despised life.
Needless to say she made me feel about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit. I
tried to explain my situation, bring her up to speed on Anne’s plan, but she
remained hell-bent on slapping me with an extortionate £160 charge. As far as
she was concerned I was some kind of travelling imbecile. And I was now
cluttering up her check-in desk.
I, on the other hand, was reaching the point of a full body
meltdown.
And that’s when Frank stepped in. Frank was the porter who’d
assisted me during my first check-in phase. He was well versed in my plight.
And like Anne, he seemed to be some kind of check-in guru, who took great
pleasure in finding ways to beat the system. He immediately took me under his
wing, escorted me to an area where I could reconfigure my cases, then
dispatched me back to Sinead with instructions to waive me through, free of
charge.
Sinead had no other option but to comply and within moments,
I had my boarding card. I was finally on my way. I just had the small matter of
getting through security.
Except that security, as it turned out, was no small matter…
As painful as modern airport security channels can be, I
have to say I usually have the system pegged and can generally clear them
without much of a kerfuffle. Transparent bag for liquids and laptop are
normally at the top of my carry-on. Shoes and jacket are off well in advance. I
don’t wear any jewellery to avoid setting off the detectors and I always leave
the drugs and guns at home. I’m never frisked and my belongings are never
subjected to a second check.
Today, however, thanks to my two carry-on bags situation, I
got well and truly snaffled. In my haste to off-load as much weight as I could
from my check-in suitcase, I’d placed a range of taboo items in the new bag,
which managed to set every security alarm ringing. I was consequently molested from
top-to-toe by some uneducated goon; forced to unpack all my belongings so that
they could be swabbed and had several bottles of hair mousse, shampoo and
perfume confiscated.
I spent the remaining time before boarding inhaling wine
just to recover from the whole ordeal.
Mercifully, the minute I got on the plane, all the stresses
and woes of the morning seemed to disappear. While the aircraft was packed to
the rafters, somehow, I’d managed to land an entire middle row to myself.
I wondered whether my new check-in friends Anne or Frank had some part to play
in this? Or maybe it was just a benevolent gift from the universe. A sign to
say that I was now heading in the right direction. So shortly after take-off, I
unbuckled my seatbelt, sprawled myself out across those four seats and slept
like a child all the way to Bangalore.
Since arriving in India, everything seems easy. I still have
another two hours to wait before I can complete the final leg of my journey – the
one-hour flight to Goa. But having checked-in both my cases without so much as
a raised eyebrow and with the welcoming arms of my beautiful boyfriend waiting
to envelope me once I get there, I now feel considerably lighter.
