. I find my boarding card and walk along the corridor to the far end where a crowd has already gathered, most of them Chinese, and the sound of that unfamiliar language fills the air.
It’s only an hour until we land in Schiphol for our connecting flight. We come down in dense fog and cloud. The land is striped with drainage canals and dotted with lakes. The airport is huge. The endless corridors, modulated announcements, glistening walkways and glittering shops remind me of some science-fiction dystopia, where everything is clean, shiny and powered by consumerism, dissent stifled by drugs. Signs advise it’s a ten- or fifteen-minute walk between departure piers. There is a second security check. They take away our water and we go through the scanners again. A large group of Chinese people travelling together are laden with shopping bags and gifts.
I imagine Lori here, back in September, striking out on her own, full of excitement, a little on edge, maybe, as she tries to follow procedures.
On board there is a scramble for the overhead luggage space, people squashing in bags, others complaining to the cabin crew that there is no room.
Water is dripping from a panel in the ceiling. The cabin lights go out, come on, then fail again, as does the air-con. The television screens on the back of the seats go blank and we are left with only emergency lighting. The captain announces they are attempting a repair and have sent for another onboard power unit in case it is needed. My elbows ache, jammed hard against the armrests. I affect resignation but my impatience and worry grow. What if the flight is cancelled, if we can’t travel today? All the arrangements will have to change. The start of our search will be delayed.
At last the problem is fixed and we take off. Tom is restless – no smoking on board. He gets a gin and tonic from the complimentary trolley service and, after a moment’s hesitation, I do the same and am given an unidentifiable snack, two small biscuits that taste of fish paste. When the main meal comes, the combination of nausea and hunger makes it hard to know what to eat. I pick at the food. I have wine with it, thinking it might help me sleep, but I just get thirsty.
I’ve a flashback to a holiday together, Lori and I. Lori was seven and I’d saved enough for a week in the Algarve, a studio apartment on a complex with a pool. We were like little kids together that day, on her first flight, holding hands for take-off, sucking boiled sweets in case our ears popped, taking delight in the smallest things, the plastic cutlery and the tiny packets of salt and sugar.
