I suppose you could describe my return to Carols flat as a sort
of James Cagney moment. For, I can assure you, I was on top of the world Ma. Carol was very clever; in fact she had
received a special award from Trinity College in Dublin for achieving the
highest marks ever at Trinity. She specialised
in languages and therefore knew a lot of words.
She seemed to have made a list of all the nasty ones she knew and was aiming
them at me, as I collected my various bits and pieces from around her flat and
stuffed them into my bag. One of the names
she called me, which I shall never understand why, was ‘Heretic’.
I really was on top of the world and I knew I was unstoppable. Carol would never forget that my IQ was far
higher than hers and that was something she would never forgive me for. I however, was looking forward to getting
back, for the failed fast jet pilots would have a different sort of fellow to deal
with on my return. This grand tour
stuff, or in my case, the big stagger, certainly worked. I ignored my sisters name calling and double checked
my itinerary.
Our Flight was leaving Venice at a quarter past
midnight. The train services thinned out
in the evenings so we should get to Venice about seven o clock. Which meant leaving Trento about five, ish. It was four o clock now, so I decided we
should leave, just to be on the safe side and to get away from Carol and her persistent
nagging. My sky high IQ may have put me
in the genius category and my military training saw me approach most things in
a precise and practical manner, so a little buffer zone in the timetable could never
be a bad thing.
Karen was reasonably quiet, however as we sat opposite each
other on the train heading for Venice, in a packed carriage, she reached into her
bag and produced a pair of my underpants.
She handed them to me announcing that I had forgotten to pack them. I think she thought she would embarrass me
and I could see that the people around us smirked as her gesture. I don’t think she expected me to put them on
my head but to be fair I didn’t wear them there too long.
It was sad having to pass Venice by on our way to the airport. I really wanted to get back inside it and
discover much more about the place, but I knew I would have to leave that for
another day. The airport was empty so I
approached a check in desk and presented my documents. As I looked about, trying to decide the best
place to wait, I heard the stewardess apologise as the flight had been
delayed. Luckily I wasn’t the sort of
person who would begin to bluster and complain.
The stewardess looked quite nervous. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This flight was delayed for four hours.” I began to calculate exactly how long I would
have to wait. “Nine hours!” I said. “No,” she said, and I could see her begin to calculate
in her head. “Thirteen hours.” I don’t think she knew that I had the IQ of a
genius. It was seven o clock in the
evening, the aircraft would be leaving at four in the morning so I would have
to wait, seven from twelve plus four, nine hours. I knew I was right, I always was. “The
aircraft left thirteen hours ago,” she said.
Now admittedly certain forms of information take longer than
others to sink in and I can confirm I had a sort of sinking feeling. I looked at the paperwork and my mistake stood
out like the proverbial dogs doo dahs.
My flight, sorry, our flight, was programmed to leave at zero zero one
five hours. A quarter past midnight on
the twenty seventh. It was now nineteen hundred
hours on the twenty seventh. Karen of course
was now asking what the problem was, she had picked up on the fact that our flight
had been delayed and was now entering most pissed off English woman of the decade
territory.
Carol and Karen had made a decent job of spending all of my
money so we only had a few bob left. We
may have had enough to buy one cup of coffee but most definitely not two. I knew I had to act fast so I did what any
young gentleman in a fix, in Venice, would do, I rang Carol. The train service in Italy was quite good but
the ticket process was a bit silly. You couldn’t
buy one ticket from A to B. You had to
buy a book of tickets which would cover your journey. We had enough tickets left over for one of us
to return to Carol.
Karen left me at Venice airport and went back North, to Carol,
where she would borrow some money and get a train to the French coast and then
a ferry back to UK. I however had a slightly
different problem. I would remain at Venice
airport and thumb a lift to the UK. My memory
of Venice airport is that it was like a number of portacabins that had been
stapled together. It certainly wasn’t
very big, shambolic might be more appropriate.
I used the remaining daylight to scour the immediate area for somewhere
to sleep.
I didn’t mind sleeping rough, but I wasn’t familiar with the
area so I needed somewhere that would protect me from the elements, should the
weather turn nasty, and from dogs, and pick pockets, or both or God forbid, all
three. I saw a small guard post which
would be used during the day for a ticket collector, or supervisor, at the
entrance to the car park. I checked my
money and saw that I had thirty shillings in UK money and about fifty pence in
Lira.
Marissa had taken me to a friend of hers who owned a farm, up
in the mountains. It could have been an
elderly relative I’m not sure. I do remember
the farmer showing me his still where he made grappa, a sort of schnapps. It was a dingy old barn and there were about
six of these bright shiny tanks which he proudly pointed out were legal and
tagged by the customs men. He then
brightened up and swung a door open showing another six tanks which he proudly announced
that the revenue men didn’t know existed.
It was nice to see that the good ol boy traditions were not just confined
to Ireland or Hazzard county.
The farmer produce a basic, unflavoured, grappa which he
allowed me to taste but he then showed me a bottle into which he had put a handfull
of aniseed. It looked quite dirty but
tasted exactly like Pernod so I bought half a dozen bottles, at about one pound
each, which were now lying in my bag and was all that I was going to have to
eat or drink while at Venice airport. I didn’t
have enough money to get back into Venice where I am sure that Salvatore would
have put me up, so I was very much stuck at Venice airport and there was no
point in feeling depressed about it.
I sat and watched the lights in Venice reflecting off the
water and took a few sips of my grappa.
I may have had no money, or no food, and no way of getting home, but I
can promise you I was a happy little boy.
I had certainly achieved what I had set out to achieve and had enjoyed
the best birthday party any one could wish for.
The situation I was in would cause lesser men to fret and worry, but I
was trained by the best. If I could survive
being a novice on mountain rescue this would be a walk in the park. All I had to do was Improvise, Adapt and Overcome. First thing was to sneak into the little car
park office and try to get a decent night’s sleep. Tomorrow was another day.
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