“Climate is what you expect, weather is what you get.” Robert A. Heinlein.

I love travelling. No. I hate travelling, but I love visiting places, exploring foreign countries, meeting new people, getting food poisoning from exotic cuisine, getting lost in strange cities, unable to communicate with the locals and being ripped off by souvenir shop assistants and taxi drivers. But getting there to experience all these wonderful adventures is another story…

New York experienced one of its worst snowstorms at the end of 2009, but I had to get to JFK airport at 8h30 to catch the 10h30 flight to Dubai. Blommie and I got up at 4h00 in the morning to get ready to fight the hazardous elements to the train station. It is not a glamorous sight watching a middle-aged woman teetering on a pair of stiletto boots dragging a suitcase in the snow. Luckily at that time in the morning the streets are empty and I could stumble and fall my way to the station with only the unabashed sound of Blommie’s impervious cachinnation.

At Grand Central we had to take another train to “Jamaica” station in order to catch the sky-train to JFK. Luckily Blommie is subway-smart and got us on the right train. If all went well, I would be in time for my flight.

No train.
Lots of people.

9h00. Slight panic.

A man in a uniform eventually announced that, because of the blizzard, the train was not coming. Not delayed! Cancelled! Panic. They would try to send buses to transport the hordes to the airport.

Major panic set in and hundreds of people rushed, pushed and shoved their way to the street to wait for the promised bus to arrive. In a crisis like this there is no mercy. It’s every one for himself and to hell with old people and babies.

Blommie took my suitcase, as doing anything athletic – like running for a bus - in stiletto boots is like doing a Shakespeare play in nipple caps and sequins in Arabic. Interesting, but not pretty. So we scrambled our way franticly to the street and waited.

9h30. No bus.

Someone in the crowd announced that most of the planes were cancelled because of the blizzard. Extreme panic from the crowd. On cue babies started to cry and people simultaneously started to talk on their cell phones. Blommie joined the radiation emitting crowd and tried to get hold of Emirates. I texted Belg Droller in Dubai: Blizzard! Screwed! Don’t open champagne.

10h00. My plane was leaving in half an hour. I was stuck in a snowstorm freezing my ass off.

10h30. My plane was departing without me.

I felt like an actor in a Greek tragedy. Everything was going wrong and my fate was in the hands of the gods. Will there be a murder or tragic death? Probably, as the natives were getting restless, implacable, inexorable, relentless and ruthless. Will I eventually rip out my eyes and stab myself with a brooch? No, I’m not wearing a brooch.

At last, at 10h45 a bus arrived and all of us clamoured towards it. Too many people. Too little bus. Blommie and I battled the crowds and eventually made it to the door, only to be told that the bus was full and we would have to wait for the next one. WHAT!! There WILL be a death and it was not going to be me…

I lunged towards the bus-assistant and grabbed her by the lapels of her uniform.
“No! My daughter and I are getting on to this bus even if we have to attach ourselves to the bumper! My plane has departed! I am freezing! I am wearing stilettos, my hair is a mess and I need to touch up my make-up! You WILL let us onto this bus. NOW!”

I vaguely remember her nervously mumbling something as I pushed her out of the way and rammed my way onto the bus.

Sardined and claustrophobic, all of us impatiently hoped that we will get to JFK without being snowbound as the bus driver tried to navigate the overcrowded bus through the blizzard.

11h25. We arrived at JFK only to be dumped somewhere in the parking lot. I needed to find Terminal 4.

“Blommie, I’m going to run and find the Emirates check-in! Bring my suitcase!” I screamed as I scampered and scrambled my way through the crowds, pushing people out of the way yelling: “EMIRATES CHECK IN! EMIRATES CHECK IN!”

Exhausted I arrived at the desolate Emirates line of check in counters. @#$%! Then I saw a woman in uniform at the First Class counter.

“Dubai… snow…flight…heels…check…in…”
“I’m sorry the doors are already closed. There has been a delay because of the blizzard, but they have not taken off yet.”
“Get me on that flight! NOW!”

Taking her time she made a call and typed something on the computer in front of her.
“They will allow you on board. Just show you ticket to the security. I have alerted them about you coming. Luggage?”

I looked around and spotted Blommie lugging my suitcase across the terminal.

“One suitcase.”

“There is a pile of luggage over there,” she said nonchalantly, “just throw it on there.”

