A Strange Journey back to London

I have left Berlin. It wasn’t an easy decision. But it was the right thing to do considering the dire circumstances. I had envisaged my stay in Berlin so very differently and it started all so well.

I was living in a nifty Co-Living space meeting interesting people. I got the chance to hang out with my new business partners. We had promising first contacts with Berlin-style advertising rebels, a leading German furniture designer, an international architectural design studio. All excitingly different from all those last years of corporate lockstep. On the first of March, I still enjoyed the last Berlin Biennale day. In the second March week, my third week in Berlin, the exhibition venues I wanted to visit were already shutting down, and rightly so. Fast forward and I suddenly find myself catching one of the last planes out of Berlin-Tegel Airport back to London.

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THE AIRPORT

Berlin-Tegel Airport was in shut-down mode. Commercial flights back to the UK might cease soon. My flight was one of the few weekly trips of British Airways between Berlin and London.

Tegel is a small airport which makes it likeable in a cosy retro-charm way. The main terminal was already closed, and my flight departs from an obscure C-Terminal. Never used it in all my time flying back and forth to Berlin. There are a few airlines still operating, Air France, KLM and British Airways as far as I can see. Compared to my normal flying habits, I am ridiculously early. Two and a half hours early in fact. But I was anxious. How long would I have to wait for a cab? Were there taxis at all? What was the situation at the airport?

The C-Terminal presents itself empty. Very Empty. I didn’t know what to expect and it was relief I felt. Relief that I would be able to avoid fellow travellers. The usually information packed departure boards showed a light selection of flights, many cancelled on short notice. There were improvised hand-written signs warning of the two metres distance rule. And tape on the floor marking those safe distancing spaces for the ones with short-term memory.

A shabby looking cafeteria and food counter are demonstratively closed with big chains around the uncomfortably looking plastic chairs and tables. Police Force is present both in front and within the terminal. They look rather bored than fraught. The atmosphere in the terminal is a weird combination – both surreal and tense. Only several airport staff with bright neon jackets and a handful of waiting travellers. So quiet. Nothing compared to the hustle and bustle of an airport.

As I was there so early that check-in hadn’t opened yet, I had time to kill. So I plunged myself on a stained metal bench in the far corner of the unglamorous industrial hall that was my departure terminal. Clearly Berlin-Tegel was biding its time to be closed once the new and shiny Berlin Brandenburg Airport would be finished.

I got a bit nervous if I’d be at the right check-in counter as there were no British Airway signs on the screens. Staff you asked were shrugging their shoulders. So I just checked the departure board again and it clearly said C60 for check-in. I was there. So I waited.

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CHECK-IN

After half an hour, another handful of people started to circle around the designated check-in area. Most were on their own, equally confused as I if they were in the right spot, hoping the flight wouldn’t be cancelled last minute. No-one really spoke. Everyone just wanted to get it over with it seemed.

A couple in their mid-forties were fully prepared and wore gloves and face masks, so were two Asian girls with huge suitcases. Some guys, not travelling together, were standing around away from each other, head down looking at their phones.  

One young man was waiting extremely nervously, moving around like a tiger in a cage. Then a lady with a headscarf and glasses, a big plastic bag and a small wheelie suitcase showed up and he started to incessantly talking at her. She was wearing gloves and a protective mask. She stayed calm and didn’t respond with the same intensity.

A funky looking girl with a rasta hoodie, big shades and colourful clothes entered the scene. She was in a wheelchair and a big fellow with a face mask was positioning her in front of the check-in.

Finally two British Airways staff made their way to man the two check-in counters. A protective tape as you see them in crime scenes on telly was arranged to make you keep your distance from them. The airline staff are wearing gloves, but no face masks. I was waiting until everyone had checked-in.

Waiting from a safe distance I went there after there were only two travellers left in the queue. The distance keeping wasn’t always feasible when two people met in the midpoint of the wiggly waiting space line. Also the young lad accompanying the lady with the headscarf made me nervous, he was not waiting in line but paced around and was sometimes forgetting the two metres distance rule while fiddling with this phone.

After what seemed ages for checking in ten people, I got rid of my two huge luggage pieces and only needed to carry my hand luggage. Man, I was tired. I was wearing gloves, my hands were all sweaty inside the plastic and so was I. Desperate traveller’s rule had applied when I was packing: What you cannot fit into the suitcases any more, you have to wear. I guess I looked like a stressed out travelling hawker specialising in COS merchandise.

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SECURITY CHECK

After check-in you were asked to make your way directly to the departure gate. Metallic sounding voices belled their enforcement message over ancient looking loudspeakers. After a short confusion where my gate actually was, I returned to my check-in counter area. The departure gate was right behind it. Just didn’t look like it and I heard one ground staff saying to one traveller: Only one piece of hand luggage! Go back and check in your second bag, please! That threw me off looking for a different gate, as surely that one-hand-luggage-spiel was EasyJet or Ryanair? I am travelling British Airways. So no way, that couldn’t have been my gate.

Well, it was. New rules applied. In order to protect the flow and ease of the security checks, admitted hand luggage was reduced. The airport staff though were generous and allowed me to re-pack my two hand luggage pieces into one.

