Travelblog 2: part one

I have never before flown Air France. Based on my experience of how Air France on the ground (they do check in for Czech Airlines at Heathrow) I’d imagined them to be a byword for arseyness and poor service. Now it pains me to say this because as a true Englishman I reflexively sneer at all things French, but (shuffles feet and coughs slightly); well, I was wrong.

I was sitting in the first row, which enabled me to witness the rather young captain exchanging scribbled notes with the ground crew. This, it seems, was a bit of serial flirtation this particular captain has with some member of the ground crew who presumably wasn’t on duty this afternoon. On stopovers, they probably shag like rabbits. I would let myself down with him; he was, like, well cute dude. There was much good humoured ribbing of the captain from the very pleasant crew. Everybody seemed happy to raise eyebrows and share the joke with the nearby passengers. Eventually, the captain decided the door should be closed and we should go. He didn’t throw a Gitanes out of the door before closing it, but it would have completed the image if he did. Suddenly being British seemed a bit awkward and unnecessarily rigid.

I am now writing this from Charles de Gaulle airport, where I’m waiting for my connecting flight to Seoul. I’m on my way to Sydney via a rather torturous route.

I have decided that should I ever become a dictator, I don’t want an airport named after me, as it might one day end up like Charles de Gaulle. Do kindly note this, as I do fully expect to be asked to fulfil my function in life to sort stuff out on a grand scale. Anyway, back to the plot. The people are pleasant enough and I’m sure it makes some sense if you’re familiar with the place, but it’s bewildering on a vast scale otherwise. Baggage carousels, passport control and security checkpoints all seem to be in random places as if they know they have to have them but they’ve no idea what they’re actually for. I have no idea how I found my way to the business class lounge, but now I’m here I’m rather enjoying it. The airport is a concrete maze, but they have free Bollinger champagne to help yourself to. Only in France would that happen. In Britain, it would be a slightly mean and peevish affair, no doubt providing the nastiest of cava. I suspect that there’s a very material chance that my bag may take months to catch up with me, but I’m relaxing into the modus operandi of the place by pouring myself an uncivilised amount of free bubbly stuff. I am very much a lad from Wigan at heart and the idea of free (yet expensive) champagne means I give scant regard to the fact that I’m brewing up the hangover from hell. I am going to neck as much as I can without getting so drunk I might forget I have a plane to catch.

I’m not so much looking forward to the onward flight as I’ve heard that Korean Air isn’t a nice experience. They no longer crash with the frequency that they used to, but apparently the cultural difference can be trying for we English. The middle-aged Korean guy next to me on the flight here is obviously on the same onward flight to Seoul. I’d forgotten the cultural norm in parts of East Asia He was more snot than man. Anybody with ears could clearly deduce that his aim in life seemed to be to fill his head cavities with snot, leaving just enough air gaps to allow him to noisy and continually rearrange by snorting every ten seconds or so. Gross huh? You betcha. Ah well, I’ll just anaesthatise myself with free (yet expensive) champagne. I want to get pissed enough to fall instantly asleep, without being too hammered to enjoy the slight thrill of getting onto a plane and turning left. Like I said, I’m from Wigan. What do you want? Genuine class? of publicly making the sort of loud snot-dragging noises that an Englishman would feel a frisson of shame for making even alone in his own bathroom.