Escape from Malta

 

It was with great relief that I was able to walk through the door of the airport gate into the thick, stifling, Maltese heat to get to the waiting plane. It was there. We could all see it. A crew walked over as the people, the previous passengers, with their cabin bags poured off into a waiting bus.

 

The plane was finally waiting to get us out of here.

 

One of the larger standard-sized cabin bags overhung the overhead locker. The air-stewardess pushed and pushed to get the door to click shut. It bounced open defiantly, again and again. Good-naturedly, passenger and stewardess rejigged the luggage until the locker could be crammed shut. As this drama played out, passengers with grim, determined, get-me-out-of-here faces flowed past me. Strange smells, vaguely of burning and jet fuel hinted that we were preparing to leave.

 

The air-stewardess was now struggling with the plane door, apparently jammed part open. It was stubborn, not wanting to be air-borne so soon after its previous flight. There was an intense moment of uncertainty and then, it was done. The plane had complied. An accented voice recording kept repeating the unnecessary information that this was a low-cost airline.  We would soon be hurtling to a better place in a metal tube: perhaps heaven.

 

A reassuringly cheery voice rang out:

‘Welcome aboard today. My name’s Simon. I am your pilot, and your first officer here in the cockpit with me is Steve. We will shortly be leaving with an expected flight time of two hours and twenty minutes flying at 36, 000 feet. We’re expected some turbulence during the flight so please keep your seatbelt fastened at all times’.

 

I reached for my phone and earphones. Audio book required. The Mexican-gothic historical novel was just at a point in the story where a witch priest was levitating. The natural experience over the past few days had been sufficiently disturbing and the last thing needed now was a description of the supernatural. What about ‘For whom the bell Tolls’?  I settle for the ‘Book of Joy’, a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Bishop Desmond Tutu. The Dalai Lama enlightened me that out of painful experiences comes great joy as it throws the good into sharp relief. I believed him and still hope he is right. The painful feelings need to go though; instead, they seemed to be heaping up.

 

Would you like any food?

Do you have a vegetarian option?

Yes! We have vegan lasagne. It only has very small meatballs in it, and you won’t notice them.

The stewardess said, brimming with helpfulness and encouragement.

 

Settling on a vegetarian cheese and ham panini on the advice of the stewardess - the ham can be pulled out - I find that it had been microwaved and the ham was fused to the cheese with the stubbornness of glue.

 

‘Scratch cards are on special today’ we learned. This news brings neither distraction nor joy. An hour into the flight though and we were half-way home and half-way to heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

I’d been to a conference in Malta. Halfway through I’d received a call from my gynaecologist. It’s probably nothing but you need to go for an ultrasound.

 

‘I’m at a conference in Malta.’

‘Go when you get back.’

‘Is it cancer?’

‘Oh no!  Just some calcification.’

 

Less than reassured I returned to the conference with the feeling of sinking in my stomach.

 

The conference was training in how to draft an Erasmus+ accreditation bid. No one knows what that means, or at least very few do. Since Brexit the UK no longer participates in Erasmus+, but I’ve been a Luxembourger for around 6 years now. Kee Brexit fir mech.

 

It’s a way of securing funding for educational visits and on the job training. There are tricks of the trade and key things to note in an accreditation bid.

 

As I ploughed up the stairs in the Maltese heat to the somewhat air-conditioned conference room, I felt newly vulnerable. This time not from being kidnapped by the local North African pimp but from being taken by Death before my time as had been the fate of a number of my family members including my mother.

 

The next presentation was entitled:

The pathway to heaven!

 

They meant how to secure your successful accreditation bid. For me it now had a whole new significance.

For Whom the Bell Tolls by John Donne

No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own Or of thine friend's were. Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.