Airport security check queues probably aren’t high on the list of places where you’re likely to make friends with strangers. However, the queue at Charles de Gaulle for the Gulf Air flight to Bahrain was so slow that I got quite deep into conversation with a French Canadian couple, Juli and Patrique. Juli, it turned out, has a passion for writing. She also had quite a few good lipsticks, which the female baggage checker confiscated, leaving her with one cheap one. Cheap lipstick is less likely to contain nitroglycerin, as everyone knows. This nice woman also took her mascara. Down at baggage check-in I’d been told that lipstick was ok to carry on board, though I had to put my moisturiser and perfume in my suitcase. Now, that violet perfume bottle is very nice, but it only has a push top, not a screw top, and I was worried it would leak. Rummaging for something to wrap it in, I chose Stu’s old long johns, which I’d been wearing at night for warmth, having no warm PJs of my own, and hoped for the best. Meanwhile, my radioactive material (remember those shot glasses?) was nestled away, wrapped in tissue paper, uninterrogated and unmolested. And my cheap-looking (and, verily, cheap) camel-patterned bag didn’t get checked, so I got my lipstick on board, along with lip balm and foundation - all harmless substances in themselves, but when you mix them together, they turn into Genghis Khan and his hordes. Or was it bikers? I forget. Oh, well.

However, my belt set off the metal detector, leading to the most thorough roaming of hands over my body that I’ve ever had outside of the bedroom and a couple of car seats. The woman who checked me was middle-aged, dumpy and plain, but friendly and cheerful, and respectful, greeting me with a ‘Bonjour, Madame’ before running her hands up and down my thighs. It somehow reminded me of being dried by my mother after a bath. She caressed my hips, sliding her hand under my belt and tugging on the buckle. I felt a surprising little twinge of interest. I could imagine her running a discreet bordello offering expert cunnilingus and mild discipline. I grinned at her. She grinned back. There was definitely a spark between us. All too quickly, however, she declared me clean and sent me on my way before I could ask for her phone number.

Juli, Patrique and I hung out in the departure lounge and agreed to rendezvous later on the plane. I had a window seat, but swapped seats with another passenger so that he and his companion could sit together, as they’d been separated with one sitting in front of the other. By the time we were ready to take off, the window seat beside my new one was still empty. I was looking forward to enjoying this luxury, but an Indian-American kid sitting with his family in the middle seats wanted to be by the window, so he got the spare seat. Fair enough, but when his mother asked me if I’d mind sitting in the middle so that she could be with him I found myself saying sorry, but I did mind. Middle sucks. Jesus Christ himself wouldn’t swap a side seat for a middle seat. Anyhow, Junior and I got along ok. After takeoff he pointed out the scenery. We were flying above clouds that looked like a vast snowfield covered in deep toboggan tracks, and in the middle of it was a single strange upright plume of cloud with a sort of trunk at the base, like a poplar tree or smoke rising from a chimney. I figured clouds would interest him for about ten minutes, then he’d want to close the window and watch a movie, which is exactly what happened. I took my deprivation of warm sunshine with a show of good grace and helped him with the headset (on Gulf planes you have to press one of the pins on the jack down). In return, he put the sponges on my earphones. His seat-back screen turned out to be dodgy, subject to static and freezes, so in a transparent attempt to get the window seat I offered to swap, since my screen was fine. Naturally, he prefered to stay where he was and wake me up when he had trouble. The first time he didn’t say “please”. I reminded him about this word and from then on it was “please ma’am”. I wanted to tell him that this mode of address to women will serve him well for the rest of his life. The family fell asleep, leaving him in my care. His mother woke up and tried to get him to look at her waving and smiling at him, but she was competing with Superman Returns so basically had no chance unless I played go-between, which I wasn’t going to. I’m an only child and I know how much you sometimes want to get away from adults and their constant need for attention. The sky darkened. Juli came by to visit. We went up to business class where she and Patrique were and snuck into two spare seats. I had never sat in business before. The seats were actually way too big for me, but they’d be nice to curl up in at night. We chatted away happily for half an hour before I got deported back to cattle class, where there were no two adjacent spare seats. We tried lurking in a corner, but this too was forbidden, so in time-honoured fashion we hung out behind the toilets, talking about writers, writing, quotations, and the intriguing snippets that come floating into one’s mental net. We parted at Bahrain with kisses and hopes of seeing each other again. Somehow I have a feeling we will.

No good fairy had waved a wand and turned Bahrain airport into Dubai while I was gone. Its cramped dimensions were crowded and smoky. I was able to find a wireless connection to piggyback on, which passed some time. The plane to Bangkok was delayed. The airport staff let us wait without telling us anything, and then after an hour or so handed out transit cards with an air of immense irritation at us for being there cluttering up the departure lounge. I asked one of them how long the delay would be. About an hour, he snapped. Too many airports give the impression of being very much like the hospital in Yes, Minister, which had staff but no patients, and in Sir Humphrey’s opinion was much better and more efficient that way. At airports it’s the passengers who are clearly the extraneous, unwanted matter. I try to remember that it’s a privilege to be one of the small percentage of human beings who can afford international air travel (and have clean water, medicine, education, etc.), and this thought actually does help my mood quite a bit.

The flight home was uneventful. At Bangkok I was sure my luggage was lost, but it turned out that my suitcase was black, not blue as I thought it was, and was missing the sticker with my name and address on it, though there seemed to be a faint sticky residue in the place I’d put it. Had it been black all along? On the other hand, for the last week I’d been experiencing a lot of unusual coincidences, which, when I went where they pointed, led to more coincidences. Have those coincidences led me through a crack into an alternative reality? (And will the hairdressers in Bangkok be better in this one?)
There are signs all over the place telling you to use the airport limousine for your own comfort and safety. This of course is bullshit, but they drive the regular taxi drivers away from the arrivals area, so I went up to departures and picked up a taxi there for half the price (still 100 baht too much, but he wouldn’t put his meter on, and I was too tired to argue, and it turned out the freeway toll was included; and I can understand the taxis pushing for a bit extra when they must have to drive back to town with an empty cab often enough - anyway, after France, I’m seeing 100 baht, which is about 2 Euro, in a whole new perspective, i.e. as the cost of half a hot chocolate, as opposed to the cost of four lunches).

I have to go to work in the afternoon. Work is very good about letting me take time off, so I try to minimise the days I’m away. The substitute teacher who took my five 7 yr olds had written a lovely, long, polite note on pink paper asking if their mothers could possibly be asked not to send their children to class with bags of candy as the sugar high makes them go nuts. I had vaguely mumbled about this before, but his note had done the trick. There was very little candy today, and while they were still a handful, they just were a handful of kids and not a handful of insane small demons with unnatural strength and a predilection for throwing shoes.

Stu has just come back from a work thing in San Francisco with a) bronchitis and b) a new razor. It has a UV light on it that shines when it’s charging. I tested my glasses under it, and oh my, yes, they glow like Kryptonite. As for the perfume, it did leak. I lost about 10% of the bottle, and Stu’s long johns were drenched in the smell of violets. Not only did the smell not come out in the wash, it mildly permeated everything else in the washing machine and now fills our bedroom where all the stuff is hanging up to dry - a lovely if rather expensive air freshener.