It had a promising start: planned by myself, flight one London Gatwick to Krakow, rooms arranged through EBAB (the German website fixing the gay community for B&B around the world), flight two from Hamburg to London Heathrow shy of two weeks later, printed material about places I would visit, timetables checked, alarm clocks set. But as I am hurtling towards Gatwick on an early Monday morning train, it dawns on me that I had cut it very fine - too fine in fact. And sure enough as I make it to luggage fast-drop (having checked-in online) I realis I had missed the 40 minutes before departure deadline. An indifferent BA ground crew man tells me: "The flight is closed. You'll have to go to Customer Service and they will get you another one". In a state of panic, and now profusely sweating I start the run around from zone this to zone that as the clock ticks away faster and faster, making it less likely I might still make it. Luckily a kind and helpful BA lady agrees to let me go on and board the plane with my smallish suitcase as hand-luggage. She prints a new boarding card and we rush to the top of every queue, including security check ("You can't rush this" says a calm, flying-nowhere ground security man. "Oh, of course, I fully understand" I lie politely). I am now in the duty-free hall, looking for the departure gate. Found it. I run like a madman, shoppers, moms pushing baby buggies, they all scatter as I steam forward. I am finally at the gate, one BA hostess left there, looking frosty... I hand over my boarding pass, embarrassed by my appearance (the sweat is pouring off me. Charming) I say: "My Goodness, you look so calm and collected while I am all over the place..." She just hands me back my pass with a stern "have a nice flight". No smile, of course. Oh, what the hell, I'm in and that's all that matters right now.
On board (and to my surprise I don't seem to be the only latecomer) I settle nicely on the seat I cleverly allocated for myself online - window, first row of Scum Class (running the risk of sitting with baby - holding people). Any minute the sweating will stop, I can calm down now. A lady asks me: Is this seat 4F? Yes it is. "I think you're in my seat" says the irritating woman. I fish for my pass, and proudly show her how stupid... but wait - the ground crew gave me a different seat to my own choice. How dare they?! glasses please, what does it say? 2E? isn't that in Club Euro? It is? oh, I apologise to the sweet lady and vacate her seat (in slightly more moist state than she would expect, but hey, that's economy for ya). I move the two steps to my newly allocated seat, to find another lady already occupying it, and would I mind terribly? Her own seat, 2B will do just fine, indeed even better as it is a front row isle seat and has more legroom. The air hostess says: "Front row passengers must store all hand-luggage in the overhead lockers, including handbags. Not you sir, obviously". I reply: "Of course not. Mine is already up in the locker". Hostess laughs. I laugh. It's going to be all right. My Grand Tour has begun.
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