Trip to a wedding

In a rush after Danish class, I grabbed a luggage case, one of my partner’s, I had no time to fish out my own, I’m not sure where it’s stored anyway, I hoped she would be okay with it, if not…

Anyway, where was I? I get confused. I grabbed a luggage case. Passport, yes, as always in the inside pocket, and,

This detail is going to be tedious, isn’t it? It reads far too much like a contemporary novel but one that is on the tail-end of whatever contemporary this current contemporary is.

So I got to the airport with plenty of time. Aalborg airport is shiny, small and most importantly, not busy. No queues, no trouble. One vegan option was available and I bought Der Spiegel to bide the time. I’d never read Der Spiegel before and I was pleasantly surprised. I still haven’t kicked the tone, it’s too conversational, it’s too easy. No friction or tension exists. Plain crisps – no thanks. Even then though, plain crisps are better than this. Damp plain crisps. That’s more like it.

I guess some tension could exist in the story from now, as I was sat on the plane without a long transfer time at Schiphol, but the plane was yet to move. A previous taxi driver had forewarned of delays from/to Amsterdam, or was it cancellations? I’m unsure what he was trying to convey anyway. Chatter to a passenger, wind to the night.

But the tension doesn’t really work, because I know I made it. My luggage didn’t (well, it does eventually), but I did. And even without the luggage, I had already hatched a plan, buy a shirt and socks, potentially shoes, which the man at M&S later talks me into, some rip-off Dr. Martens for £60 I hope to get back from KLM after I’ve finished writing this up. Maybe that’s the tension, will I get the money back or not? I don’t know. The total comes to £123.35, so I guess the stakes aren’t too high – ah well.

At passport control I spotted a bunch of bright red passports. I’d already heard a Germanic language which wasn’t Dutch or German as I knew then, and then I saw the cross. The Swiss. Thursday, Europa League. A hand touched my shoulder. Glen! The best man. Yes. I waited for him at the conveyor belt, whilst a young dog was let off the lead by a police officer. The dog jumped over each bag, wagged its tail ferociously, squatted down, and started pissing on the sliding black rubber panels. The piss travelled along and sloshed around the corner. ‘She’s still a puppy,’ the copper explained. ‘And gets too excited,’ she added. I then went for a wee myself. Too excited too, evidently.

Is there anything new I can say about lost luggage? Or Premier Inn? Grand Central in Belfast is new, but is there anything new about it apart from its existence?

Weddings are weddings. Personal. It’s good to see old faces, to catch-up, to see variations of your friend in old, young and other sex forms. The ceremony, the children, the speeches, the children, the food, the children, the dancing, are there even more children?

Is there anything else I want to add? Der Spiegel is surprisingly good. I already said that. At least as good as crisps.

Ah yes, one last bit, on connections again. The journey back included an hour to transfer, so no intrigue there. However, I wasn’t assigned a seat number for the second leg; I was on the waiting list. The man behind the desk at Belfast deferred me to the staff at the gate in Schiphol. I got to the gate. ‘Christiansen?’ she asked. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I replied. She scanned my boarding pass. ‘No sir. You’re Aalborg. Don’t get confused,’ she added. I looked up at the screen. Kristiansand.