The long way home

Yesterday was a nightmare. Truly, a concoction of events most devious, born in the wicked mind of an imaginative witch with at least three science-fiction awards. Absolutely everything that could go wrong went wrong. Not even Murphy can top that.

The journey, as every other, starts with waking up. Five o'clock in the morning, with more than four hours left to dawn. In the heart of the winter, Swedish nights are long and dark. After hauling my heavy suitcase in my uncle's Toyota's trunk, I sit inside and am given a ride to the central bus station. From there, I shall catch a bus to the airport, 40 km southward. While waiting for the bus, I realize that I have done the smartest thing in the history of airway travelling ever. I have forgotten my ticket. Lamenting my ingeniousness, I call my uncle and ask him to bring me the ticket. While I wait for him, the bus comes and leaves. The next one is supposed to come in half an hour.

Waiting for another thirty minutes would bring me dangerously near to the closing of check-ups for my flight. With this comforting thought in mind, I grab my suitcase (with wheels broken off during the last flight, hooray for the gentle airport workers) and rush off to the railway station, which is next to the bus station. Puffing on the platform, I see a train leaving towards Stockholm. After a short inquiry inside, I realise that was the morning train to Arlanda and the next one
is not due for an hour. Heavily panting, I haul the suitcase back to the bus station, waiting for the next bus.

On the bright side, I met one of my course mates and had a nice talk with her during our trip to the airport. Once there, I proceed to the relevant desk. Or desks. Well, numbers 74 to 81. With huge queues in front of every single one. Looking for an alternative solution, I spot a nearby clerk. I ask her how to check in my luggage for the 7.55 flight (the clock currently shows 7.35). She tells me to use the terminals for self check-in - a nice Swedish innovation; it is really time-saving. The time saving innovation wastes no time in telling me that my flight is closed. Of course it is, says the clerk, the flights close half an hour before take-off. Extremely helpful, is she not? After a half-threatening, half-pleading look from my 197 cm height, she advises me to turn to an emergency desk close by. There, an Indian-looking guy fluent in at least four languages calls some kind of supervisor and directs me to the desk where I can check-in my luggage. In through the scanner, alongside the winding corridors, past the passport control, down a flight of stairs... and I find myself outside, staring at my plane. In horror, I see that it is an Embryer. When I mount the ladder, I can look directly over the plane. Hunching, I crawl inside and squeeze myself into the seat. Have you ever seen those mimes in the glass box? After yesterday, I can easily perform this act.

The plane takes off and proceeds towards Warsaw. We are offered drinks and breakfast. I do not know how many of you have used the services of the Polish LOT airways, but their stewardesses usually speak only Polish. When you announce that you, for some strange reason, are not familiar with that particular language, they half-heartedly switch to English. The next time they pass you they have completely forgotten you do not speak like the former Pope and start again in Polish. It is enough to drive a catatonic into a raging frenzy. This time the stewardess actually remembers I was with international background. Incredible! This heightens my spirit enough so that I actually smile when I enter the main building of Warsaw airport.

Not for long. A stone-dropping, teeth-shattering landing marks my arrival in Poland. Then, I get to the desk for international transit only to encounter one of the aforementioned personae, trying desperately to explain something in Polish. After an imbecile look from my side, she explains to me that I am a transit traveller and have to go to the international desk. Completely stunned, I point upwards, to the big red "International transit" sign just above our heads. It turns out I have to go to the next desk. I get a transit stamp on my ticket and proceed through the scanner. A scream stops me in my tracks. The Polish-talking lady is gesticulating frantically to me to get back. I inquire about the reason for this commotion. She grabs my ticket and puts another stamp, identical to the first one. Then I am free to go. Shaking my head, I proceed to the gate.

A short queue of about 20 people greets me at the gate. It turns out the gate is actually two gates, with two flights leaving almost simultaneously - one for Sankt Petersburg at 10.50 and one for Sofia at 11.00. Only one scanner works, with not less than five soldiers from the border guards, clad in khaki uniforms, only lacking machine guns. The queue is advancing painfully slow and swelling to gigantic proportions. Wondering why five soldiers cannot complete the scanning any faster, I wait patiently for my turn. In front of me, a lady activates the alarm and is advised to get off her shoes. As she threads barefoot through the scanner, her every possession is analysed with a scientist-honouring scrutiny. Deciding I am not taking my shoes off, I pass with wide strides through the portal. Not triggering anything, thank God. Then I explain the purpose of my mobile phone, digital camera, iPod, charging cables for the bunch and a toy I bought in Uppsala. Eventually, I am allowed to continue on my way.

