Flying Suitcase

This is an old post, from an old blog, edited and re-published.

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There is something incredibly beautiful about derelict buildings. Broken wrinkles running down their length, faded memories staining the once fresh coat of paint, they stand tall, held together only by the stories they’ve helped weave over the years.

Drown out the noise and you’ll hear that that soft assured voice you thought was gone. Like the matriarch, sitting in her favourite chair, a fire by her side and the little ones around her, these old buildings will tell you the stories and scandals of time – from the mundane to the extraordinary, and the life led in between.

Rotting window frames and fragile balconies stare at a changing world. The street lamps, on the other hand, haven’t aged at all (this is how small grudges build and cause great falls).

Around the corner, an old warrior has fallen; they blame it on the arthritis that set in. In its place now stands an upstart, arrogant and healthy (the elevators and plumbing, both work like clockwork, and as silent as a mouse). It makes them look bad, bringing waves of pity and scorn. None are deserved.

The traffic light changes and cars charge on. Delicate stone faces carved along the building get dust in their eyes. Look closer and you’ll see eroded smiles. On the terrace amidst a tangle of cords and cables, ageing blue-green veins, under layers of dirt, a fading J hearts I remains, even though it isn’t true anymore.

And therein lies the truth: time changes, but the stories, they remain the same. Along these streets, the old buildings watch them replay over and over  again. If only you’d stop and ask, they’d teach you a thing or two.

Zagreb: It’s a forty minute drive to the airport. Since it’s early, and our taxi driver is high on caffeine, we get there in thirty minutes flat.

London (Luton): It takes forever to get to the airport. After the first hour, the journey is a blur. Between the road work and road diversions, traffic jams and road rage breaks, my blood pressure rises and falls faster than you could say Go!

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Zagreb: I rub left over sleep out of my eyes. And then again. I can’t believe the crowds that have turned out today. There are more people queued up at the check-in counter than there are at the airport cafe; a novelty in these parts. The airline agents looked hassled and overworked.

London (Luton): Outside, it’s so cold it hurts to breathe. Inside, there’s raging chaos. Flight are either delayed or cancelled (later we’ll see a row of docile planes standing still, nose buried in the ground, like grazing sheep). Ours though is on schedule. We scurry into line before they change their minds.

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Zagreb: A child screams somewhere in the line. A bag is dropped. A lady excuses herself, the others save her place in the line. Most of the flights are on time so there’s no panic. We check-in our luggage and head out for a coffee.

London (Luton): People are screaming instructions in a hundred directions. The lady in the next line is being asked to pay £65 for exceeding luggage limits. She howls and pleads. The airline official repeats the sum and looks away. By the time we’ve checked-in, it’s time to race across the airport, to security check and the gate a mile away; we’ve got our running shoes.

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Zagreb: I smile like a crazed fool at the hint of a non-Croat (native) English accent. They are hard to come by in this nook and I relish every home grown syllable.

London (Luton): I smile like a crazed fool at the hint of the English accent. These days they are pretty hard to come by in this nook and I relish every home grown syllable.

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Zagreb: Our dark blue passports (with a golden emblem) create a major stir. This happens every single time we cross Zagreb immigration. First there is the insane flipping of the pages. Then there is the staring before a second phase of page flipping. This is followed by a long, animated discussion, which prompts much punching of the keyboards, reaching for files and more flipping, and then eventually down comes the stamp. We shift our expressions from frustrated to indifferent, depending on the day.

London (Luton): Our dark blue passports (with a golden emblem) and the immigration’s officer are old, old friends. Sometimes on very good terms, at others a little estranged. But either way, there is a lot of history there. He knows his way around every watermark and every stamp. Even before we finish answering his questions (disguised as conversation) he stamps our entry into the country.

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The New Year hasn’t been the productive spool of writing I’d imagined it would. Not yet, at least.

My return from London saw me carry back a slice of what was to become the winter freeze. Firmly lodged in my chest, this TB look-alike has ravaged the first weeks of the shiny new year.

Cough-cough-splutter-splutter-gasp-Gasp-cough-cough-cough-sigh.

I’ve spent the days chugging cough syrup and popping pills. One makes me dumb and drowsy; the other puts me to sleep. Take about being productive.

There’s no winter freeze here, but the weather has been downright moody. It rains, it snows, and then the lot of it melts into white-brown muck. Given the conditions, I prefer coughing indoors. When I do venture out, wrapped up and inflated in wool, I pop a dozen mints into my mouth to block the incessant coughing. I do it mostly out of vanity (who wants to be looked at as a highly contagious terminal element?) but  also to maintain public order and peace (who wants to trigger a seemingly contagious episode?).

It’s a short term solution that seems to work. But when the mint supply ends, another hell awaits. The suppressed cough pounds its way out; I shake and roll like the subject of an exorcism ritual, maybe worse; my lungs and windpipes are on fire, and my head hurts.

Worse, any good idea that flits past the drugs is thrown right out with a swarm of angry spit. Instead of writing, I sit crumpled in front of the TV watching reality shows. The headache worsens.

I (try to) convince myself at the start of everyday that I just need to power on. Sit and be stubborn. Once the words come, the cough will subside to the background. Oh well. No, I’m not off to a racing start but then I’ve always liked the tortoise, haven’t I?