Day 2: Dubai to Frankfurt
Dubai airport has a surreal feeling, and not because I only slept a few hours. It is already packed with people, an international gateway through which Emirates flies to 80 destinations. Like on the plane, there is a surprising lack of people adorned in team colours, although a large group with ‘Zanzibar’ on their shirts just passed by. I don’t think they made the World Cup. But we don’t need shirts to see every race on earth represented in this one massive airport lounge, which seems to stretch hundreds of metres over several stories. Not only are there people with skins of the darkest, darkest brown, but the palest, palest white and everything in-between. There are families spread in corners, tiny children in the arms of their mothers, waiting quietly for their flights. Arab women have tiny slits in their head dress for their eyes, the rest of them covered, and Middle Eastern men wear striking, flowing gowns.
Except for the continuous announcements of flight departures, it is eerily quiet, or maybe the sound simply disappears into the cavernous space. Whispers from strange languages pass by, replaced by the female announcer making her final calls to Casablanca and Glasgow, a strange juxtaposition of the exotic versus the dreary (as even Billy Connolly admits). Her voice has that artificial, sickly sweet quality used in sci-fi movies where everyone is a robot obeying some central command.
If it was not for the shops full of World Cup merchandise, it might be just another day at this airport. But as soon as I arrive at the gate for the Dubai to Frankfurt flight, my expectations are confirmed. A group dressed in the red and white of England is playing with a ball in the corner of the lounge, a girl among them doing some impressive juggling. A couple of the England shirts shout ‘Champions 1966 and 2006’. It’s a long time between celebratory rounds of Newcastle Brown Ale. The first World Cup I ever watched was in 1966, and I assumed England won every time.
Now on the way to Germany, there are shirts from Poland, Brazil, Switzerland and England, and Australia is well represented. I hear a couple talking about hoping to buy tickets from touts outside the England v Paraguay game in Frankfurt tomorrow. Don’t think so. Australia play on Monday in the tiny town of Kaiserslautern, and most Australians will come in through Frankfurt.
It’s six hours from Dubai, and I’m sitting next to one of those large ‘boys into men’ teenagers who is all limbs, not quite under control, like a big puppy with massive feet that intrude into my personal space. I push back a little to reclaim my ground, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then he takes off his shoes, completing the untrained puppy analogy, just as I’m reading Spike Milligan write about the smell of dead camels. I think I know what he meant. English guys behind me watch football videos and comment loudly on every World Cup goal for the past 100 years.
It makes you realise what a major event this is. People are flying in from all over the world, super-excited to be here, uncertain what will happen but desperately hoping their team will reign. There will be goals scored and saves made which will be replayed forever, into the history videos, part of football folklore, along with ‘I was there’ bragging rights. Some players will talk on the speaking circuits for the rest of their lives about events of the next few weeks, and fans around the world will still be listening to them in pubs and clubs long after the speaker has replaced his skills with a beer belly.
It’s exactly 24 hours since I left Sydney by the time I reach Frankfurt, and I’m relieved that the hotel is at the airport. I check in and unpack, buy a German sim card for my mobile, and head into Frankfurt to watch Germany v Costa Rica. The weather is very hot, more Australian than European, or is this the Europe of global warming. Outside the main station in the city centre, streets are closed off, and stalls selling food, beer and souvenirs have been erected. In this part of town, most of the noise is coming from thousands of England supporters who have gathered outside a pub. I can only assume the Germans are watching the game somewhere else, because in this part of Frankfurt, it’s as if the Germans have given the place over to foreigners, and England plays in Frankfurt tomorrow, and they’ve brought their fans with them.
Except for the continuous announcements of flight departures, it is eerily quiet, or maybe the sound simply disappears into the cavernous space. Whispers from strange languages pass by, replaced by the female announcer making her final calls to Casablanca and Glasgow, a strange juxtaposition of the exotic versus the dreary (as even Billy Connolly admits). Her voice has that artificial, sickly sweet quality used in sci-fi movies where everyone is a robot obeying some central command.
If it was not for the shops full of World Cup merchandise, it might be just another day at this airport. But as soon as I arrive at the gate for the Dubai to Frankfurt flight, my expectations are confirmed. A group dressed in the red and white of England is playing with a ball in the corner of the lounge, a girl among them doing some impressive juggling. A couple of the England shirts shout ‘Champions 1966 and 2006’. It’s a long time between celebratory rounds of Newcastle Brown Ale. The first World Cup I ever watched was in 1966, and I assumed England won every time.
Now on the way to Germany, there are shirts from Poland, Brazil, Switzerland and England, and Australia is well represented. I hear a couple talking about hoping to buy tickets from touts outside the England v Paraguay game in Frankfurt tomorrow. Don’t think so. Australia play on Monday in the tiny town of Kaiserslautern, and most Australians will come in through Frankfurt.
It’s six hours from Dubai, and I’m sitting next to one of those large ‘boys into men’ teenagers who is all limbs, not quite under control, like a big puppy with massive feet that intrude into my personal space. I push back a little to reclaim my ground, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then he takes off his shoes, completing the untrained puppy analogy, just as I’m reading Spike Milligan write about the smell of dead camels. I think I know what he meant. English guys behind me watch football videos and comment loudly on every World Cup goal for the past 100 years.
It makes you realise what a major event this is. People are flying in from all over the world, super-excited to be here, uncertain what will happen but desperately hoping their team will reign. There will be goals scored and saves made which will be replayed forever, into the history videos, part of football folklore, along with ‘I was there’ bragging rights. Some players will talk on the speaking circuits for the rest of their lives about events of the next few weeks, and fans around the world will still be listening to them in pubs and clubs long after the speaker has replaced his skills with a beer belly.
It’s exactly 24 hours since I left Sydney by the time I reach Frankfurt, and I’m relieved that the hotel is at the airport. I check in and unpack, buy a German sim card for my mobile, and head into Frankfurt to watch Germany v Costa Rica. The weather is very hot, more Australian than European, or is this the Europe of global warming. Outside the main station in the city centre, streets are closed off, and stalls selling food, beer and souvenirs have been erected. In this part of town, most of the noise is coming from thousands of England supporters who have gathered outside a pub. I can only assume the Germans are watching the game somewhere else, because in this part of Frankfurt, it’s as if the Germans have given the place over to foreigners, and England plays in Frankfurt tomorrow, and they’ve brought their fans with them.
posted by Graham Hand | 1:20 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home