I love travelling. Over the past couple of years I've travelled through Europe and South America careless of jet legs and time zones. I don't remember how many times I took the plane and I remember even less how many times the flight was on time. "We are waiting for the crew, the plane had some technical problem, the weather is very bad": airlines trying to keep passengers calm, passengers trying to kill time with books, crosswords, sudoku or just sleeping.
The first thing I do once at the airport, I check which area, and especially which queue is waiting for me at the check-in. After surviving the check-in and dropping baggages (kilos in excess included), I head towards my gate, so that I have some chances to find a seat.
After half an hour I double-check that I'm waiting in the right place and I find out that mine is not purely excess of zeal but real sixth sense: my gate is not A25 anymore but A67, which happens to be at the exact opposite side of the airport. Swearing in every language, I rush through the place, watching every screen to make sure the gate is still A67, every sign to make sure I'm taking the right direction and trying not to walk over children, bags, suitcases and trash bins.
I finally reach, breathless, the longed spot and I promise to myself that I would never take Ryanair again.