Getting There

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The prisoners depicted in Louis Theroux’s documentary film were engaged in activities that did not require much physical motion; reading books, casual conversations with other inmates and listening to MP3 players. As my Geordie friend pointed out “the prisoners look like they are on a bus journey that seemingly never ends.” This comparison came to mind when I travelled from London to Newcastle by Megabus. I felt like a convict at a death row. Although the coach was physically moving forward it was not that easy to distinguish if we were going round in circles, always stopping at Scotch Corner. There is possibly a regulation about the commercial services that are allowed to operate at Northern England coach stops. Anything apart from Costa Coffee Shop, WHSmiths’s and Mark’s & Spencer’s have to be out of the question.
The driver seemed more concerned of the safety instructions than any other coach driver working for the Megabus Company. The safety demonstration lasted for a good five minutes and concluded with the recommendation of using compulsory safety belts. The people sitting in my immediate observational range seemed to have the concentration span of a banana fly as they were dosing off seconds after the safety demonstration begun. Fools, I thought. I decided not to help the idiots finding the emergency exit in case of a brutal fire. Hell, I might even set a fire in the toilet myself. I had all the necessary equipment at my reach. A lighter and a copy of Russell Brand’s autobiography in my bag would do. That should teach the ignorant crowd a lesson.

Most of the travellers on the coach were young - possibly students who can’t afford a last minute train ticket. Eight quid for a one-way ticket from London to Newcastle is a reason enough for sit in a bus for almost seven consecutive hours with ranking toilet facilities. It was not all bad, though. Observing other human beings trying to sleep on a seat with apparent discomfort proved to be the most amusing way of killing time – after desperately trying to nap uneasily on the seat myself for the first half of the journey. At least the driver wasn’t napping when I was on the coach – sometimes that happens too, I’m told by my sources.

However negative I felt about travelling by bus that day I’d still choose coach over airplanes anytime. No question about it. The sheer volume of overwhelming emotions and uneasiness throughout the journey makes me cry on airports and airplanes every time. Hence the black clothing when I fly – maybe people will not stare in shock at my tears if they are under the impression that I’m on my way to a funeral abroad.

Airports are for people with nerves of steel. I have not been to an airport where I would feel happy, excited and confident about myself. Airports are like your average up market shopping centre, only your lawfulness is questioned at every turn. Is there anything illegal in your luggage? Is there anything forbidden in your rectum or elsewhere on you? What does your laptop consists of? Even when you buy a quarter of a whiskey from the duty free shop the clerk gives you the unnerving stare. “Where do you think your going? Let’s have a look at your boarding pass, sunshine.” You shiver and hand over your documents before you’re allowed to pay. All that constant suspiciousness towards your motives makes me quiver (and look more guilty as charged).

I think I could possibly smuggle a gram or two of some sort of illegal substance through international imaginary borders as there is one place the airport security has never, ever, looked at. I will not be legally guilty if after the publishing of this book there will be signs of drug smuggling increases. It is very simple. If I were to have any interest taking drugs with me abroad, I’d simply keep them in the balm of my hand. Nobody ever has asked me to unclench my nervous fists when I walk through the gates. Oh no. The female security guard caresses you a bit but never want to see the content of my fist.
The only time I flied from London City Airport is the perfect example of the atmosphere of fright. Whilst waiting to pass through the security gates I saw two burly police officers with machine guns hanging around their necks. This was at the Golden Age of Terrorism Paranoia, which makes the sight of machine guns even more worrying than on your normal, care free Sunday walk at the Countryside. I could not help but to envisage these two men mistakenly considering me as some sort of freedom fighter and blasting away my poor nervous existence. When the security man started talking to me about the impossibility of taking two lighters on board the aircraft I was ready to duck down and beg for mercy. Instead, I gave away the other lighter and for the rest of the journey remained occupied with the puzzle: what kind of terrorist act benefits from two lighters smuggled in the aircraft. Please. If you will not acknowledge my demands I shall light two cigarettes at once. Or grill your arm hairs not with one but two lighters. Later I found out about liquid explosives. One question answered, so many others to go.

