Brought to a halt as we ascend, the rain makes the coat heavier on the winward side but leaning into the wind only makes the collar gather the water and funnel it inside. The doorway beckons and the light illuminates a stewardess smiling radiantly like one of those kids coerced into child pageants that Americans seem to consider appropriate. Actually, she may have felt sorry for us, I did.
Sat, stowed and slept. Woke to the sun shining over The Alps, then it shone over Monaco, Corsica, Sicily and finally, here.
Disembarkation was smooth and swift hardly allowing time to divest another layer and stow it in the backpack before we were out through the arrivals doors. But what a crowded airport, or so I thought. In retrospect it's only a small airport and we're used to acres of emptiness in Spanish tourismo aeropuertos. This isn't Spain.
At the arrivals gate the first person in line of sight was my friend, Karl, who I've known since he was a teenager, with his wife and child awaiting the arrival of his son who'd been on our flight. My eyes must have popped as it was so totally unexpected. I guess that means we'll have to meet up and have beer, or two. However, he had a son to catch and we had a bus. A X2 bus.
It's east to spot a bus here as they all have BUS as the first three characters on their number plates. X signifies express and indeed we set of with gusto that a certain Spanish bus driver last year from Alicante to the aeropuerto would have been proud of.
Inital rapidity gave way to a lengthy stop in what seemed to be in a Lidl's car park whilst drivers were changed. Leisurely would be a gracious way to describe the handover. A further wallow and lean for a few kms saw us parked in alongside a nondescript block wall plastered in pasted posters. Then nothing happened. We all sat, a few went out for a fag or two. Silence reigned. We stayed. And stayed. Apparently there used to be a X2 bus every half hour but since 20th December there's only been an hourly service so it waits for half an hour mid route to save reprinting timetables for all stops.
Once the diesel had whimpered into life we were only a few stops from our destination. Google Earth had show us where to get off but it could give no clues as to when. I'm not entirely sure that the bus co. know either.
A bit of a palaver to get sorted but that was finger trouble and inconsequential, the only effect was to raise my thirst threshold from merely thirsty to raging. Fortunately, out side our very door, over the road is a bar with a "Cisk" (pronounced Chisk) sign. Pint, I said. Sit, he said. I did. It was a pint if you include the 3/4" (19mm) of froth. I drank. San Miguel it is not. Not by a very, very long way. Cheapish, though. You are unlikely to see a Cisk tap in any UK pub anytime soon and if you do I wouldn't bother.
I also noted the strangeness of being foreign when everything's so English. The adverts, notices, language mostly, shop signs, familiar road signage, postboxes and telephone kiosks. It all feels so familiar. Comfortable in a strange way. Not really foreign enough. I caught myself looking over my left shoulder before crossing the road. It's odd being warm in winter where cars drive on the left. And 13A square pin sockets, too.
The strangest thing, though, was seeing a "Pastizzi" sign next to the bar. Pastizzis come in mushy pea pastizzi, mushroom pastizzi, cheese pastizzi, chicken pastizzi or Cornish.
Mind you, a dozen of them wouldn't do justice to a fitty pasty. They are foreigners after all.
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