What is it about travel and food?

What is it about travel? I eat continually as if walking epic journeys in need of nutrition to sustain me. The fact that I am bused, flown, carried from pillar to post is incidental. My system may be assisted by all this technology but runs on a much more primitive animalistic operating system. In such close quarters with unknown numbers of my fellow species does their presence trigger a grazing hunger. Eat quickly what is available before others tuck in and leave me bereft?

Or is the hunger stress-related? Far from my home, sofa, fridge and familiar surroundings do I overeat to distract me from all this strangeness.  The comfort of a full belly brings a satisfied sleepiness that almost neutralizes the foreignness. Like a baby, I swig the bottle and stuff down biscuits to shut out the otherness that threatens!

I see the stress on others too. Even queueing is an irritant. Why did he push in? Surely, we should be moving now, where is my boarding ticket and do have I still have my passport!

We hug our familiar belongings, sure that everyone wants what we own. Pulling bags closer still, wrapping handbag straps around shoulders and checking locks on suitcases. The fear-inducing statement, “Have you packed your own case?” is asked. Followed by,"Do you carry inflammable explosive objects?" Of course, you don’t! But the idiots in front and behind you may have not have packed their own cases! They probably don’t even realize the danger of Lithium-ion batteries occasionally bursting into flames on planes.

Suddenly, one feels travelling should only be for those intelligent enough to obey the rules. There should be special scanners to pick out those too stupid to be allowed to fly. The airline staff seem unduly inexperienced and uniformly distracted. One wonders if the pilots and crew on planes are busy on their iPhones checking Facebook instead of watching dials. Answering emails and text messages instead of monitoring storm warnings.

In addition to all this everyone who works in the cockpit or as stewards are all of reproductive age and so are by nature perpetually distracted. Either recovering from devastating breakups or enduring stormy/heated relationships or perennially on the hunt for new potential partners.  All these emotions leave little room for professional performances.  You feel a strong desire to scream “focus, focus please!”

The vista of cotton wool clouds stretching outside my window seat reminds me of some celestial last vision. The intercom announces all the goodies for sale from aftershave to portable speakers, perfume etc and reminds one of the materialistic nature of this whole enterprise. The speaker’s inability to converse coherently in basic English has me doubting his organizational skills and technical know-how. These people have to do cross-checks and safety things after all. I see how slowly they struggle to serve drinks and food as they meander down the cabin. “Come on people get a move on!” You’ve only done this thousands of times. How can you be so crap at it? Running the full length of the cabin to retrieve more lids, Pringles, water, ice. The fact that you are so cack-handed at these simple tasks makes me doubt your ability to deplane this aircraft. Yes, that’s what they call it. Is that phrase itself an evidence of stupidity?

Bring me more food! I am noticing too much. How annoying is my neighbour with his stinky socks. Why can’t he keep his shoes on! The red-haired air steward keeps picking his nose between serving drinks. I know it’s Ryanair, and their uniforms and training scream budget airlines, but surely, they could’ve been given a special training session on the inappropriateness of nose picking when serving drinks and food.

The two women in front have talked incessantly for the entire four-hour flight about their families, their partners, their homes, their holidays, their jobs in those elevated excited tones that strangers use. As if whispering and talking in your normal voice would indicate an intimacy that is not justified by this casual encounter. Instead, the proper volume is high, animated by loud forced laughter. Couples desperately ask others to switch seats so they can sit with their partners. Having achieved the sought-after goal they say not one word to their partner the rest of the flight. The longing is not to be with their loved one at all but to be free of the bloody stranger! That way they can comfortably sulk and moan as normal. It makes this flying tube a little more like home to have that familiar face frowning over Suduko beside them.

Mind you, I shouldn’t complain, we landed safely and we all survived.  However, since I am in complaining mode I’d like to mention the seats on Ryanair.  They are so uncomfortable. I am not claustrophobic but the distance between the seat in front and my face is worryingly small.  Mind you, the prices keep me coming back for more.  Worrying to hear of their plans to have us all standing in the future (surely its a joke?). 

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But perhaps this group's song captures the whole cheap airline experience best.

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Shit House Rats - asking questions

Went to the local charity shop to buy a book.  They have a huge selection.  Mostly holiday reads.  Visitors to Malta bring their reading matter with them.  It’s part of what a holiday is about.  Time to chill in the sun, swim, enjoy the local cuisine and sights.  The novels represent the luxury of free time that is rare commodity today.  Many enjoy their kindle, light compact but a portable library in many ways.  But what do they read?  Well, I’m no expert but having lived quite a few years abroad I’ve noticed some things.  First, I have to confess as far as books go I’m omnivorous.  I’ll consume just about anything.  In my search for input I’ll devour fact or fiction.  I’m not even fussy about it being contemporary.  I’ve read my way through out of date versions of The New Scientist, The Economist and enjoyed it all.  While working at Daresbury synchrotron I read all the material available in the coffee room.  Mostly catalogue on vacuum pumps and machinery but also a complete collection of Asterix cartoons.  While on Rhodes, knowing my hunger for reading materials good friends would deliver black bin liners full of novels left behind by tourists at hotels during summer holidays.  I’d devour all but then be instantly hungry for more.  So here on Malta I noticed a shelf of brand new novels (well new to the charity shop) and I pounced eagerly.  Only to find novels on murder, betrayal, mass killers, drug cartels, military assassination, child killers, child abuse, child abduction, spousal abuse, incest, graphic tales of autopsies, violent cop incidents etc  for the first time in my life I could not find anything to my taste.  I've discovered what people now read on holiday and it’s shit.  We read it and I fear we have become it.  Don’t think for one moment that our TV shows escape this modern slant.  The popular ones all peddle the same violent content with an undercurrent message that everyone is a killer/amoral.  There are no heroes, just villains in various shades of grey.  Speaking of ‘Shades of Grey’ I've never read this particular book but I fear it may trigger my shit alert meter as well.  I actually had a moment of crystal clarity as I stood before shelf upon shelf of novels longing to pick one, anyone.  I took a step back and thought.

