People come to the Balearic Isles for a spot of sun. Not me, I’ve come to Mallorca for work and after a grueling week – theatrical wink, it’s been spectacular – am really rather ready to go home. A 21.45 Friday night flight is on the unpleasant side of tolerable after an 05.30 start. Should’ve got me home to the ‘Shire for 01.00. Good planning. Well, reasonable. Ish.
A spaniel has been thrown into the works. Instead of crusing through the night sky, we are back in the terminal building after a 2 hour Ryanair/Palma Aeroporto taxiway tour courtesy of a batch of, allegedly, spectacular thunderstorms. I say allegedly as they are missing in action. Simply, it ain’t raining here: no dramas, no flashy-flashy, no rumbles. Well, other than the deep dissatisfaction of a Boeing 737-800 full of tired people. V grumbly rumbly.
A bus tour from an apron stand in Azerbaijan and I am back to the gate we departed (45 minutes late) from yesterday, Friday 13th, now Saturday 14th. The cafe is dark, but it has tables. All the outlets are closed, yet the concourse is remarkably busy with all the other cancelled/grounded/delayed flights, their passengers milling, queuing, ruminating, snoozing and grumbling. It is an opaque situation with the departure boards telling porkies, the internet saying we left hours ago, the ground crew refusing to refuel aircraft (due to the storms) – contrary to the Cap’n’s reassurances – and air traffic control doing some form of manyana drill.
Massive information deficit. Another Ryanair fail.
D’you know what? I just want m’bed. Having rushed around all day – all week, doing cool stuff to be fair – I am stinky-weary in my work gear. Yet my clothes are in a case somewhere in the airport perimeter, presumably still aboard the Ryanair crate.
Don’t let anyone tell you business travel is glamorous.
It’s not as if this is the first time (on a job for this client to boot).
See you on the other side. Whenever, wherever that might be.