Journey to the Centre of Myself Read Online Free PDF Page A

and I can’t breathe. I loosen the pashmina from my shoulders to try to cool myself down. The guy in the seat next to me frowns when I accidentally elbow him. I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. Wet pools in my armpits. I hear a commotion at the front of the coach—cheering. We’re heading up a driveway. Thank goodness, we’ve arrived.
    We enter the hallway of the hotel which seems clean and pleasant. There is another thirty-minute queue to book in and get the keys to my room. By this time, I could almost cry with the pain in my back and the ache in my feet. We are informed there is a complimentary meal waiting for us. My stomach rumbles as they hand me my key. I thank them and head into the dining room.
    I swear someone is taking me for a fool. There are silver platters laid out, but only the scraps of a meal remain. Everyone wanders around the room looking for a waitress, looking for more food. No-one seems to be coming. I put two half-mashed potato croquettes on my plate and scrape around a bowl until I have a spoonful of paella. This is my meal. I sit and eat it. Three mouthfuls and I’m done. While I drink a coffee, I wait to see if any more food is forthcoming. I see six men built like rugby players, well over six feet, they look at the servers and at each other. Finally, a waitress comes through. She carries salad—lettuce, tomatoes and carrot. The men grudgingly spoon salad onto their plates and sit down.
    I’ve had enough. At least I have a room to myself. I’ll just get some sleep.
    I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s a little on the small side, but perfectly fine for me, although I try hard not to think of the deluxe room I should be sleeping in tonight in Berlin. The bed is a double and I grab hold of the quilt to unfold it. It moves across, uncovering the left side of the bed. Perplexed, I see it’s a single duvet on a double bed. I’m only allowed one side of the bed? What if I wish to starfish? I can’t believe I’m still being restrained.
    I set the alarm on my mobile phone for five-thirty, ready for airport pick up at six-fifteen. Breakfast opens at six so I’ll have time to grab something quickly. As I walk to throw some rubbish in the bin, I see a small bottle of red wine and a packet of ready salted kettle chips on the table. I have no idea whether they are complimentary or not and I don’t care. In an act of defiance, I decide I will not pay a single penny. They promised me a dinner and here it is. I change into my nightshirt, grab my Kindle and climb into bed. I open the crisp packet around three edges for easy access and drink the wine straight from the bottle. It’s delicious; the dark fruits melt on my tongue while the salt on the crisps makes it tingle. Warmth hits my stomach. In contrast, I watch the snow fall outside the window. I spend an hour or so reading, drinking and eating, and checking out the snowflakes getting thicker under the light of the hotel lampposts. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I’ve very deliberately not allowed myself to think about Adrian since getting on the plane, but now, as the quiet intrudes and I grow weary, his face comes to my mind. The wine takes hold and I succumb to sleep.
    It seems like the briefest moment before my mobile goes off. No time for a snooze as the wine presses on my bladder. I quickly shower, pack up my things and head for breakfast.
    Standing outside the restaurant, I can see the food spread. It’s a continental feast. However, there’s a queue outside, and as a gentleman walks in he is told it’s not ready yet. I check my watch; it’s two minutes past six. My coach is coming in thirteen minutes. I shuffle from foot to foot, looking at the clock behind the bar which shows the same time as mine. At five past, I walk through the barrier, saying to a couple I pass, ‘They said six. I’m going in.’
    Everyone follows me. The staff look surprised but say nothing. I can’t believe I’ve led the anarchy. I have a quick glass of