The check-in clerks interrogate very half-arsedly in my opinion. Did you pack your bags by yourself? Yes, since I was in Girl Scouts. ‘Cause we were told to do so. The girls whose mums had packed their bags were looking for their mugs, knifes and what not in panic every time we were militantly ordered around to do stuff. Silly bitches, I thought and got my blade out in an instant. I would have survived a beaver attack in the wilderness because I would have been the only one to find beaver spray in time. What kind of Jihad bomber would admit at the check in that even though they packed the suitcase on their own they slipped in explosives and other restricted sharp items. Ha, you got me.

Napping in airplanes is physically as uncomfortable as in coaches if not worse. You have no idea how long you have been out of it. I personally refuse to carry a wristwatch but use the time on my mobile phone when I need to know what the time is. For obvious reasons, I can’t do this on plane. My only hope is to catch a glimpse of someone else’s watch when they stretch or do a Nazi salute. Even then you can’t be certain if their watches show the time on the country you left from or the time of the destination. Did I sleep for two hours or fifteen seconds?

Cruises have always had a very posh ring to them in my mind. I have never attended one so I’m imagining that being on one must be something like in the 70’s sit-com Love Boat that reruns use to entertain my lonely after school afternoons as a child. Ferries, in the other hand, are for people who wish to leave the country economically and swiftly like in Trainspotting. Ferry journeys I have experienced first hand on several occasions as for some bizarre reason my fellow Finns enjoy ferrying up to Stockholm port, then NOT LEAVING THE FERRY sail back home very, very, drunk. Ferries are an inconvenient but a cheap option travelling between Finland and Stockholm as well as Finland and Tallinn, Estonia. For a person to use these ferry connections to actually get off board is treated as an unusual, almost bizarre behaviour. Sleeping on the deck is impossible and booking a cabin seems pointless as people rummage around the decks for god knows what for forty-eight consecutive hours, suicidal drunk and aggressively. The last time I witnessed a ferry-geddon was two years ago on my way from Finland to Sweden. I quickly gave up resting on the sleeping room’s uncomfortable chairs and hellish noise and sat smoking outside for hours before hiding under a café table with breadcrumbs and discarded napkins as my only friends. Soon I was unwillingly accompanied by a man who was so off his face that he had turned even more disgustingly naïve and shallow than what he probably was before. Nevertheless, he seemed to want to know everything I had ever said, done and seen before trying to get off with me. Poor bastard. At seven o’clock when the café opened for breakfast service I was conveniently there, ready for my cup of coffee and a squashed, moist sandwich. Divine. I once ended in a ferry for a short while when I was under the impression that I was travelling by train. A train from Copenhagen to Hamburg drives into a ferry that crosses the sea and you have few hours to kill on deck, bars, shops or restaurants. If my countrymen would be there, they’d probably drink themselves senseless and without leaving the train/ferry combination would head back to vomit in familiar grounds.

Trains I like. Trains I can deal with. There is something incredibly exciting about train stations that airports lack. I’m guessing I think of black and white classic Hollywood films such as Some Like it Hot. The scene where the all-girl orchestra boards the train is simply utter romance. If only the idea were anything like the reality. Denial is a strong psychological tool though – ask me any day how I wish to commute and trains are my weapons of choice. There are no intimidating uniformed people with machine guns patrolling the platforms, there are not as many drunkards on board as on Finnish ferry, and there is no one to tell you to switch off the only means of telling time. All this said, I have a moan about past train experiences as well. What can I say? I am a pessimist to the max. If you end up in a popular train connection between two European countries especially during the summer, there is a good chance of having annoying backpackers drinking overpriced beer in corridors. Not as bad as Finn drunkards at sea, but after a few journeys like that youthful travellers’ conversations seriously get on your nerve. “Where you been? Where you going next? I’ve been here and there, I really liked this and that.” And nobody bothers to listen the other participant of the debate. For some reasons intoxicated Yanks assume I speak none of English and make some pretty harsh comments, say, on my passport photograph. Nevertheless: I can live with meaningless, unimaginative chit-chat and Americans so I sit on trains to take my time and watch the world go by the tracks.

Guess it doesn’t matter what route or form of transporting you choose as long as you go. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell my bank balance that has told me not to travel in a very long while. If only dollars, pounds and pesetas spoke my language…

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