On my recent (and final) wee sojourn to Granada to see Alex in Granada, it was good to see that Spain had kindly upped the ante in terms of ruining my life entirely. Ably assisted, of course, by the city of Malaga and its associated travel systems.
Having missed my bus to Granada due to our luggage being delivered by what I can only assume was a seminally stoned sloth with narcolepsy, I was informed that the next bus (1 am) was also full. ‘Uh... pardona? But it does actually say on the machine there're two sea... no? Full? Oh, ok. Fuck you then.
So obviously I took my only recourse, which was to furiously storm out with a ticket for 7 am (this was at approx. 10 pm), and get the bus back to the airport to sleep in the Camp X-Ray chic of the departure area’s cold, white floor. Thankfully though, I still had my pen and paper:
'I can't really say that I expected to spend my first night in Spain huddled in a plastic seat in the departure lounge, but neither can I say that I’m hugely surprised either.
When large swathes of life have been padded out with relative convenience –relatives easily contactable, a bed that remains in one place, a means to easily travel reasonable distances, for example – there’s a certain nauseating shock or jolt that any unexpected or sudden removal of said presumed conveniences gives you.
I remember back in 2004 when I were but a mere slip of a lad at 17, spending my first proper time away from my parents at Leeds Festival. My initial reaction was of shock, nay terror, at the overwhelming sense of diminution at being but one tiny speck among tens of thousands of others – all, yes, individual just like you. Living in a perma-greased sunburnt state while subsisting on either cheap instant food or mediocre sausage sandwiches tainted by traditional festival hyperinflation, it was like living in some kind of refugee camp powered entirely by crap beer and suncream. Also, the bands were fairly good, I guess.
But the real point was the coming home. Suffering counter-culture shock from a few days in a tent a few hours’ drive away may sound stupid, but my previously pale, retiring self had metamorphosed. I was Rambo, Ray Mears and Rocky all in one, Once home, there would be absolutely no earthly convenience that could possibly stop me. Well, for a few hours at least.
On returning from Download fest this year, I crossed the threshold without any of the requisite glimpse of the ubermensch outdoorsman I’d known previously. I just slumped a little, yawned, and got back to life. I’m still wondering why exactly this is. Is it merely my jaded adult ego hopelessly desensitised to any kind of transcendent optimism myth? Or have I just been to too many festivals?
Much the same happened in my travels across America: our numerous mishaps only served to further fuel our camaraderie and sense of bold frontiersmanship. After nearly being stranded overnight at a dusty gas station in Austin, Texas en route to Nashville, we managed to somehow barter passage on the packed full bus by sitting in the aisle. It was fantastic. We were practically cowboys. We’d had an adventure.
Fast forward to now, and I’m grimly sat in a plastic chair–row with stadium lighting scorching my retinas, glaring furiously at my watch for 7am to roll around. It is now 1am. I set off for the airport exactly twelve hours ago. The strange thing is how, as I’ve said, I used to pirouette in shock and awe at adversity (not literally, of course) but now I merely harrumph and bear it with good old stoic determination and seething, undirected rage. I think, over a long period of time, one becomes so acclimatised and willingly saddled by pessimism that setbacks are merely expectations finally realised. The silver-lining, perhaps, is that I now so effortlessly seem to shoulder things and integrate them into myself that I can shrug off agonising tortures such as this with little more than a shrug of the shoulders and a cheeky blog post.’
No comments:
Post a Comment