'Promising' Beginnings........([i]sigh[/i])

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25th February 2006, Very Late at Night
Stansted Airport, London.

Having yesterday left gainful employment and joined the ranks of penny-pinching (literally pennies, not cents, haha!) backpackers, of course it made perfect sense that I should head straight for the most expensive celebration available, Italy's Carnivale di Venezia. By all rights, I should even now be sipping fragolino as I wander the near-to-bursting alleyways of Venice.

But, my history with major transport being what it is, perhaps it is no surprise that I am instead stretched out possessively upon three armless airport chairs in Stansted's pre-departure lounge. Yep, missed another flight.

This time, however, it wasn't precisely my fault. The M11 (or whatever London's highway is called) is closed and the train is out of commission. Though I started very early, the bus' were all running late and already overbooked, which meant a £50 taxi fare (that's $125AU!! More than the original flight and taxes cost me!) and two hours of traffic jams in order to arrive twenty minutes late (so close!). This was then followed by four hours of airport queueing and a seventeen-hour overnight wait for the next available flight to Venice (which cost my now-unemployed budget a further £40. Faaabulous).

The only consolation to be had is in a new (and likely fleeting, as these things are) friendship with a wonderful Venetian girl, Chiara, who I'd met in line, having missed the same flight. After surviving the trauma of the queue together, we stalked, claimed and fiercely guarded two very rare, highly sought-after apparitions of every airport, that which every late-night traveler is familiar with: the mythical "armless chair formations".

Such creatures can be occasionally spotted amidst the endless rows of welded-together, high-armed, barrack-like pre-flight lounge's, and are the only opportunity available in the airport - excepting those who are resigned to sleeping on the floor or the lucky b******s in the first-class lounge - to stretch out and attempt something vaguely resembling sleep. Which I shall now do, amidst the late-night hum of travelers, slightly muted announcements, and the floor-cleaning machines, having faithfully documented the first day of my unescorted Grand Tour.

One last announcement before I finish, however. It seems rather more sensible (and, undoubtedly, kinder to my poor, bored Readers) to change the style of my writing in the future. There shall be no more tediously specific day-to-day accounts. Expect only country (or city?) summations from here on out.

P.S. I dutifully apologise for what I've always acknowledged as ponderous discourse, but as it's as much a personal diary as a means of keeping in touch, the endless details help me to remember people and discussions and moments and so forth which I would otherwise forget. For when you reluctantly read such as the above blather, what you see is what I've written (hardly fascinating), but what I remember is so much more than can be written; all the tiny details of the day, or even of the time leading up to it or afterwards, are suddenly remembered with a few lines of otherwise forgotten prompts. But I do realise that you've (understandably!) no more desire to hear than I particularly wish for you to know. So I thank you for bearing with me, and promise not to be quite such a bore in future.

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