I was in a Dubai hotel room at my computer trying unsuccessfully to check in online for my flight the next day, when I noticed a Facebook update from a friend in Italy who was stuck at the airport. His flight to the UK had just been cancelled due to a volcanic eruption in Iceland which has sprayed a cloud of ash containing shards of glass that could wreck the engines of airliners. This cloud was floating towards the UK and all airspace had been closed.
I dialled the number for Emirates airlines and got myself in a never ending voicemail loop.
I was at the Sheraton Dubai Creek, which is only a short taxi ride to Dubai airport. So I took one, and made my way to the Emirates ticket desk where I was informed that my flight to Gatwick was scheduled to leave at 8am 15th April, as planned.
I was told to come back at 5am, 3 hours before the flight was due to leave.
But don’t check out of your hotel, they said. Just in case.
I turned a circle at the airport with that afterthought running around my head, and found another Emirates employee at the ticket desk. I reassured him that I was not in a hurry to go anywhere, but I wanted his opinion on when I’d get back to the UK. He looked me up and down and explained that it was the end of the Easter holidays and flights going back to the UK had been pretty full before the eruption. As every plane they cancelled added another 300 passengers to the next, and no airlines have planes hanging about waiting for this sort of situation every cancelled plane needs another 30 planes to carry its stranded passengers.
What did this mean? It was unlikely that I’d be flying anywhere in April. I looked at my watch. It had just turned midnight. Today was now the 15th April.
I went back to the hotel and packed my bags. I didn’t know what I was going to do then, but I knew I had to get moving. The hotel concierge had just received a fax from Emirates. It was a list of about twenty cancelled flights. One of them was the 8am flight to Gatwick – my flight.
But there were a few airports that were not on the list; Madrid, Milan, Nice, Rome; I went back to the hotel and changed my status on Facebook to
“Is heading to the airport to get the next plane leaving for anywhere in southern Europe. And then overland it back to the UK. Fuck you, volcano. Let the adventure begin. “
As I was on my way to the airport a comment came back., from a friend of mine called Cara, in Miami. It read;
“and here I am, safe and snug in my little house, glass of wine in hand and contemplating what to do for the rest of the evening... I wonder how long it's going to take you to get home --48 hrs? 96?”
OK, so the gauntlet had been thrown, and now the clock was ticking. I updated my status:
“It's Madrid, Milan, Nice or Rome. But I wanna go home.”
I dragged my luggage – a large suitcase with an extending arm that lets you drag it along on wheels, two shoulder bags and a suit holder - and headed back to the ticket desk. It was now 3am. I told the desk that I had been informed of my flight cancellation (which still had not been officially announced) and was eventually booked on a flight to Nice leaving at 0925.
“It's Nice.” I told Facebook. “Which is nice.”
A half hour later that flight was full, with 30 people on the wait list. And that half hour was the difference to me being on that plane and being in Dubai.
But the easiest part of my journey was done – the worst was yet to come.
Rather than prepare for my arduous journey ahead I landed at Nice airport the wrong side of several bottles of chardonnay and stumbled into an early afternoon airport bus terminal packed with wailing tourists surrounding an uninterested uniformed information clerk.
The people were desperate. The man at the front was crying ‘But I need to get to Marseilles tonight!’
Good God man, I thought. Pull yourself together; Marseilles is about a hundred kilometres away. I suggested rather loudly from far away that he take the train and get the queue moving along.
Collectively the group turned towards me and appraised me of the situation, which I updated to my profile.
"In Nice. There's a train strike. The French are doing their bit to help us all through a crisis once more"
I took a moment. Only the French could go on strike at a time like his. I turned to an official, the crowd still watching me and asked him in French what the situation was. He confirmed that there was a rail strike, that there was no chance of any train.
Apart from maybe the odd one or two.
One to Paris perhaps?
Perhaps, his shrugging vaguely interested shoulders told me. Perhaps not.
I thanked him for this wealth of information and headed outside to hail a cab.
‘Excuse me’ a voice called out behind me. ‘I noticed that you speak French?’
I turned. Behind me was a group of about a dozen people, who had followed me out of the airport.
‘Yes’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Paris. I’m going to the train station’
‘There’s a rail strike’
‘I know’ I said, ‘I’d like to see that for myself
The group looked at each other and then back at me.
‘Can we come?’
‘Sure’ I said. We crossed over to Nice - an empty station, and walked over to a bored policeman who directed me to a guard who said, "yeah, sure the train over there is leaving in an hour for the Gare Du Lyon". This was the Paris terminal, in the south of the City Centre. The Waterloo of Paris, if you like (and no pun intended)
The train was a double-decker, 200 metre long TGV. The first time you see a TGV it’s quite a site. The letters stand for Train Grand Vitesse, which means high speed train, which is a pretty good description.
