For this holiday I decide on one simple objective; not to lose my luggage. I have deleted Whatsapp because my prolonged use of it is removing my consciousness from the real world, which does not exist on my phone screen. Instead, I intend on listening to music, exploring Albanian lands and reading a disturbing novel by Knut Hamsun. 

I listen to Hayling as I move along the horizontal escalator towards the departure gate, which is the perfect track for airporting; its slow machine-like beeping complimenting the strange moderness of the giant colourful departure boards, the constantly running escalators, the massive metal cartons with wings whisking hundreds of people up into the air…

Before take-off a large Albanian babushka sits behind me, having a phone call on loudspeaker at max volume. After this she empties the contents of her luggage next to her, mounting up her toiletries and knocking some on the floor, and groaning. She then proceeds to use her phone, which has key tones active. The plastic bottle full of fizz she drinks from explodes sporadically, making passengers jolt involuntarily and if the key tones didn’t finish me, this about does. I turn around and look daggers at her through the gap between the chairs but she cannot be deterred.

I am sitting by the window and looking down at the channel sea, blurred by the clouds in between us, and extending as far as I can see I can make out boats, tiny, appearing stationary, I think of the fish down there, how small they are, just swimming around there their whole lives in that expanse of blue soup that might as well be infinitely large as far as they are concerned, and I wonder, are we really so different from them?

When we have crossed, I look down at the landscape of France, which is well farmed, and divided into rectangular fields of shades varying from brown, through yellow and green, many of which are sadly defaced by rows and rows of wind turbines. I power through my Riding a Bike playlist, particularly enjoying Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Saint Etienne. This is an immensely playful track punctuated by a trundling bass, but with a dreamy female vocal that lightens the tone. A sense of urgency builds after a verse with the title lyrics, and leads into a sad, probing sound, like a problem crying out for a resolution. The resolution never comes. In summary; the track is like a good bit of foreplay but there is no real crescendo, no sex- the lady was simply teasing you all along, and all you know is that it was great fun while it lasted and you want to do it again. 

The plane flies over great rows of mountains, rugged and sharp, like the spikes on the back of an ankylosaurus. I’m looking out of the window and I’m thinking, looking out of the plane window is a great show, imagine the people from before planes existed, hundreds, thousands of years ago, they would have loved to have seen this. 

An hour later, we are flying over the red roofs of the houses of Albania. As I get my luggage to leave, I hear a muttering from the babushka behind. Oh bloody hell what is it now? She points to my wallet on the seat. I thank her, look into her world-weary Balkan eyes, hold a smile with piercing sincerity, and then take the wallet. It is time to get off the plane.