Transition day. And for the second time in forever we take a minicab instead of the tube to Heathrow. Swift cars, and they are pretty swift, getting us to the airport in plenty of time to check in - and then wait endlessly. Reminiscent of the well known quotation about war being interminable boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.
Well, sheer terror would be overstating it considerably, but we do sit doing nothing for two hours, followed by the information that our flight is now boarding at a gate listed as being a fifteen minute walk away. And they do mean a brisk walk.
Turkish Airways can be relied upon to provide decent meals. Though there can be translation difficulties. So we are offered a choice between what we later decide must have been gnocchi and what sounds like beef Solomon. Gambling, we ask for the beef Solomon rather than the unknown word. And find we have been given a beautiful thick juicy salmon fillet such as Air Canada may actually serve in first class - we wouldn’t know. Well, the Turkish for salmon is solmon. Who knows what sounds like beef in Turkish. We’ve brought our own crystal clear plastic glasses as an alternative to the paper cups the airline supplies as wine glasses, to the amusement of the stewardess. J asks if the wine is French or Turkish. It’s French, but the kindly stewardess returns with glasses (well, paper cups) of Turkish for comparison. The French is better, but this isn’t always the case.
We have a very tight connection in Istanbul, involving racing to a gate somewhere on the outskirts of Ankara. Or at least miles to the east of our landing spot. Where we wait, as the flight is delayed. Receive a text announcing that the flight’s delay is due to “force majeure”. Really? Are we being shot at? J looks out the window and notes that our plane is parked quietly beside the departure lounge. So that would be a no. Look up “force majeure” and find that it is a clause in contract law freeing parties from their obligations when the unforeseeable occurs. Not necessarily war or earthquakes. So that’s it. We will be late and don’t bother asking for compensation.
Not that we would have done in this case. Although the possibility does occur later when we discover on landing in Cyprus that one of the wheels on J’s suitcase has been severed. Not bent - severed.
But Ozzy’s taxi is waiting and an hour later we’re home.
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