it never rains but pours
or
The Road to Sarajevo
8 July, Saturday
After a sleepless night of whirlwind packing, waving goodbye to PJ, I hop on the coach to Heathrow Airport. The sky is clear and my kitchen is sparkling. It looks like it's going to be a good trip.
Half an hour later, on the M40, the coach grinds to a halt. It's not long before frustrated commuters jump out of their cars and march up and down the motorway. Our coach driver mutters something about a motorway closure. It seems that no one knows what's going on. Fearing the worst, I ring up the Czech Airlines ticketing office in London to rebook my flight while Vildane waits for me at the boarding lounge.
Two hours later and 105 pounds poorer (having had to upgrade my ticket to fly tomorrow), I arrive at Heathrow. My flight leaves that very minute. Still in a state of disbelief, I slowly meander my way to the Central Bus Station and sleep the whole way back to Oxford.
PJ picks me up at Gloucester Green with his friend Jeff, who's just driven in from London and had driven past the tailback (which lasted all of 5 minutes at his driving speed of at least 60 miles an hour and included the coach I was in). A National Express Coach had caught fire.
Thankful it wasn't my coach and still wondering why no news agency had reported this, I stumble home and collapse in bed after the World Cup 3rd place play-off. I guess I'll have to miss the Final tomorrow. Oh well.
9 July, Sunday
PJ, having noticed I need the sleep, very sweetly decides to drive me to the airport so I won't have to wake up at midnight for the Stansted coach. At 5 am, we set off in Humphrey for the airport.
It's now half-seven, a wrong turn, a cup of tea and a Lucozade later, we arrive at Stansted. I rush to the ticketing desk to pick up my ticket. Chatting with the chap on duty reveals he is a fellow Zidane fan - he is from Algeria and does not support France, only Zizou. He bids me bon voyage as I tell him to enjoy the Final for me because Zizou is going to carry les bleus to their second World Cup in eight years.
Fast-forward through check-in, security and the gate. The pilot suddenly throws my bag off the plane and refuses to alter his loading sheet. No explanation is given. Due to this 'security issue' I have to miss my flight - again.
The stewardess who brings me to pick up my bag supports Italy. Not a good sign. I ring PJ, who is so sleep-deprived he's still looking for the car. He asks me to wait for a second and to hold the phone away from my ear. I comply. A second later, there's a loud male-equivalent of a scream. It ends and he says he'll meet me at the ticketing desk.
My fellow Zizou fan is shocked to see me, and in sympathy files a report about the security issue to ensure I won't have to pay another penalty fee for another flight change. Unfortunately, there are no flights till Thursday unless I want to pay another 300 pounds for Business Class. I laugh, and he books me in for the Thursday flight.
France lose the World Cup. Zizou is sent off for head-butting the Animal. Looks like Miss Italy was a bad omen.
13 July, Thursday
By now, I think must have exhausted all my bad luck. I forbid PJ to drive me to the airport again. He waves at my bus in the dark as it pulls out of Gloucester Green. I am so going to get to Sarajevo tonight.
At Stansted, despite it being four hours to my flight, my paranoia renders me incapable of sleeping at 4.30 in the morning. I sit on the floor in the airport reading.
At 6.30 am, I'm the first at the check-in desk. The woman at the counter stares at my ticket and says I'm not on the system. My friends at the ticketing desk back me up (I forget to mention the nice lady with the tongue piercing) with nods and waves. She checks me in, but neglects to print out my Prague-Sarajevo boarding pass. Smelling a rat, I ask her for it and she tells me she can't do anything about it and that I should check in again in Prague. "Didn't happen on Sunday," think I, but shuffle straight through security and camp out at the gate...two hours early.
All's fine and I arrive in Prague to make my way to the transit desk. Staring at my ticket, I'm informed by counter staff that all my flights have been cancelled. "Would you like to stay in Prague?", she asks. An exchange involving the supervisor on duty results in my being booked on an Austrian Airlines flight. However, I must transit at Vienna. I ask about my luggage, they assure me it will arrive in Sarajevo with me.
Boarding the propellor plane to Vienna, as the other passengers load their bags onto the aircraft on boarding, I note the absence of my bag in the hold but board the plane anyway.
At Vienna, the flight is delayed for an hour. Sarajevo fortunately was as cool as the customs line was long. They are surprised to see a Singapore passport, but are very nice with the questions. I silently count my blessings, but by the time I reach baggage retrieval, they've unloaded everything from my flight and my bag isn't there. Undaunted, I stand and watch the Munich and Belgrade bags go by. It appears to be a lost cause.
I report my bag lost and go outside to meet Vildane.
I am exhausted from not having slept since two nights ago but I'm here at last, thank God.
