– by Barry Mathias –
When the tourist season is over, Islanders’ minds turn to holidays.
In its simpler form, a “holiday” was literally a “holy day” – a day off work. Now, it has come to mean seemingly endless weeks of enforced inactivity, sweating in unpronounceable foreign places, where the food causes havoc with one’s internal plumbing and the washrooms are found not to have any. Jilly Cooper said: “I’m not wild about holidays. They always seem a ludicrously expensive way of proving that there’s no place like home.”
Islanders have the opportunity to fly from their nearest government-inspired dock in a marvel of the creative mind: an aircraft that lands on water. Providing you don’t take more than a toothbrush and a spare handkerchief, there is no bother with weight although, strangely enough, the individual weighing 200 pounds pays the same amount as the 100-pound variety.
When you reach the international airport the real fun begins: the hundreds of people pushing and shoving are reminiscent of Island yard sales conducted on a mammoth scale. There is the drama at the security desk: your detailed explanation as to why your passport photograph resembles a well-known member of the Cosa Nostra. How do you pronounce your name? Next, you are required to remove clothes, shoes and empty your pockets. If you are unlucky, you will win the “strip search of the day” award, and earnest protesting only encourages an examination more rigorous than your doctor’s annual. The contents of your limited “carry-on luggage” (which used to be a euphemism for trunk) is given public scrutiny, and strangers smirk at your numerous and exotic pieces of underwear, if you are a pessimist, or the lack of it, if you are daring or optimistic. Finally, like a survivor of a closing down sale, you stagger away trying to repack your bags and regain your tarnished composure.
Always remember, uniformed employees at airports do not have a sense of humor, unless they are viewing you with their X-ray machine. With luck, the strangled hoots of mirth are aimed at someone else.
Eventually, after a route march down unending embarkation tunnels you find your seat: an oasis in a desert of struggling humanity. You listen to the announcements from the captain, always a confidence-booster: the height that the plane can fall from the sky; the position of the exit doors, and how to put on your flotation device … particularly useful when flying over the Rockies. Billy Connolly said in one of his skits: “In the unlikely event of this plane crashing into a mountain and bursting into flames, there’s a life jacket under your seat. Put it on. Come back to life. No problem.”
There is the “in-flight magazine,” with its magnificent views of villas in exotic resorts such as Losta Yemind and Wesees Yecoming. When the steward provides an exorbitantly priced gin and tonic with a packet of exactly13 peanuts, you wonder why you decided to leave your lotus isle? Instead of a cramped and interminable flight, you could be relaxing on your deck, stuffing yourself with as many peanuts as you like, sipping large gin and tonics, and without a brown bag in sight! As Rose Macaulay said: “The great and recurrent question about abroad is, is it worth getting there?”
