Instead I try smiling enigmatically but I suspect I just look smug. Next I try looking bouncy and cheerful, but a passing glance at my reflection makes me realise I look slightly insane - like a woman from a shampoo advert. The calm and confident stride is too boring and I lose interest in it after a few minutes. I scramble for more emotions that just won’t come, so I stop thinking about how I ought to feel and concentrate on getting to the check-in desk.
On board the tiny Easy Jet plane reality hits me in the form of a high-pitched wail. I’m in an aisle seat and a few rows in front of me I can see a young woman with a baby that is writhing like an angry boa constrictor. It turns to look at me and lets out another scream. I read somewhere once that a baby’s cry has evolved to be the most agonising sound to the human ear in order to maximise its chances of survival. This baby could survive anything. It’s going to be a long flight.
Passengers continue to board. A middle-aged couple head towards me, counting down the seats. The woman stops in front of me and smiles contritely. As she squeezes past me I understand the apology in her smile; I am now standing face to face with her husband and he’s the size of an adult male grizzly bear with only slightly less body hair. His face is a mixture of embarrassment and resignation; he’s done this before. He grins and begins the awkward manoeuvres necessary for him to claim his seat. I stand well back trying not to stare as he does a strange dance of tiny steps in a small arc which move his frame through forty-five degrees. His head is bowed to avoid hitting the overhead lockers but he looks like he’s intently monitoring the accuracy of his dance steps. Hovering, he begins to lower himself into position. I have visions of him getting stuck, semi-upright and mid-seat, with me having to push and tuck him into place. A few minutes later he’s down and I sit beside him. He turns to me and smiles; “Sorry” he says, making me feel mean.
The last few people board the plane and the doors are closed. I lean far out into the aisle, politely feigning fascination with the safety demonstration while my travel companion grapples with his extended seat belt. Once buckled in, he places both hands on the headrest of the seat in front and there they remain for the rest of the flight. If he dared drop them to his sides I would find myself dangling unconscious in the aisle while his wife would be enjoying an unplanned free-fall via the plane window. He heroically maintains this pose for the whole flight.
Fortunately I’ve brought a book and take up a position hanging over the left arm rest. The baby in front lets out another wail which seems to cue the taxi to the runway. I loose myself in my novel - ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’ transports me timelessly to Letište Ruzyne.
Leaving the plane I try once again to think about how I feel; still no overwhelming sense of adventure, no nervousness that I can discern, no profound thoughts to mark my first step on to the runway in this new land. After picking up my bags and heading for the exit, I panic that I might not recognise the woman who has been sent to meet me. Will she be holding a sign with my name on it? Should I have a sign with my name on it? I have a pen and paper in my suitcase and it crosses my mind to scribble one out quickly though I can’t recollect anyone arriving at an airport waving their names to the waiting crowd.
The moment I walk through the sliding doors I recognise her face from the photograph on the language school website, and I can tell she recognises me too.
“Hello, Daryl, I’m Hana, welcome to
Newly arrived in Prague with Madhavi, another student at the language school
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