Home (again)
I am in the comfort of home again after flying back on Thursday, surrounded by nearly 22 years of clutter. Everytime I come home I have what feels like a revolutionary sort-out, but upon returning there is always more clutter. I'm still unsure how to feel about being home. I'm obviously extremely lucky and should count my blessings but I still haven't really processed where I actually am, or why I am here. Maybe I should rename this blog 'No longer in transit'.
On Thursday morning I receive a panicked text from a friend on the same flight as her suitcase has broken. We decide to head to the airport 6 hours early to try and seek out a new one. I sweep my bedroom floor, since all 3 vacuum cleaners decide to malfunction, re-apply the naff film posters to my wall (that I had hastily removed upon moving in) and say an awkward adieu to my colocs. I uber-uber to the Rhône-Express feeling like a modern-day Paddington Bear with jumper, coat and teddy bear in-hand. The uber driver seems relatively laissez-faire about my germs, being gloveless and not making any mention of pandémie, only opening his mouth to exclaim "Putain!" upon lifting my suitcase, asking if there is a dead person inside it. I say yes. When we arrive at the Rhône-Express he removes some anti-bacterial spray from his boot and sets about de-germing the vehicle. Not so laissez-faire.
I sit outside the station, slowly baking in the many layers I am wearing in an attempt to save valuable packing space. I take some photos of the barren carpark as I suddenly realise that I haven't taken that many photos in Lyon and am regretting it.
We aren't able to find a suitcase a l'aéroport but in the end the early trip works in our favour. The airport zone being apparently exempt from lockdown rules we sit on a grassy patch outside the terminal, soaking up the 20 degree rays before rainy Angleterre and downing some expensive tinnies from Relay (France's answer to Spar).
The demographic also flying seems to be mainly skiers, who are relatively unphased by having to be (almost) repatriated. One group give us a spare tinny and say we look "very Bristol". I don't know whether to take this as a compliment or an insult. A group of "youths" sat metres away from us discuss foursomes as one of my friends does a Sudoku puzzle, the other assesses EasyJet's online menu, and I lie in an embrace with travel companion bear.
On Thursday morning I receive a panicked text from a friend on the same flight as her suitcase has broken. We decide to head to the airport 6 hours early to try and seek out a new one. I sweep my bedroom floor, since all 3 vacuum cleaners decide to malfunction, re-apply the naff film posters to my wall (that I had hastily removed upon moving in) and say an awkward adieu to my colocs. I uber-uber to the Rhône-Express feeling like a modern-day Paddington Bear with jumper, coat and teddy bear in-hand. The uber driver seems relatively laissez-faire about my germs, being gloveless and not making any mention of pandémie, only opening his mouth to exclaim "Putain!" upon lifting my suitcase, asking if there is a dead person inside it. I say yes. When we arrive at the Rhône-Express he removes some anti-bacterial spray from his boot and sets about de-germing the vehicle. Not so laissez-faire.
I sit outside the station, slowly baking in the many layers I am wearing in an attempt to save valuable packing space. I take some photos of the barren carpark as I suddenly realise that I haven't taken that many photos in Lyon and am regretting it.
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| au revoir room |
We aren't able to find a suitcase a l'aéroport but in the end the early trip works in our favour. The airport zone being apparently exempt from lockdown rules we sit on a grassy patch outside the terminal, soaking up the 20 degree rays before rainy Angleterre and downing some expensive tinnies from Relay (France's answer to Spar).
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| Barren Rhône-Express exterior #1 |
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| Barren Rhône-Express exterior #2 |
The demographic also flying seems to be mainly skiers, who are relatively unphased by having to be (almost) repatriated. One group give us a spare tinny and say we look "very Bristol". I don't know whether to take this as a compliment or an insult. A group of "youths" sat metres away from us discuss foursomes as one of my friends does a Sudoku puzzle, the other assesses EasyJet's online menu, and I lie in an embrace with travel companion bear.
If you ever find yourself in Terminal 1 of Lyon Saint-Exupéry airport, there is an excellent playground. It bores the present children quite quickly, but keeps us entertained for a good half hour - fake rocks that play individual notes, a small boulder with climbing holes, a small tunnel. In hindsight I have been in much better playgrounds but having been en confinement for several days we are really excited.
We are also collectively excited by the plane snacks and join one of my travel companions in checking out the online menu, which is surprisingly impressive. Fairplay EasyJet. They even have a mezze box incl. baklava. Who knew!
We are also collectively excited by the plane snacks and join one of my travel companions in checking out the online menu, which is surprisingly impressive. Fairplay EasyJet. They even have a mezze box incl. baklava. Who knew!
As we take our seats upon the half-full plane a group chat named "EastJet Premium Wine Collection" is created, and we take off. The Premium Wine Deal is - I can confirm - premium, winey and a deal. Half-way through the flight one of the flight attendants tactlessly runs up the aisle saying slightly too loudly "I can smell burning". If it weren't for our Premium wines I think we would've descended into chaos, but we knock them back and soon land.
My mère and soeur greet me at the airport and on the drive home we discover that White Lines by Grandmaster Flash and S Club Party by S Club 7 make a really good mash-up. I am home.
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