Schiphol Sprint

Back from a brief trip to Edinburgh for the book launch of last year's Lampedusa conference proceedings, superbly edited by Davide Messina. It was Luigino Zecchin's last event as director, a moving moment for us all (and perhaps even for him), and the Istituto di Cultura - his real achievement - was crowded with well-wishers.

Edinburgh was its usual stunning self: dramatic skyline, crisp air and a general air of opulence juxtaposed with misery. It felt strange to be there as a visitor. Luckily, nearly everybody I wanted to meet (barring a couple of EUL and College Admin people) was in, and it was good to renew acquaintances. The personal pleasure was tarnished, however, by a realisation that things have got very tough indeed for those still working in the university.

Tentacular and vast Schiphol airport, on the way back, was the scene of my greatest sporting triumph so far. There was quite a short interval between my incoming and outgoing flights. To cap it all, KLM had put a big aircraft on the Edinburgh run, and it was flying at maximum passenger capacity, with me in one of the seats near the tail. This meant nearly twenty minutes of my precious transfer time were spent trying to get out of the plane. Still, this gave me time to study the layout of the airport on a brochure, and plot the shortest route to my next gate.

Once out of the aircraft, I ran and ran, dodging other passengers and their deadly wheely suitcases like a rugby winger. Nearly there, I thought, with a good chance of catching my flight, but then, lo and behold, a security check and passport barrier, teeming with anxious passengers trying to get their flights and going mental in the forced wait. Welcome to non-Schengen journeys, the only way to travel!

By chance, I heard somebody shout - in English of the continental variety - "Schoort konnektion", at which he was allowed through the posh persons' channel, the kind Blair probably uses. Mustering up my best Eurenglisch, I repeated the magic formula, and was sent to the reserved passport booth, where there was now no policeman. More queue jumpers were now behind me, and we kicked up a row, till finally, taking his time in a very ostentatious way, a mustachioed border guard came up and decided that the two Greeks in front of me were clearly Alqaida operatives and needed grilling. Still, when he saw HM non-Schengen documents in my hand, he waved me through, so as better to concentrate on the sun-tanned. But then came the security check, with whole body scanner, the kind that photographs you naked...

However, my trials were almost at an end: after being manually checked for weapons, I was though; with only an endless corridor to go. Another thousand meters' sprint, and considerable sweat, later, I just made it to my plane. No flash photography, no applause, no medal, but one of the sporting achievements of all time.