One morning, just when the two of us wanted to sleep in a little longer, Mum woke us up, telling us it was time to get dressed because we were off on holiday.
I sat straight up, because the word "holiday" is one you don’t hear all that often. My brother, though, started grumbling, saying he still wanted to sleep, making those annoying sounds a sleepy child makes.
We got dressed, gathered up our favourite toys, and began stuffing them into the little bags we’re allowed to take with us on the plane. By the time we reached the door, we had to give them up one by one, keeping only one at most, just a small one. There was no use trying to negotiate with Mum, because she always has some explanation for everything, and so, rather than stay home with our toys, we chose to go.
The drive to the airport was quick. Right after Mum spilled her coffee on her yellow dress with green flowers and Dad dropped his phone clean under the seat, my brother and I fell asleep.
- Look, the plane, it’s so close, Mum cried, waking me up at exactly that moment from a dream in which I was chasing an octopus to count its tentacles.
- Where? I asked, sitting up all of a sudden in my seat.
- Up there, said Dad, pointing his finger at the roof of the car.
My brother started grumbling sleepily again, tucking his hand under his head.
"Quick, the bag, grab the backpack too, don’t forget the hat, oh, the phone!" A fuss I couldn’t understand, because why get worked up over nothing, since we’d never once missed a flight and we’d been on so many. But that’s the thing with these grown-ups: the moment they pull into the airport car park, instead of being happy that they’re about to go on holiday, they get cross in a flash, they’re always forgetting something and scolding you over anything, even if you simply want to spin around with the rolling bag, the one you only ever get to play with then.
We breezed past the counter where the lady takes our luggage and tags it, because Dad had made sure we got there first. At the little gates where you have to take the pouch off your neck, there was a bit of a ruckus again, because Mum wanted to go first, and I let her, but my brother darted right in front of her, and Mum darted after him so as not to lose him, telling him that if she lost him she’d leave him there. But I didn’t believe her! My brother, on the other hand, I think he did, because he stayed by her side for the next five minutes.
Then we passed by some big offices, walled in with spotless glass, where police officers sat.
- Passport control, said Dad, and asked us to stand beside them.
- Why are they checking us? my brother asked.
- To see that you’re our children and not somebody else’s.
- But you can tell, since I look like you and David looks like Mum, answered Tudor, who had only just turned six a little while ago.
Dad burst out laughing, and Mum smiled a little too, then nudged her hat further back on her head.
Once the officer behind the glass was satisfied that we were theirs, the rush for gate number 7 began. It would have suited us fine, since we’re always rushing anyway, but somehow this time we didn’t feel like running, especially as we were passing big, colourful shops with smells of shampoo, coffee and chocolate muffins.
- Can I have a muffin, Mum? I asked.
Mum wouldn’t have bought me one, I could tell from her face, but I think she said it was time to switch into "Holiday" mode, so she nodded yes after catching Dad’s eye.
- We’ve still got an hour to wait, said Dad, looking at his watch.
- Then let’s take a seat on the café sofa, said Mum, visibly relaxed. I could go for a coffee myself, she went on.
- But you don’t have one on your dress, said Dad, and we all started laughing, even if Mum wasn’t exactly laughing with all her teeth.
That hour didn’t pass too slowly. We were only allowed to run from the sofa over to some chairs, without bothering, though, the grown-up travellers who wove between our feet with noisy roller cases.
The long-awaited moment had come. The sound of boarding passes being scanned came again and again, and we kept hearing it until I heard the one for my ticket. "Click", and I was already at the door of the plane, tugging my brother by the collar of his T-shirt so he wouldn’t board first.
- What seats do we have? Dad asked.
- 5, Mum answered right away.
- A, B, C, D or F? Dad pressed on.
- A, B, C and D, Mum answered.
The seats happened to be Tudor at the window, me in the middle, Mum in the aisle seat, and Dad across the aisle, right next to Mum.
Seatbelts clicked on and off without pause, alongside the short shrieks of little children.
The take-off came with that drop in the stomach and Mum scolding Tudor to leave the window shade up. In front of me, a little girl, also about six, was crying that her ears hurt, and another, a bit bigger, wanted to get off the plane, begging her parents and telling them she was afraid of heights.
The shrieking was cut short at once by the ladies in uniform, who passed by us with wrapped snacks, but right after the rustling came more shrieks, even louder, I suspect, than at the start, over the chocolate biscuits.
- I need the loo, came from the back.
- When are we getting there?
- Give me the tablet!
- No, I want to watch a film.
- Sit down!
- Put your tray up!
- Stop splashing water on the floor!
- Go to sleep!
- Drink slowly so you don’t get wet!
- When are we getting there?
From where I sat, I could see mums with their hair all tousled, dads with crumpled shirts hanging a little out of their trousers, and grandparents dozing off as they tried to calm down little ones who weren’t even their own.
Then I looked over at my mum, who had laid her head back and closed her eyes. I stroked her leg, because that’s what she does for me sometimes when I can’t fall asleep.
All of a sudden, her seat started shaking hard. She sat up and opened her eyes. Either my stroking had had no effect, or the child behind her was kicking the seat with his feet, saying he was bored.
That’s when I understood that parents don’t go on holiday, they go, in fact, to look after their children somewhere else.