“Blommie! Pile! Suitcases! Over there!” I shouted while running towards the security gate. And then I suddenly remembered that I have to say goodbye to the fruit of my loins. I pirouetted, changed direction and sprinted towards my beautiful daughter and kissed her hurriedly where she was depositing my suitcase onto the pile of luggage in the middle of the terminal floor, turned around again flailing towards the security gate.

As I reached the plane they were reopening the door to let me in and without breaking my stride I scrambled down the aisle only to find that there was a woman in a burkah sitting in my seat…

Committing a crime crossed my mind once again.

Orson Welles once said: “There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror.” Oh, come on, Orson!

“I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.” The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Belg Droller and I were invited by our good friend Marypoppins to perform at a 21st Birthday party she was throwing for her niece. The theme of the party was “Rocky Horror” and we had to perform numbers from the show. Because we love performing as much as we love our friend, we immediately agreed to do it.

And then reality bit us on our toned bums! This was a twenty-first birthday party. There would be twentysomethings – lots of them! We are, dare I say it: fiftysomethings.

What young, nubile twenty year old wants to see two aging performers strut their ancient booties at a party? It will be like watching your seventy year old grandmother do a pole dance.

Marypoppins insisted enthusiastically.

“My niece will love it and it will complement what I am doing with the party. Everyone’s dressing up. I made table and wall decorations. There will be fairy lights. There will be food and dancing...”

I sort of zoned out after I heard ‘fairy lights’, and visualised the deteriorating effects of our maturity camouflaged by the lighting effects.

We discussed the songs we were going to do and what costumes we were going to wear. But something was bothering me…

The afternoon of the party, Belg and I got together on Planet Gorgeous to get dressed in full Rocky Horror regalia. I got into character as Columbia and Belg as Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Belg was wearing the costume he used playing Frank-N-Furter on stage about fifteen years ago, but I had to improvise my costume.
Tiny black tight shorts. Check.
Sequined jacket. Check.
Bowler hat. Check.
Fishnet stockings. Of course.

Something was still niggling at my subconscious…

After about two hours of primping, preening, glueing, spraying, painting and slipping our half-a-century legs into fishnet stockings and creating another hole in the ozone layer with all the chemicals we used, we emerged unrecognizably gorgeous. Our confidence was growing. We both agreed that having no body fat and wearing lots of make-up, wigs and high heels we could pass as ageless showgirls and with the added bonus of enough cosmetic surgery between the two of us to make Joan Rivers malicious, our ages will be impossible to guess. In full costume and make-up Belg looked like his mother and I looked like the love child of Liza Minnelli and Riff Raff. But something was still not right…

As we left Planet Gorgeous it hit us right between the eyes. DAYLIGHT! We had to walk to the car, open the doors, get in and drive to the party venue before the sun has set.
Would we be seen by my neighbours?
Would passing cars crash into prefab walls?
Would children be run over by taxis?
Would we turn to dust?

I immediately pulled my bowler hat over my eyes and put on my sunglasses. Belg threw his velvet purple cloak Phantom-of-the-Opera-like over his head.
“Okay, go!” I shouted and we ran to his car as quickly as our platform shoes and thin ankles would allow.

Once inside the car other meagre problems surfaced. What do we do if the traffic light turns red and we are stuck between cars unable to make a dash for it if someone wants to beat us up for looking…well…like…p…different? What if we are caught by the traffic police for some arbitrary traffic violation and got locked up for looking like…well…t…unconventional? What if we are stuck in traffic on the highway and there is bus next to us…with tourists…with cameras…from Saudi Arabia?

“Belg”, I whispered after a while, as we were both crouching down under the dashboard of the car waiting for a pedestrian to pass, “one of us will have to drive.”
Belg peeked up though the steering wheel spokes: “I can’t. My wig is stuck on the indicator switch and my left heel is caught in the brake-pedal.”

So after about a minute of silence (we were both trying to figure out what to do next), I climbed out from under the dash and helped pry Belg loose from the clutches of the car. Belg fixed his wig and lipstick and reluctantly started the car. I got back under the dash. We were on our way…

As we sped along the highway I was worried that there might be a road block and we would be asked to step out of the car, spread our legs and be searched for concealed weapons. How do you hide an AK47 in a garter belt?

We arrived at the party unscathed and ready to perform. Haven’t we suffered enough for our art?