Carol’s Column

Minor disasters put everything into perspective

The thing about travelling is that no matter how experienced you are, there are always disasters. Usually minor, to be sure.

Nothing earth-shattering, except to the person involved. Like yesterday, when I landed at Frankfurt from the States and found myself in transit en route to Johannesburg.

Preparing to spend some hours in Lufthansa's Senator lounge, I had to produce my ticket, boarding card and sticker proclaiming me eligible. Somewhere between passport control and the lounge my boarding-card and passport had disappeared.

"Madam, relax," said the calming receptionist. "Take a seat, a deep breath, then remove everything from your bag slowly and carefully." I must explain that the Senator lounge is for First Class passengers. Lufthansa, on realising I'd be in transit for approximately eight hours, kindly extended an invitation to me to use the lounge. I am more used to sleeping stretched out across four plastic chairs in the economy-class waiting area, so this was padded paradise.

In the Senator, the clientele is classy. Not the usual jeans, takkies and pungent T-shirt crowd, and there wasn't a tracksuit to be seen. For some reason, South Africans often wear tracksuits when travelling. This, plus the chewing of biltong and more recently, the sporting of our flag in the form of caps, sweaters, backpacks and ties, immediately proclaims our nationality.

Actually, it's surprising how one can identify inhabitants of different countries by their travel gear. Americans favour sneakers, baseball caps (and they chew gum), while Germans don sandals with socks and the British choke in collars and ties.

But the Senator lounge, as I said, was distinctly upmarket. Meanwhile, my boarding pass had vanished. As suggested, I sat, took a breath, poured a glass of mind-calming pilsner and began removing the contents of my very large bag.

It was like Mount Etna erupting.

Because the rand exchange rate makes all travellers instantly penurious, my gifts tend towards inexpensive but offbeat: for example, a whistling kettle disguised as a flower pot complete with happy plastic sunflowers. Or a duck paperclip which quacks when moved, a singing scouring brush, a riotous cap with purple dreadlocks and a set of dancing toothbrushes.

A delightfully illustrated book called What is a Fart? caused much hilarity. I forgot to mention the lounge was busy, and fellow travellers, sympathetic to my plight, participated in the search.

Eventually, Frau Putzi Wagenbauer discovered the errant items in my washbag hiding between deodorant and facecloth. "Don't worry," she exclaimed when I apologised. "Last month, I threw my false teeth down the waste disposal hatch in Beijing. These things happen when travelling."

"Yes," agreed Mr Gunther Zumwinkel, "I left my leg in Tokyo." It turned out one-legged Mr Zumwinkel, (a tractor wheel had amputated his leg when he was younger) always travels with a spare prosthesis. While rushing for a plane, he'd inadvertently left his spare in a taxi.

Mr Helmut Turteltaub had dropped his wallet in Lake Dal, Kashmir while Mr Askan Bobubaka of Chad mislaid his wife in Paris. I think that's what he said.

Compared to losing teeth, legs, wives and wallets, misplacing a boarding pass is minimal. That's what I love about travelling. It puts everything into perspective.

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