“Why do people read all this shit?”

“Why do people watch all this shit?”

Are our lives so smeared with the stuff we are infinitely more comfortable surrounded by it.  My grandfather’s pig shed smelt astonishingly bad.  The odour was like a facial smack when you entered. You couldn't help raising a hand to your nose and face to protect them from the assault.  After 15 minutes in the shed admiring the new piglets you hardly noticed it at all.  That’s how adaptable our senses are.  Most people cannot smell their own B.O.  We have grown accustomed to our own stink.  We cannot really register it.  Like the pig shed our senses have gone into overload and switched off to protect us.  Only something much more foul smelling than we're used to is picked up.  So, I fear our books, newspapers, TV shows, Internet content have noticed our jaded tastes and slowly adapted to grab our attention.  In a world full of shit, it seems only the even more shitty gets our attention.  I could be wrong but I fear I’m not.  There are those who benefit massively from our abundance of shit.  My grandfather called them ‘shit house rats’.  Huge foot-long brutes that thrived on the pig shit that was produced in abundance.  They grew sleek and huge on this diet, a breed apart.  His cats and dogs were nervous of this tougher crew.  My grandfather fought a losing battle with the rats over many years.

Do we become what we devour?

Or are we like the ‘shit house rats’ designed to eat the stuff?

Was it always so?

Have our tastes got worse?

What does it do to our communities?

I don't know the answer to any of the above.  I’m just really concerned that no one is even asking these questions. Perhaps we've all been in the pig shed far too long.

PS  I don't know if it is significant but rats eat faeces, because their digestive system is poor at absorbing nutrients and a second go through the system helps digestion.

PPS pigs will also happily eat the faeces of other animals, this desire to eat faeces is called Coprophagia

PPS Cows are vegetarian by choice but we like to feed them chicken faeces, because it is cheap, this is how (bovine spongiform encephalopathy)- Mad Cow Disease arose.  In US and other places outside UK they will not accept our blood donations because of the prevalence of Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD), from eating the mad cows.

We could have been contenders!

Every Boxing Day when we called up around Armagh direction with relatives in Keady, Markethill, Caledon, Tynan, Killylea we entered a strange border territory that was almost foreign to us.  Down long endless lanes to farms we found doors flung open and hoards of relatives would fill rooms eager to learn your news and share theirs.  The yearly pilgrimage coincided with the Killylea hunt on Boxing Day and I was fascinated with the huge steaming horses prancing around Main Street.  My eldest brother felt differently and referred to them as big smelly animals that could fart from both ends.  Years passed and my attitude hardened.  I disliked these fancy folk on their steeds who took perverse pleasure from hunting wildlife to death.  Deep inside, I have to confess it was their ‘Hurrah Henry’ accents, crisp riding outfits and tilt of their heads that got up my nose even more than their hunting proclivities. To me they represented the landed gentry, rich folk that were the polar opposite to my ‘poor pig farming’ background.  In contrast to the hunting fraternity, my relatives like Uncle Archie were genuinely impressive; he intrigued us children, by having a conversation with us each year consisting solely of farts.  Auntie Sally fed her grandchildren with huge lambing coke bottles with a teat on the end and the babies were all huge beaming Buddas on her lap.  Auntie Eve winded her babies by holding their bare bottoms to the fiery range and we were intrigued by the engine ‘put, put’ sound they made.  Their earthy good humour had us in stitches of laughter.

The welcome at each farm remained as warm as ever each year and it always shocked me how the bloodline of family breaks down all social barriers.  Every Boxing Day when we travelled down from Dungiven, high in the northern Sperrins, I felt embraced by a clan I hardly knew but one that claimed me as their own.  Chunky chickens (a name for particularly fat birds) were smuggled into our boot along with boxes of biscuits and sweets.  It was akin to a family hunting party on a raid.  There were strict rules that needed to be abided by.  If we called into a warm kitchen bathed in heat from a massive Aga and failed to consume a good tea – ham, salad, beetroot with lashings of hot tea, followed by freshly baked cakes my father would be scolded solemnly at the door as we left.

“Sure, this doesn't count as a visit, son!  You hardly had a crumb.  Now, mind you, it wasn't a proper call at all.  You'll have to call again and have a real tea.”

The scolding was intense and serious with deep disappointment that the social niceties had not been adhered to.  My father would bow his head and admit he’d failed his hosts and duly promise to return for an extra call before next Boxing Day.  Given that we called at half a dozen farmhouses on Boxing Day our appetites were phenomenal.  You couldn't get out off a meal by saying that Auntie Annie had already fed you to the gills.  That wouldn't do at all.  So, we learned to develop appetites that consumed all that was presented on plates.  My brothers and I became skilled at clearing table after table.  Only when our bellies ached, bloated beyond bearing did we call a halt.  Dreading the terrible scolding our father would endure, if we were rude enough to leave with only a cup of tea in us.  It was part of our cultural identity to eat meal after meal with gusto.  If only eating had been an Olympic sport we three would have been contenders.  I was, years later, at a Christmas ‘work do’ and had consumed a huge plateful of food.  My colleague next to me was feeling indisposed and could not touch their equally enormous pile of turkey and stuffing etc.  It was second nature to immediately consume their dinner and desert straight after my own.  Their appalled expression said it all.  Training and endurance, I called it.  Sure, hadn’t we as a family eaten our way across Co Armagh for decades?  A powerful appetite is the only proper response to a generous host.  Sure, any kith or kin of mine knows that!