soles of wind.
Tuesday, June 18, 2007. 21:30. The flight EK76 to Sydney via Dubai and Bangkok tears me gently gravity Paris, leaving in its trail reactors the ruins of a school year unfinished. Escorting thirty students across the world to enable them to improve their English gives me the opportunity to leave my office more than two weeks before the official date. Horny books, red pens chewed, crumpled handouts and even a few copies that I will never shovel are now stored in meddling back of a closet. Regarding the contents of my locker, it will rot over five weeks in the trunk of my twingo dented, between an oil can and a pair of old smelly sneakers. All this crap does not deserve better and I unfortunately did not have time to organize an auto-da-fe on the floor of my living room.
I feel the soul of a deserter.
While we are moving quickly to altitude I witness the disappearance of the Paris area under a thick veil of night sprinkled millions of tiny white stars, red and gold. This monumental spider power, extended to infinity under my feet, artificial galaxy woven by the hand of man, calls me. How many millions of people, stuck in this trap, luminous finish at this hour of dinner, watching TV or s'affalent play with baby. The most vicious probably send each face up to their smiling PVC favorite TV presenter. How scan the sky for a spinning machine to a destination where they can only dream of? How?
Tired of stretching the neck over the shoulder of my neighbor I looked away from the window fogged up now. We quickly pierce cloud cover and therefore there is nothing left. Nothing, except a huge void and black, against which the little flashing light placed in equilibrium at the wing tip device delivers a losing battle. Suspended in nothingness, rocked by the powerful hum of the machine and plunged into a dark blue semi-calming passengers off one by one into silence in this strange air mausoleum. Sleep eventually grab me in the neck and I fall to my turn, joining the army recumbent religiously guarded by a handful of priestesses of Emirates Airline club. It is
sunrise as we landed in Dubai. Distracted by the noise level inside the unit I have not managed to capture the information issued by the English captain. I spent the first part of the trip was dozing between two meal trays and my neurons are reduced to the status of oatmeal soaked in warm milk. Totally out of touch, even having no clear idea of the time, I quickly gather my things, checks for my passport and my ticket crumpled in the inside pocket of my jacket just as wrinkled and encourages students the slowest to activate. Guided by a hedge of pink smiling hostesses, I rush to the exit of the device by sending a few "bye bye" to the crew. My principle of never interested too close to the air hostesses. Make a charm to a girl who watched you sleeping mouth open, a trickle of drool staining your chin is a challenge I do not want to meet before my seventy-nine years old.
While the sun is barely up, the desert breathes its hot breath on our faces and into our lungs still saturated with air conditioning. The stream of passengers flowing quickly through the door of the unit and pushes us towards a minibus stop on the tarmac. That we must conduct within the Dubai Airport, the Pantheon and the flashy flashy. Designed by Emirs anxious to display their considerable fortune in the eyes of a world that does not care, all evidence of a vain desire to dazzle at any cost ... including that of bad taste. From one end to another in this gigantic mall on the open gate, lined with rows of palm trees lit artificial Christmas trees like a flying saucer suspended above the heads of passengers in transit, some brand new race cars clog the aisle and dozens of shops line up too wise to attract tourists looking for MP3 players, cigarettes, gaming consoles, perfumes, socks or sports magazines of all kinds. We spend more than a half to wander aimlessly while waiting for our next shipment. Australia is still so far!
That night that this time we land in Bangkok for a short stopover. I imagine flying over the airport lit streets teeming life of this Mecca of sex tourism in which many Europeans wander too rich, dick in hand, looking for a fresh meat too often. I am sad to see this beautiful country reduced to a cliche so depressing. Thailand finally I see a long, cold hallway illuminated with neon lights, some shops closed, a group of hostesses at fixed smile and a cast of unsympathetic customs on their arrogance after the strap on their gun. One of them confiscated the bottle of wine from a student who has not had the presence of mind to leave the unit. We are fighting in vain but the French grand cru fails with a crash into a large metal container. Game over!
The aircraft slid for hours above the great Pacific. Between films in original version which I understand only half of the dialogues and some phases of sleepiness, I observe length animated map projected onto the small screen embedded in the headrest in front of me. The progression of this aircraft seems so slow ... so slow! Yet somewhere between the sky and water, I know we have finally crossed the big mirror, one that propels us to this moment to the land of opposites. The land of possibilities.
While we were gone on a Saturday evening in Paris, the wheels finally touch the device to the first Australian soil lights the following Monday. In the corridor that connects the camera to the airport we passed a small army of young women ready to clean the appliance as soon as we'll finally evacuated. When they realize that we are French and their eyes linger detail this exotic arrivals. The cackling joy that rises then gives me the pleasant feeling of landing in Sydney rock star. Certainly my groupies are a dozen maids wearing a pink uniform rather prominent but who cares. This is an encouraging start. I corrected my hair reflexively undermined by twenty four hours and tingles to the cheering crowd. Oily hair for a rock star is not in tune?
On the airport car park I aspire my first breath and remember some Australian shiver when the winter air, cool and wet brushes my face and into my clothes too lightweight for the season.
continued ...
