by I Skyped Mum and Dad from Singapore, still less than half-way to my destination. Then my mind turned to food. I was peckish and had seven more hours to kill at the airport, plus I wanted something for when I got to Budapest because it was anyone’s guess how long it would take to get home from there. Luckily Singapore has food courts on the upper level. These consist of about a dozen stalls, mostly serving Asian food. To order your chosen dish, you select a stall and meal on a central machine and wave some plastic. The machine then spits out a ticket with a number. When your number pops up on a screen, you go to the stall to collect your meal. I had a beef brisket soup which I greatly enjoyed. At $12 in the local currency (NZ$15 or £7) it was far from the rip-off I’m used to at airports. Next to the stalls was a 7-Eleven supermarket, and a $10 note – the only local cash I had – was enough to pay for some sandwiches and cakes and a bottle of ice coffee. Just around the corner was the butterfly garden, a welcome change from duty-free stores and pulsating video screens. At 32 degrees, it was hot out there, and I was glad I didn’t think of venturing into the city. Besides, I was hopelessly tired. My flight to Istanbul was still far in the future – beyond the reach of the departure boards – but I figured out that Terminal 1 was where I needed to be. I took the Skytrain from the vastness of Terminal 3, and lay out on several chairs in the surprisingly quiet Terminal 1 until it was time to board. If you have a long wait between flights, Singapore is easily preferable to the heaving nightmare that, say, Heathrow would be.
The third leg of my journey took eleven hours. I don’t remember much of it – that’s a good sign. I grabbed occasional 15-minute naps and watched (and enjoyed) Walk the Line, the documentary about Johnny Cash. At Istanbul I had a tightish turnaround, and unlike on my outward journey, I had to go through security. (There’s no rhyme or reason to whether or how security screening takes place, or whether you have to remove your shoes or dispose of your empty drink bottles.) Once again my departure gate was at the end of the terminal and my flight was flashing red on the board by the time I got there. I shouldn’t have panicked; with my baggage in the hold, they won’t simply take off without me.
My boarding pass for my fourth and final leg showed 5B – B for bugger. With letters later in the alphabet you’re never quite sure where you’ll be sitting – it depends on the seat configuration of the aircraft – but when you see B, you’re pretty much certain to be sitting between two other people. Not that it mattered on this flight, a short hop, or so I thought. Seats 5A and 5C – just behind the small business class compartment – were occupied by two Romanian women of about 30 who were having a good old chinwag. I plonked myself in between them and they continued to chat. “Do you know each other?” I asked in Romanian. Yes. “Would you like to sit together?” No. We’re happy like this. Er, but maybe I’m not!? They carried on chatting and even held hands across me. Much to my relief, I saw that the man in 5F had two empty seats next to him, so I sat in 5D, and before long we landed in Budapest. No next flight for me anymore. Phew!
There was just the small matter of getting home. I’d arranged what I thought was a bus a few days earlier. I was able to communicate with the driver using the airport wi-fi, and he picked me up shortly after I’d got my suitcase off the carousel. It turned out to be a car, and at this point I was the only passenger. He sped off along the motorway. At Cenad, just over the border in Romania, he picked up a young Italian guy. The Romanian part of the drive was picturesque. The driver wasn’t a great observer of the two-second rule and please don’t overtake here, but at least that meant I got home quickly. He dropped the Italian guy off in the middle of Timișoara, at a cost of 100 lei, then dropped me off at my door – the trip set me back 200. It was quarter to two in the afternoon when I got home – a 3½-hour trip. If I’d taken the train – a slightly cheaper option – it would have been four or five o’clock, and I’d have needed a taxi or a tram at this end. Avoiding all that hassle was well worth it.
So now I’m back. I’ve had a letter from Barclays – a real human wrote it – saying that they sent me a cheque back in June that I’ve never received. I haven’t properly digested the letter; I’ll need to call them tomorrow. I’ve slept quite well, but I expect I’ll have a hard time not drifting off early this evening. I’ve made two trips to the supermarket and this morning I walked to the market, passing the small bars – birturi, the man on the yellow tricycle, and the graffiti spelling out Panda and (in English) Don’t grow up – it’s a trap. It’s about 30 degrees and it’s forecast to be like this for another three days. My first lessons are tomorrow.
