The landing at night 'city airport in Larnaca, Cyprus, I remember it well. Stuff a few months before.
remember after escaping from the porthole of the slats and spoilers, with the airplane that had settled in the final along with small adjustments on the local ILS Localizer. I remember the sea, coastline, city lights, beautiful to die. I remember the touch that seemed far beyond the runway threshold and powerful braking with reverse trust, taxiing to the parking lot for a forest of long eternal connections. I remember smelling, even without being able to feel, the smell of the Middle East. I remember the tanker and supply ship that moved with a coolness that reminds you to be in the Middle East. And not in Stockholm or Frankfurt or Heathrow. In the Middle East.
Larnaca is a magnificent Mediterranean port Eastern Europe. People were passing by when the man has learned to ride here and there across the seas. How do you do when the Apennines as highway the highway to go south. But far more beautiful and romantic and clean, even.
We all remained seated in assigned seats, the technical stop lasted about half an hour. No cigarette. I'm the only little or passenger in civilian clothes, with flip-flops and faded jeans. The whole row of seats reserved for me. Few, very few clues reveal who I am and what I do. I stare, especially the bigwigs. No longer appears on their lists, I know. But nobody comes to ask for an explanation. They see the packages intended for the embassy from which I separate myself even to go pee. They will think that I am a fake beard, or the Intelligence Services. Cleverly, they leave me in peace.
Takeoff and after a few minutes of flight shows the coast of Lebanon and the lights of Beirut, bombed city.
Virata right on the sea, heading south.
Soon appears in the distance, blurred in the haze, Tel Aviv. I think of Syria, in Damascus, a city of enchantment, if ever, will visit one day. Not now, not recommended tourist destination, you can not. Then
Jerusalem. The town meeting. The city that everyone wants. That divides the city. The epicenter of the monotheistic religions. Prey to tear, the symbol must. For which to die. And kill. All children of the same God, all generated by the descendants of Abraham and Isaac. Before the Jews, then Christians of Jesus, then the followers of the Prophet Mohammed. For thousands of years go on like this, the eternal battle between more or less interspersed with brief silences weapons.
Silence in which stones sharpen swords, meditating revenge in the crucible of hatred that seethes and falls asleep. In the search
obtuse, spasmodic and blind of the roots of their reasons are unable to predict any future. Summary
widespread among pilots is that for which when you land, the section of track behind you does not count, you count the stroke is available. Nice metaphor, universal. A perspective for looking at things.
Thoughts I agree, then become round and images mormidamente short circuit, and I fall asleep.
When I open my eyes, beneath the plane is all black. I do not understand if we are between two layers of clouds.
Then there are lights that flicker, scattered in the dense black.
It 's the desert. There are oil wells.
It's three o'clock in the morning, local time, when the bow door of the 'A320 opens up a wall of hot air, moist and dense.
go down and look someone in the military police, of our people, give up some packages that need to reach the target, and discretely ask for advice and allowed the precious cargo stowed in the middle of my heavy backpack.
We gaped at and decide groped the easy way side from ass and customs.
I mingle with other people and I approach the immigration desk. The airport is half empty but the mustachioed policemen and customs officers are numerous and lying in wait for slack. There are also
policewomen in uniform sugar paper, grades sergeant, and the chador. All obese and stocky. The guy behind the glass
scans the passport, goes over all the pages one by one, check out the visa and where I went running, slowly. Is repeated in reverse. I
the calm, unsmiling and without showing nervousness, control gestures. I follow my suitcase and a backpack that disappear and reappear on the other side of the box the ultrasound. The guy throws the monitor looks distracted.
"Why visits to our country? "she asks without looking up Arabic." Businnes burdens and tourism as well ".
noise that leaves a red stamp on my passport.
" Welcome in the UAE, God bless you ".
before winning the release stop me two more times and I double checked the documents. Under the palms there is a white Toyota with whom I have come to take, backpack suitcase in the trunk and back seat with me.
Only the morning, when the metal detector gate of the Italian Embassy, \u200b\u200bbreathed a sigh of relief. commit S. Daniele ham (bone-less footprint grant to the ultrasound) friend of my friend who thanked me and extends a business card, for any casino were to happen to me. It 's a precious gesture.
Ham, prohibited goods. Pork, animal inedible. The import, use of Western, is granted only after a drawing that would give up too much patients.
import prohibited goods. I broke a rule. Severe as all the rules, however simple, that regulate this civilization.
Later, from Vienna, after having made a stopover in Qatar, I have dissected the luggage. I only had a Sacher Torte. Go well.
I go out on the path of flowers, the elegant and ordered the embassy district, traffic is absent, the very blue sky and not a living soul.
E 'Friday. Day of celebration and rest.
And 'their Sunday.
I'll get used soon.
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