Automatic landing

On seeing and not seeing

At the end of October, I travelled to northern Portugal to present a conference paper in the coastal town of Viana do Castelo. As we approached Porto the weather worsened, and as we began to descend the pilot made an announcement. He explained that due to the dense fog and total lack of visibility outside, it would be safer if he were to facilitate an automatic landing. He would now hand over control to the plane, and it would land itself. I’d never been on a plane that landed itself before. Looking out of the window the world was all blank grey cloud, and it was impossible to tell how far we had already descended, nor how much altitude we still had to lose. I felt a little panicked and tried to calm myself down with a breathing exercise. There was some light turbulence. The flight attendants were talking to each other in hushed voices, and this made me feel worse.

I turned my attention to the couple next to me. I was intrigued by them, as they were clearly romantically involved yet their conversation indicated they hardly knew each other. At one point they’d discussed a brief history of their mobile phone carriers over the years, and one said they’d changed contracts last year, and the other asked polite questions at this brand-new information. Halfway through the flight the woman took out an embroidery project and engaged in some careful cross-stitching, and the man asked what it was, and she explained it was a Christmas gift for a niece or nephew, I can’t remember which, and he was fascinated by its complexity, her deft handling of the needle, and perhaps also the existence of her niece or nephew. They were in physical contact almost constantly, hands on knees, a head on a shoulder, fingers intertwined. I wondered how they’d met.

During our turbulent automatic landing this couple were extremely calm. The woman continued to stitch. I swallowed and noticed my hands were gripping each other tightly. I thought about my daughter, about hugging her goodbye that morning at nursery and how she’d clung on tighter than usual, her tiny arms around my neck. The woman said something to the man, something along the lines of how this always happens in Porto at this time of year, and he nodded, and as their conversation continued I understood that they did this flight frequently, which furthered my intrigue at their connection. It was starting to seem like they were colleagues, perhaps based in one office but regularly travelling to another. Perhaps the romance was illicit, and the flight was their only opportunity to chastely canoodle.

The ground appeared abruptly and we bumped to a halt. It was an uneventful landing after all. I ended up tailing the couple off the plane, walking a couple of feet behind them as we made our way to passport control. We were separated in the queue but briefly reunited afterwards, and I noticed the efficient confidence with which they navigated the familiar airport, following invisible desire-lines which shaved off corners and saved seconds. They were headed for the metro and I wasn’t, so I said a silent goodbye. I boarded a bus into the city, and as it trundled its way south along the seafront I was aware of the presence of what may have been a beautiful view, held at one remove by more velvet grey cloud blanketing the coast. I arrived at my guesthouse a little sweaty and flustered. It was very mild and humid.

Dense cloud

That evening I attended a fado concert and then ate a lot of quite rare steak in a small restaurant nearby. It was relaxed and friendly in the restaurant, but I couldn’t help but notice after ordering that nearly every other table was occupied by very young couples, either in their late teens or early twenties. I counted four couples, plus me. The couple directly to my right were speaking in English and it was impossible not to eavesdrop. I guessed a first date because of their nervousness and the odd performativity of each sentence they spoke, which seemed designed to demonstrate some kind of personal characteristic rather than convey any information relevant to the conversation or ask a question of the other. I am nonchalant, or, I am creative, or, mainly, I don’t care about the fact that I am very beautiful and cool. I read my book, sipped my wine, ate my steak which was cool to the touch in the centre. I imagined or remembered being that couple, or a version of them, and wondered at that effortful nonchalance and all the eager enthusiasm it was obscuring.

Later, in my room, I opened the balcony windows and let the mild storm gust in. I drank a decaf espresso, read my novel, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

One of so many beautiful staircases