After a long delay in Istanbul airport waiting for my connection I finally got my connection to Beirut. The two hour delay seemed a lot longer as the passengers all sat around the departure gate hoping that at any minute they might be called fr boarding. Should I go for a beer or coffee? Better not. The bars and cafes were a long way off and before I had taken the first sip I might be dashing back to make sure of my place on the now overcrowded plane. The longer we waited the more connections came in and more passengers bring to get to Beirut. So I waited hungry and thirsty until the the gate opened and an announcement told us to queue according to ticket number. Behind me a young Lebanese old his American friend, 'The first thing you need to learn about Lebanon is that we don't queue.' Following this overheard advise I pushed aside men, women and small children and made sure that I got to my seat before it was snatched from me by some other desperate traveller.
As I sat down and wriggled around into some kind of airseat comfortable position a man sat down in the seat next to me. He deserves a short description. Late middle age, shaven head and a grey levantine stubble of a demi-beard, heavy grey wollen coat and faded worn jeans. The coat was surprising, it was good quality but rather inappropriate in the hot sticky interior of the plane, before the aircon was turned on. Perhaps it was just his way of carrying his new coat; like the woman who wore all her clothes t get around the baggage allowance. This is all quite unremarkable and would not have been worth mentioning if the man had not then taken out a disinfectant spray and tissue from an inside coat pocket and then very carefully his entire seat, the little video screen and folding plastic tray on the back of the seat in front of him and his seat belt and buckle. I watched half expecting the spray to be turned n me after the sterilisation of his seat had been completed. That would have actually made more sense: he was much more likely to pick up some infection from me than his seat belt. Not that I had any infectious disease that I was aware of, except for a slight itching in my left foot that I could not easily explain away. Besides the air must have been full of viruses from coughing and sneezing passengers; especially children who are notorious carriers of all known infections. I expected the man to take out a face mask. If I had been him that is what I would have done. But I wouldn't have done, because if I had been him, he didn't so I wouldn't. I realised it was a ritual, and rituals are more about spiritual consolation not rationality. I was reminded of Professor T, the Belgian detective from the excellent TV series of the same name. I want to avoid talking of autism and Asberger's and all the easy labels we can stick on behaviour of this kind and instead imagine this to be one of those rituals of childhood that most of us had and have grown out of, but in this case had become a kind of magical charm that would ensure a good flight and safe landing. And it was a good flight and safe landing, though a little bumpy, so the charm worked for me anyway. If charm it was. So much so that the passengers burst out into a burst of spontaneous applause as though they had had been expecting the plane to fall out of the sky or crash into the control tower. Probably they were just glad to have arrived after the delay and the fight to get themselves a seat.
Tracey was waiting for me at around 5am after I got though customs. We tk a taxi back to her apartment where I had an excellent breakfast on the balcony; cigar and bottle of beer. Then using away countless cats and Bb the dog I stretched out and fell asleep.
Nw I sit in a Beirut bookshop drinking strong black coffee and writing this as Tracey loks at pictures of Wadi Rum.
As I sat down and wriggled around into some kind of airseat comfortable position a man sat down in the seat next to me. He deserves a short description. Late middle age, shaven head and a grey levantine stubble of a demi-beard, heavy grey wollen coat and faded worn jeans. The coat was surprising, it was good quality but rather inappropriate in the hot sticky interior of the plane, before the aircon was turned on. Perhaps it was just his way of carrying his new coat; like the woman who wore all her clothes t get around the baggage allowance. This is all quite unremarkable and would not have been worth mentioning if the man had not then taken out a disinfectant spray and tissue from an inside coat pocket and then very carefully his entire seat, the little video screen and folding plastic tray on the back of the seat in front of him and his seat belt and buckle. I watched half expecting the spray to be turned n me after the sterilisation of his seat had been completed. That would have actually made more sense: he was much more likely to pick up some infection from me than his seat belt. Not that I had any infectious disease that I was aware of, except for a slight itching in my left foot that I could not easily explain away. Besides the air must have been full of viruses from coughing and sneezing passengers; especially children who are notorious carriers of all known infections. I expected the man to take out a face mask. If I had been him that is what I would have done. But I wouldn't have done, because if I had been him, he didn't so I wouldn't. I realised it was a ritual, and rituals are more about spiritual consolation not rationality. I was reminded of Professor T, the Belgian detective from the excellent TV series of the same name. I want to avoid talking of autism and Asberger's and all the easy labels we can stick on behaviour of this kind and instead imagine this to be one of those rituals of childhood that most of us had and have grown out of, but in this case had become a kind of magical charm that would ensure a good flight and safe landing. And it was a good flight and safe landing, though a little bumpy, so the charm worked for me anyway. If charm it was. So much so that the passengers burst out into a burst of spontaneous applause as though they had had been expecting the plane to fall out of the sky or crash into the control tower. Probably they were just glad to have arrived after the delay and the fight to get themselves a seat.
Tracey was waiting for me at around 5am after I got though customs. We tk a taxi back to her apartment where I had an excellent breakfast on the balcony; cigar and bottle of beer. Then using away countless cats and Bb the dog I stretched out and fell asleep.
Nw I sit in a Beirut bookshop drinking strong black coffee and writing this as Tracey loks at pictures of Wadi Rum.