On April 14, getting on a crowded flight for London, I was obsessively
if sweetly chanting to myself, "I will be in England now that April's
there."
We landed at Heathrow on the morning of April 15, little knowing that we
were on one of the last flights permitted to arrive. When I phoned
a friend to say hello, he was surprised to hear from me. "Katie," he
said, "you shouldn't be here. All of the air space in Britain is shut
down."
I am now among the stranded and the stalled. Like most travelers, I do
not know when I will get out. I am sharing fantasies with others in my
affinity group. Can we get to France, even though the ferries and the
Eurostar beneath the English Channel are completely sold out? Then, can
we drive or get a train to Madrid or Lisbon, and fly out from there? What about the ferry from England to
Bilboa?
These are fantasies. What are the realities? Being in London in April,
as the Plume of Ash drifts across the waters of the Atlantic and the
land mass of Europe, is inexorably strange. London is beautiful right
now. The sun dapples the people relaxing in Leicester Square. The tulips
and daffodils brighten the gardens around the exalting cathedral of St.
Paul's. To read TIME OUT about cultural events is thrilling. Look up at
the sky. No-one can see the Plume. Instead, you gaze at a delicate
shade of blue with white, pink, and golden clouds. Feathery clouds.
Everyday life is more plume than ash.
Yet, escaping the invisible Plume is impossible. People say the best
maps on which to watch its motions, going East and South, is on the NEW
YORK TIMES website. Ah, said a man in the office on which I have a
borrowed computer, the plume is nearing Madrid. So much for the fantasy
of Madrid as our new launching pad. Waiting for the Tube, the London
subway, one hears a stiff-upper-lip recorded announcement about all
British airports being shut down because of the Plume. Do not take the
Tube to Heathrow. The BBC features incisive, responsible, non-perky
analyses of both the forthcoming elections here and the nature of
volcanos and their expulsions. We now read about the airlines putting
pressure on aviation authorities to relax the ban on air travel in
Britain, to be more lenient.
This combination of April happiness and the Plume of Ash tests all our
modern technologies. Planes cannot fly, despite being in good condition.
A volcano on a small island in the Northern Atlantic has beaten
them.We trade stories about which websites of which airlines have
crashed. My indispensable Blackberry flaunts its limitations, how hard
it is to read applications, how tired one's thumbs gets trying to send
messages and memos.
The combination also, yet again, tests our globalism. I came to London
to chair a meeting of an advisory group for an international
organization. Of course, several of our members could not get in. If
they had had to obtain a visa, their efforts were wasted. But we could
Skype them in if we could manage the various time zones in which we were
operating. The organization has its offices in Hammersmith in the West
of London. I am being housed in Novotel West London, a hotel of 650
rooms and conference facilities, a decent enough chain with a global
clientele, often families. The staff is from nearly every country and
seems to include a native language speaker for all of its diverse
customers. Despite our variations, our breakfast buffet is resolutely
English: eggs, beans, bacon, toast, porridge, with some yoghurt from
Normandy and some cold cuts and cheeses and croissants for the picky.
My personal conditions and circumstances, despite being stranded and
stalled, are enviable. I am not sleeping on a make-shift cot in the
Munich airport. I have more than enough access to ATM machines, food, a
historic and vibrant culture, the Technologies of Communication, and
friends. I can wash out my clothes. No-one here expects the Novotel to
have to dole out masks to protect our respiratory systems against the
shards of Icelandic pumice and volcanic rock. My colleagues at work are
helping me with cancellations of appointments and re-arrangements.
Everyone is understanding that I am in my beloved England and April's
here, but I am not on a feckless, giddy holiday.
But that Plume, that Plume, is no spray of feathers in a dowager's tiara
in a comedy of manners; no decoration on the helmet of a British
guardsman. That Plume, the smoke from the fire within the earth, is
burning the global economy. The Plume, and the global winds, do their
thing, and refuse to Skype us and reveal their intentions. And, if we
were really stupid enough to believe that we were more or less immune
from the ravages of nature, our stupidity has crashed along with our
ever so global travel schedules.