I started my trip by missing my alarm.
It had been set for 3:30 AM but the pathetic twinkling which whispered out of my phone failed to arouse me and I woke up 2 hours late.
When I had programmed the alarm that early it had been with paranoid intent, so even with this delay I had an outside chance of making the flight - which only served to make the experience all the more terrible.
I grabbed my bag, thankfully mostly packed, and I launched towards Luton. Adrenaline rattled me, and I adopted a new mantra to repeat:
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I repeated it to myself, calmly, over and over again. “Shit, shit, shit.”
It was very zen.
With 15 minutes to spare, I made it.
Well, no.
I thought I had made it. The car park was unfortunately a fair distance from the terminal so I jumped on the shuttle bus, and realised with almost immediate horror that this decision spelled the end. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Time was scraped face first along the tarmac as the driver took us on 2 laps of the car park and gradually sauntered to the drop off.
When I made it into the terminal the line assistant unapologetically informed me that the baggage drop had closed. On reflection it could not have been closed for long. I do not believe it was impossible for my bag and body to end up on a plane, but it was obvious that I was only going to receive the most rudimentary assistance, and I resigned myself to my fate.
“So what can I do?” I asked.
The line assistant looked at his iPad (although I do not believe there was anything on the display other than an EasyJet screensaver) and eventually said the word “Transfer.”
Except, you cannot transfer flights until your original plane is in the air. I had to wait an hour. Fine.
When I returned, caffeinated, I was almost positive that things were going to work out in the end.
Of course, I was then told that I couldn’t transfer to the next flight, or the one after that, as they were oversold.
I did think we possibly could have exchanged that piece of information earlier, perhaps when the subject of transfers was first brought up, but I judged that it wouldn’t be productive to bring that up.
Instead, I asked for another solution.
Possibly, I was informed, the customer service team at the customer service centre could give permission to the terminal team to sell me another oversold ticket, however by doing this I would have to accept that I would still not be able to get on the plane if everyone turned up. This seemed to be a terrible solution. I was going to be late to Geneva no matter what, but if I bought these tickets I would only get to match it to a seat if another passenger didn’t show up.
I suppose I was to hope that one of them might die, or catch COVID, or make the common mistake of setting their alarm volume too low.
I didn’t feel good relying on any of that.
So I left the EasyJet kiosk, flopped onto a bench, and shopped the problem away. To the rescue came Ethiopian Airlines.
A flight to Addis Ababa from Manchester was stopping over at Geneva, and there were still tickets.
Dejected, but relieved, I slunk to the bus stop and waited for the National Express to Birmingham International, as if this had always been my intention. A long four hours passed as the coach wafted through Milton Keynes, Northampton, Coventry, and finally Birmingham, where my transfer to Manchester awaited.
When I eventually experienced the rare and glorious sensation which comes from getting through security without a hitch I celebrated with beer.
Exactly what I was celebrating is unclear.
I had made it, despite myself.
One complimentary coronation chicken sandwich and a glass of red later, I set my feet on Swiss soil.
Immediately, I was flushed with a sense of absolute neutrality.
Suitably sedate, I shuttled to the institutional Ibis Budget in Petit Lancy, and slept the rigours of my own incompetence away, in preparation for a crazy Sunday in the broiling streets of wildest Geneva…