Security checks took again a long time as only one by one was allowed to enter for the security scan. While some airport staff wore gloves and kept their distance, some were suddenly weirdly close standing next to you. Or you had to pass them after picking up your stuff from the conveyor belt.

By the time I was finally through, I noticed that it must have taken half an hour to clear those twelve or thirteen people. Not imaginable how many people were channelled through security at busy times before Covid-19 happened.

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PASSPORT CONTROL

Walking to the departure gate, I didn’t meet a soul in what seemed a completely abandoned and run-down terminal. A lonely booth marking a barricade I identified as the passport check. There was no queue, I was the only one. An elderly immigration officer with no gloves and no face mask reached for my passport. Next to him in the booth was a youngster, also in uniform. Suddenly, the older official who had grabbed my passport started an animated chat with the rather bored looking kid, waving my passport in a dramatic gesture. After a while the older officer smirked at me, nodding assuringly in my direction and remarking: “Nothing to worry about.” Apparently he was using those quiet times to train his apprentice in matters of immigration as I heard the word “biometric” murmured several times.

After finally arriving at the departure gate, I then saw all the guys from my check-in counter again. The funky rasta girl in the wheelchair, the two Asian girls, the gloved and masked couple, the phone checking guys and the lady with the headscarf. Soon boarding began. We all had to use paper boarding passes. Mobile passes were not feasible as digital readers were unavailable. The woman from check-in now verifying our boarding passes didn’t even ask for my passport. Apparently other fish to fry, as singer-songwriter Molly Morrissey muses in one of her tunes.

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THE BUS

There was only one British Airways plane in sight and a bus standing in front of the departure gate. A very short distance so apparently our plane must be somewhere else on the airport ground. All the other flight guests were already spread out in the bus. There were about 18 people. I was the last to join. So I chose the second door as it seemed less crowded. But the bus didn’t start. What was the crew waiting for?

I got annoyed by some fellow travellers. A noisy crowd of five middle-aged men looking rough or hangover or both started making fun of the “fuss” everyone was making by keeping their distance and wearing face masks. I didn’t have a face mask so I had my scarf around my mouth and nose. When they started to imitate coughs while laughing, I left the bus again and waited outside. It was a sunny day. It was good to feel the warmth on your face.

After what seemed ages the bus driver finally signalled: “Right, we are leaving.” We drove for less than 40 seconds, just to end up in front of the plane standing a few metres away from the departure gate. Though no-one in the bus felt like it, most of us had to laugh silently.

I left the bus first as I was standing in front of the door but waited aside from the plane until everyone was in. I felt uneasy about the lack of distance between the travellers while climbing up the stairs to the plane. Right, the distance markers on the floor were not there this time. Waiting for everyone to board, I heard one of the ground staff joking: “Our first plane today” while his colleague shook his head in disbelief remarking: “And the last for today”. Both laughed.

Having climbed up the stairs to the airplane, a British Airways steward with sleek haircut, gloves and face mask nodded towards me and mumbled his welcome. The captain was greeting the guests over intercom saying that this would be a short journey, no waiting times whatsoever for take-off and landing to be expected.

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THE FLIGHT

When I was finally sitting in my seat, I was knackered. The gloved and masked British Airways sleekness offered snacks: Two small bottles of water, a biscuit and some mini pretzels. I declined all but the water but the steward just nodded: “I leave those with you, just in case.” There wasn’t much to do for the two cabin crew members. Without the usual complimentary service for business and without the purchasable booze and snacks round for economy class, the thinly spread customers were manageable.

Eighteen people were on board. Strangely, the stewards lost their gloves and face masks after serving, so the second round of water bottles were presented the old fashioned, pre-Coronavirus style. Why they didn’t keep the masks and gloves during the whole flight, I didn’t even ask. A funny thing such a situation does with you. I wasn’t curious any more. I noticed but rather didn’t ask so no-one was tempted to open their mouth unnecessarily and become a source of harm.

The flight was short. A thick white cloud layer announced our approach to Heathrow. The blue sky vanished and the plane was diving into the familiar greyness of London. Once landed, the taxiing was the quickest in my flying life experience. A waste array of jet bridges were available, so it almost felt like the plane was landing with the gangway already attached to it. Minutes after touchdown the door was open, the female captain and the two stewards waved their good byes and the distance keeping rhythm was once again activated.

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HEATHROW

Heathrow Terminal 5 was a ghost building. A lonely cleaner with his trolley patroled what were usually über-busy corridors. This time, there were no fast-paced business people rushing around, no disoriented tourists slowing them down, no screaming kids being carried by worn-out parents, no happy kids riding on their little Trunki suitcases. Just the cleaner. The way to immigration was quickly made. We had literally parked the plane next to it.

The same unfamiliar picture was presented at the immigration hall. No long lines with waiting people to make it through immigration. Just emptiness and one immigration officer telling me to push the passport further down into the automated passport control kiosk slot so the gate would open. Right.

Only two out of ten baggage reclaim stations were operating. So I picked up my two heavy suitcases and made my way to the parking space.

The normally crammed Level One of the Heathrow short stay car park echoed the sci-fi scenery of an evacuated city. Action horror film “Resident Evil” springs to mind.

There were no cars.

Except for one greyish Mini. My sister was there to pick me up.