I pass through the gate and sit in the bus that will bring us to the aircraft. Making myself comfortable, I switch on the iPod and sink in eternal bliss under the sounds of Rhapsody. Suddenly, I notice the people are getting up and leaving the bus. I take off my headphones and hear a voice over the intercom, instructing us to leave the bus and get back to the waiting lounge, since our flight is being delayed. I start to get nervous. The thing is, a group of about 10 friends plus my family is going to wait for me on Sofia Airport with the cruel intention to get me to a big fair for celebration. With the flight delayed for more than an hour, there is no way I can make it to Sofia in time for the start of the party.

Gritting my teeth, I sit down in the lounge and read a book I bought for a friend of mine. I apologise, Alexander, but it was either that or complete boredom looking at the frowning faces around me. Finally, the gate is opened for boarding again. I start down the corridor when another scream stops me. Briefly pondering on the possibility that I am in Italy instead of Poland, I turn around. A lady explains that she has to see my pass and boarding card. "You saw them about half an hour ago!", I exclaim. True that as it is, she seems to suffer from a short term memory loss and insists to check my boarding card again. That behind me, I sit in the bus, then in the plane. Luckily, it is a Boeing this time. We take off.

The stewardesses speak English here as well. I am shocked with disbelief. About twenty-five minutes before landing, the pilot announces that the fog above Sofia is too thick for a safe landing. We are to land in Plovdiv, about 150 km to east-southeast. When the plane takes a left turn, I manage to pass a quick look over Sofia. Imagine a cooking pot formed of mountains, filled to the brim with grey boiling soup. Well, there is definitely no landing possibility here. We land at what I suspect is the "Graf Ignatievo" Airport, about 6 km south from Plovdiv. Immediately, I turn on my mobile phone and ring my parents and friends to inform them that I am still alive, though slightly misplaced in space (and time).

We wait in the plane. Meanwhile, I notice nature wants to reclaim all the juices, water and red wine I digested during the flights. When I emerge from the suspiciously Embryer-tight toilet, I hear that there are no ladders for us to get down with. Picturing a "Die Hard" scenario in my head, I offer my services as to jump down from the plane and take the passengers one by one. Luckily, a ladder arrives soon enough. The next plot twist comes with the news that the busses, supposed to get us to Sofia, have not yet left from the capitol. My joy at about zero degrees Kelvin, I wait patiently for the pass control with the intention to rent a car and get out of this place as soon as I reclaim my luggage.

The waiting seems endless. More planes arrive and the hall fills with passengers. All the clerks at the passport control desks seem to be one-handed, movement impaired or incapacitated in some other way. One hour later I hold my suitcase. The bottle of Italian Campolieti seems intact, or at least there is nothing dripping from inside. The busses have not left Sofia yet, according to the latest new. In a strange smile of Fortuna, the girl sitting next to me in the plane meets an old classmate for the first time in fifteen years. The guy is kind enough to offer us passage to Plovdiv, where we can buy bus tickets. Meanwhile, my mother rings me and pleadingly tries to convince me that I have to take the train, since the dense fogs, covering Sofia and the motorways, make travelling extremely dangerous. We get in Plovdiv at about 17.10 (my flight was scheduled to land at 13.55, or that is what the ticket said). At the bus station we learn that there are busses every hour, with the next one due in 50 minutes. Tired of waiting and desperately wanting to get home, we hail a cab and make a deal with the driver - 80 leva (40 Euro) to Sofia. (The taxi drivers at the airport wanted at least 140).

A one hour long drive on the highway gets us to Sofia with no fogs at all. Meanwhile it turns out that my mobile service provider has screwed something up with the network settings and no one is able to connect with me, nor can I call anybody. I manage to call my parents and tell them where to wait for me. They pick me up and we go to the fair afterparty. I greet my friends, leave some small presents and, almost sleeping standing, get home. I stuff myself full of my mother’s delightful culinary picks and, weighing two kilograms more than before dinner, sink into a blissful twelve-hour long sleep with lots of pleasant dreams about a certain enamoring green-eyed lady.

This was my last time I fly with LOT.