Schiphol International Airport, Amsterdam: 9 degrees, slightly sunny and with showers.
Birmingham International Airport, England: 7 degrees, cold, overcast with a slight hint of sunshine.
Wolverhampton, England: 3 degrees, cold and overcast.
Yesterday, I was writing in the waiting room at Rio’s International Airport in Ilha do Governador. I was waiting for my flight to Schiphol International Airport in Amsterdam, which would connect me to my final flight to Birmingham International Airport in England.
I didn’t sleep at all on the flight from Rio to Schiphol. The cabin crew were late by half an hour to arrive at Rio’s airport, having supposedly been delayed by the terrible traffic, which made it difficult for the plane to be prepared and ready to receive the passengers on time. Everybody who lives in Rio knows that the traffic in the city on a Friday afternoon and evening is hell to navigate. Now, this is affecting even international flights trying to leave the country.
After boarding the plane and take-off, I had dinner and watched a film on the flight. In the early morning, we had a small breakfast, accompanied by either coffee or tea. As we took off half an hour later than planned, fortunately the captain was able to recover a good part of our delay, so at least we arrived on time at about midday Dutch time at Schiphol.
My first impression from stepping on European soil for the first time in more than 20 years was the cold. I was wearing a coat, but my nose, neck and hands automatically felt the sting of it.
One thing I’ve noticed—whether I didn’t pay attention to it before or have forgotten over time—is that while I enjoy walking, it’s quite a challenge for someone who doesn’t like walking in a large airport. Everything at Schiphol is enormous: the planes, the runways, and especially the airport itself. Schiphol is a notably long, linear airport.
You have to walk kilometres from the entrance or lobby to the gates and, ultimately, to the planes. This is especially true when catching connecting flights, as the gates can be far from the arrivals area. Everything feels excessively lengthy, and you end up walking a great deal.
The weather was grey and drizzly. I passed through security and then went on to find my gate for the connecting flight. In front of the gate’s entrance was a small snack bar. I bought a sandwich and a coffee for about €8 in total, and I used my Wise card, which thankfully worked without a hitch.
The KLM flight to Birmingham was late again, and again, there was an excuse about the crew being late. However, this is Holland. In Rio, I understand and can believe it, but in Holland, what is going on with the world?
I was very worried about the flight, as I only had an hour and 10 minutes to catch the train to Wolverhampton station if the plane arrived on time, where my mother would be waiting to pick me up. If I missed this train, my mother would be waiting at the train station not knowing what had happened.
What made me more concerned was 1. The flight was 20 minutes late. 2. After everybody was on the plane and tucked in, the captain took at least 15 minutes taxiing to the farthest runway to take off. The taxiing until take-off seemed like a lifetime. 3. The plane arrived late. 4. How long will it take me to get my suitcase? And 5. Will they stop me in customs?
Yes, the plane arrived at Birmingham Airport a little late, about 10 minutes behind schedule, so it wasn’t too bad. And for them to unload the luggage from the aircraft and transfer it to the carousel was only another 10 minutes; so, everything had been going well so far.
When it was time to pass through customs, rushing to cross the airport to find the train station, there were no custom officers; I could have been transporting 50 kilos of something, and nobody would have been none the wiser. When I left the airport entrance and stepped out into the open air, I found it much colder in Birmingham than it had been at Schiphol. The cold was violent on my face, especially my ears.
It wasn’t easy to find the train station, but eventually, I arrived and found the platform with the train already waiting for me to board. When I entered the train, it was already quite full; I’m not sure whether this was due to it being a Friday or because people were commuting to and from work.
I found a place to sit, and at 6:08 p.m., the train departed from the platform. After two stops, I had arrived at Wolverhampton train Station after a day of travelling, and now I’m in my mother’s land, The Black Country. Once considered the cradle of the Industrial Revolution and the heart of Britain’s heavy industry, now the region is just a tiny reminder of what it once was.
The platform where I arrived was on the same level as the train station’s lobby. I passed through the turnstiles, but nowadays, you have to show the ticket to leave, not just to enter. I continued walking for about 5 minutes towards the main entrance, and there was my mother, whom I hadn’t seen in almost 10 years. The last time I had seen her was when she came to Brazil, when Yasmin was about six years old.
This little old lady now hobbles with the aid of crutches, standing at a height of 1.50 metres, with a medium build, completely white hair, and a curved posture due to the weight of illness, weakness, and time is my mother. She suddenly recognised me and jumped in surprise. I approached and kissed her on the cheek and then hugged her. It was apparent that she was happy to see me. She was with a friend, her next-door neighbour, who accompanied my mother to Wolverhampton in her car.
We decided to have coffee at a franchise coffee shop in the lobby of the train station, and then we drove home. On the way back, we caught up on a lot of things and stopped by a Chinese takeaway for my first decent Chinese meal in a long time.
My first main impression was the cold. When you step one foot outside the house, automatically you feel the cold. My second impression was that everywhere was clean and extremely organised, just like a Swiss watch. My third impression is that everyone is extremely polite and well-educated. In some cases, they apologise before they have done something wrong; the apology is anticipated.
My fourth impression is that everybody is wearing coats. I know it’s cold, so you must wear a coat, but seeing people clad in coats all the time is strange. In Rio, it’s the opposite; everybody wants to wear as little as possible, especially the women. My fifth impression is that it is difficult to see a beautiful woman on the street, especially a young and beautiful one. There are a lot of old, ugly women but not so many beautiful women, and that makes me ask, why?
I have also noted that in Brazil, it may be the same, but here, it seems more apparent. I’m not trying to be cruel; it’s just my impression.
After eating the Chow Mein with chopsticks, which was very tasty, and chatting a little with my mother, I was ready for bed. What a day!!!
In bed by 10 p.m.
Thank you.
Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.
Richard