We climbed aboard. It did not escape me that while Nice airport was a chaos of passengers trying to get north, almost all to Paris, we were sitting on an empty train that could have accommodated a thousand of them without breaking sweat.
The situation changed rapidly as we moved from station to station. And once we had passed Aix-en-Provence the train was full – but it still moved like a bullet, shooting towards Paris at 200 miles an hour.
I swapped ideas with fellow Facebook friends and then turned to my companions. An Australian couple had been due to begin an Anzac tour of northern France the following day. It didn’t look like there’d be many joining them. Eurostar had closed their offices and taken their phones off the hook. That’s the French in a crisis.
We pulled into Paris and it was bedlam. I accompanied the aussie couple to their hotel, confident I had found the one hotel in Paris that would have availability.
It did. For 140 Euros.
Then came the news and another required status update.
"Your credit card has been declined, monsieur". I'm sure you guys can appreciate how enjoyable this is for me to hear at nearly midnight in a Paris hotel lobby
'ABANDONNE’ is the French word for ‘not authorised’ and like many French words, it paints a better picture of the situation. My card had abandoned me.
The hotel looked disdainfully at my Dirhams, and informed me this was “nut pissible”; at any exchange rate, so I dragged my baggage around Paris for several hours, sweating heavily and none too sweetly until I eventually found a hotel that my limited euros could afford. I eventually landed at the Ibis. My facebook comments about this hotel are undeniably harsh, probably best summed up by my comments
"is thinking of a new advertising slogan; "Take her to the Ibis. She'll get the message."
It was a grim affair, but it was also a bed. And I needed one.
I fell asleep, little realising that I was keeping others awake, those following the drama unfold from the comfort of their homes
The next morning I set off alone at 7am. One of the taxi drivers the previous evening had advised me to try Eurolines, a coach service from Paris to Victoria. It wouldn’t be quick, but there was no telling whether the rail strike had ended, so I made my way to the terminus.
There was a coach at 10am, but
"it looks like the So Solid Crew have beaten me here. Will have to try my luck with the trains again"
There was a queue that would have filled a dozen coaches. Even in the unlikely event that Eurolines wasn’t full, it would be by the time I made it to the ticket desk.
I made my way to the Gare du Nord, which resembled a refugee camp, queues spilling out onto all platforms. I looked at the departure boards and crawled into the first departing train, headed for Flanders. My addled brain had no idea where Flanders was, but it was the wrong way.
I sought advice on Facebook and was told to get off at Lille and walk the quarter mile to the Gare Lille Europe so I dragged my luggage between the stations and another biblical queue of people.
But the departure boards showed a train to Calais leaving at 11.01.
Another great train snaked across the northern French countryside and I remarked that I had to hand it to them;
"these garlic muching surrender monkeys certainly know how to put on a train service. Am hurtling through the French countryside at 150 miles an hour"
I arrived at the Calais coast half an hour later. On the brief journey I’d made some more friends in the real world
"World weary passengers all swapping stories of where they have travelled from. There's a couple travelling for five days from Pisa to Newcastle. "We've never been to Newcastle before" says the old lady with a smile. "Yep" I say "I figured you hadn't""
From Calais we took the bus to the port.
The scene that awaited us reminded me of the opening to the Godfather, when the refugee ships are flooding into New York. Thousands of people where queuing for tickets, others – touts - were wandering up and down the lines of would be passengers with offers of seats on cars, lorrys and vans, but at prices few could afford. Still, there was enough demand to satisfy the supply, even at these prices.
Seeing little point in joining the queue I wandered over to a group of dock workers and gently enquired about the possibility of getting across the Channel. I didn’t care where I landed as long as it was on English soil.
There followed a muted discussion, some shaking and nodding of heads, some exchange of money and yours truly
"Has been offered a berth on a Freight Ferry leaving at 1440. "What are the facilities like?" - I ask. He looks at me. "Limited" he replies. I'm in."
The boat was an old Ferry, its inside amenities ripped out to make room for cargo. I dumped my luggage in a corner to the strains of ‘La bamba’ from a small portable radio we left the Calais coast.
I took a picture of the receding coastline and posted it to Facebook. Au revoir. Next stop England.
We arrived at Dover at 2.30 and I muscled into a queue of people waiting at customs, made it through and took a taxi with another couple and a single lady that had travelled with me from Calais, and arrived at Dover station in time for the 3.05 to London. It was another seven hours before I would reach my home town, with the usual rail problems and closed stations that I have come to associate with the UK weekend rail network.
But there was something comforting about that.
It felt like home.
