A Northerner Abroad...Part Two

CHAPTER 1

Arrival

Now this may start by being a touch confusing, but it will all make sense, trust me. About 10pm local time and the seatbelt lights came on in the plane; I duly turned my ipod off and readied myself for landing. Now, those who know me will know that while not exactly being a bad flyer, I’m hardly likely to be found jumping for joy before, or during a flight. Afterwards, probably. So, the wheels hit the ground at about 120mph (a fact kindly supplied by my mate who took me to the airport, just to reassure me I think), the ABS kicked in and we came to a halt. We loaded ourselves onto the bus, drove for approximately 150metres and arrived at Passport control. I passed the test and found myself immediately in baggage reclaim; a single carousel in a small, brightly lit hall. The wall facing me was entirely made of glass, and outside, literally outside, were the people waiting to collect loved ones, friends, and anyone else who had sneaked onboard at Manchester. This made me smile a bit, because, and maybe I should have told you this earlier, this was not Vienna, but rather Bratislava. I can hear the sound of horses being held across the country, “Bratislava? That’s not even in Austria”. Indeed it is not, it is in neighbouring Slovakia, and given my budget and the unbelievable difficulty I had in finding a direct flight to Vienna, it was the next best thing.

So, back to the smile. I have never been to Slovakia before, in fact I only know one Slovak, a work colleague who was waiting somewhere outside to pick me up. But, in true stereotypical fashion I had a couple of ideas in my head about how it might be. As an aside I should probably point out that at various stages in the last 6 years or so I have studied intercultural management, and the importance of not reverting to stereotypes. However, I have found that in most cases stereotypes are based in truth, albeit exaggerated, so I have no problem with stereotyping until I know different!

So, Slovakia? In my head, one obvious thing springs to mind; Communism. And that is about it really. So, the fact that the people waiting to collect their friends were doing so outside made me smile. It seemed to be a very unusual thing, and in my head the reason for this was Communism. Then I noticed the razor wire on top on a wall outside, and a mental picture of a man with a sub-machine gun jumped up at me and woke me up. By this point the conveyor belt had started moving, but as a seasoned traveller I knew it would run empty for at least five minutes. Wrong, the bags were coming out already. Again, I put this down to the lingering Communist influence. Now, as I am moving to Vienna to live, I am not exactly travelling light. So, on top of my hand luggage I was keeping an eye on the conveyor for my suitcase, cricket bag (£14 for sports equipment and they didn’t even check the contents. 1-0 to me) and my laptop bag which had all my books and papers, but no laptop (which was in my hand luggage). So, I got the suitcase. Then the cricket bag. And then….nothing. I guess that makes it 1-1. Fortunately there was another guy who was still waiting when they turned the conveyor off, so I was not alone, which was good since I only know one word in Slovak. Andy, who I guess was actually called something else entirely but took pity on my northern ears, spoke excellent English and we set off to the lost luggage office to register out losses. Again, I was about to put the loss of my luggage, the first time this has ever happened to me, down to Communism. Then I realised that the cock-up had occurred in Manchester Airport. So, not the fault of the Commies at all, but rather the bloody Lancastrians. Is there no escape?

So long story short, I met my friend, got a receipt for my missing bag, and we loaded up the car and set off. By the way, as I write this 3 days later I can confirm my bag is here safe and sound, delivered at 7.30am by a very scary looking man who spoke English better than most of my mates. So, we were in the car heading to my friend’s flat. 11.30pm on a Monday night after a long day in an airport is no time to judge a city in a ten minute car ride, so I won’t. The flat looked nice though.

Just realised I forgot to mention that due to my lack of planning I had spent most of the day in Manchester airport, 7 hours to be exact. Basically I had booked a train ticket to the airport a few weeks in advance, without thinking about how I was going to transport myself and all my bags without causing myself, or anyone else, an injury. So, the day before I travelled I started asking my friends for a lift. On a Monday. At about 3pm. Needless to say, there was a common theme in their answers. All bar one, my best mate Mark, who works for the police and was starting work in the afternoon. So, that meant getting to the airport at lunchtime, for a 7pm flight! I really should plan more sometimes.