In the seat next to me on the Prague-bound flight is a Dane. And how do I know he’s a Dane, you ask? Well, maybe you’re not asking, but I’ll answer anyway. On the sleeve of his short camouflage KFOR shirt, above his left bulging biceps, is a Danish flag; white cross on a red background. I noticed him in Skopje airport when he walked past me, several times. He is tall, blond, and has eyes bluer than blue.
When the stewardess offers sandwiches and cakes, I greedily grab mine. Gorgeous Dane declines. Probably on some designer, high-protein military diet or something.
I bite into my cheese and egg sandwich, and promptly spill hard-boiled eggs all over myself. Dane looks curiously at me. Even more so, when I try to tackle a soft, cream-filled chocolate cake. Not a great success. Soon, I’m covered in chockie flakes. Luckily, I’m dressed in black, so at least the stains don’t show. Dane points to the left side of my mouth, where it seems I’ve deposited a glob of vanilla cream.
The airborne meal is an absolute disaster. But at least I’m no longer hungry. As I shake the little packet of sugar for my tea against the fold-up table, I strike too hard – and pretty soon sugar is added to the tasty mix on my attire. If I want a sugar high, I can now just lick my blouse. I peek carefully to my right. Is that a scornful look? ‘Cause I’m sure sugar in the tea is a strict no-no in KFOR diets.
Instead he laughs, revealing strong pearly-white teeth that go nicely with the tanned face and those irresistible eyes, now glittering. “You remind me of my mum,” he says. “Gee, thanks!” Never mind the fact that I probably could be his mum. He looks all of what? 20-something? I could be the mum of a 20-year-old. In fact, come to think of it, I am the mum of a 20-year-old. A 20-year-old girl who would die of embarrassment to see me now. I cherish the thought.
“No, no,” he adds hurriedly when he sees my disdainful look. “I just mean, she is clumsy, too.”
Clumsy, eh? I can live with that.
The stewardess walks by, offering up the excess supply of chocolate cakes. “One more?”, he asks innocently. I smile frostily. The Dane grins mischievously, lightly touching my arm. Damn that static electricity in these planes! Makes it very hard to remain frosty. Soon, we chat and laugh as if we’ve known each other all our lives.
Landing in Prague, I have a 5-hour layover before my onward flight. His continuing flight to Copenhagen is in 45 minutes. When I tell him I intend to take advantage of my long wait, pop into town and do a bit of exploring and perhaps some research for an article on Prague’s Jewish cemetery, he promptly decides to join me. In record time, he changes reservations. 15 minutes later we’re at an outdoor cafe in Mala Strana, drinking Urquell beer, enjoying the sunshine, looking at life as it passes by, chatting. Life is deliciously easy.
Four hours later, back at the airport, we part for our separate flights. “I’ve enjoyed my first visit to Prague immensely and I’m sad I’m not flying to Oslo today,” he says as he lifts me off my feet and gives me a big bear hug. Then a looong, lovely kiss. “Me too,” I say, swooning. I’ve been in Prague at least 10 times. But never like this.
Needless to say, I didn’t get any article research done. Nothing like having your plans twisted about by fate.
This post is part of the Lonely Planet Bloggers’ carnival on encounters, hosted by Camden Luxford at The Brink of Something Else. Read the other carnival posts here.