A Little Story About Love - Google Translate
“Can anyone speak Spanish?”. It was a request from Pamela, the cabin manager to two hundred people via the tannoy. There were currently two engineers and two pilots squashed into the cockpit. We’d taxied to the runway, already one hour behind schedule, then quickly returned to the stand. There was a technical fault, the captain said. He had a slight mid-Ulster brogue, didn’t mess about with his words, apologised for the delay. “You wouldn’t want to fly on a broken plane,” he said. “If anyone has any questions, I’m happy to answer them”. I trusted him implicitly. Not everyone is willing to take questions. He’d explained we’d have to wait for the experts to get underneath and install a new computer. I channelled my inner calm. Nervous flyers try not to think about system restarts when they are in a metal tube up in the sky. I certainly wasn’t reassured by the need for a translator on the flight deck.
Pamela tried a slightly different approach. “If anyone can understand Spanish,” she said, “can you make yourself known, raise your hand?”. Her efficiency was impressive, she’d stuck on a bit of toast for the co-pilot, was replacing toilet paper regularly, we’d all had water. “Alice, you did GCSE Spanish,” said Lucy. As far as I was aware though, her oral hadn’t involved translating aviation terminology. “Daddy knows some words,” said Lydia, “una cerveza and la cuenta por favor¹”. Personally, I was quite proud of my new-found ability to ask for an ‘Americano con leche aparta’. I did not know how this separate milk would arrive - hot, cold, frothy, sometimes in a jug, occasionally in a glass, at least once in a teapot. I enjoyed the unpredictability of coffee on holiday.
There was a queue building up for the toilet, the tank needed filled up. “That’s why it wouldn’t flush for me,” said Ella. Someone was begging to get back out for a smoke. I’d been on Booking.com to check for hotels just in case the crew would soon exceed their flying hours. A woman cradling a tiny baby was pacing up and down the aisle. I’d noticed her earlier in departures. She was the earth mother I’d always yearned to be. She’d arrived armed with a Burger King, had distributed one chip at a time to an older boy and girl, made them say thank-you. They were dressed in cream linen. There was no tomato ketchup on them. I’d looked at my straggly teenagers and wondered if at least one was wearing the same t-shirt she’d arrived in eleven days ago. As my hero swayed her son in her arms, she revealed that her mother-in-law was Spanish so she might be able to help. I expected her to start interceding at the very front of the plane but it seemed, I’d jumped to an entirely unnecessary conclusion. There was not a communication breakdown re spare parts, rather, the man in 6A didn’t speak English. He was just wondering why we weren’t moving. It turned out abilities had been slightly under-played. A few fluent Spanish words later, he nodded gratefully and she returned to the rest of her family. I was in awe.
The ice was broken. The lady in 6B decided to get to know her neighbour better. There was certainly time to kill. 120 minutes had passed slowly on the tarmac. My fourteen-year-old thought it was hysterical to keep saying she’d spotted our luggage being taken off. I was starting to miss my regular afternoon ‘cooling-down, temperature in the forties’ beer and there was no likelihood of the trolley making its way up the aisle anytime soon. As we eventually took off above the high-rises of Malaga, the sun was setting. It was 1256 miles to Belfast. The man in 6A and the woman in 6B were chatting away. They were using Google translate. The Spanish man was travelling to see his wife. She was back in Derry. I reckoned living in different countries was an excellent idea for a successful marriage. I made a mental note. She would have a long wait to be reunited with him. Her bus from the Maiden City had arrived in to the International before we’d even become airborne. The lady in 6B had checked the timetable for him. It was unlikely they’d manage a return journey this evening. I hoped they didn’t have to camp out overnight on the terminal floor. But maybe that’s what love does.
I was coming home. I’d seen multiple Unesco World Heritage sites, crawled up a hill in dangerous heat to reach the Alhambra in Granada, spent hours on a guided tour in Cordoba failing to comprehend how the Mezquita had been both Christian and Muslim, how each had benefitted from the other’s architecture to build a cathedral-mosque which united their differences. I’d stood in the middle of a bullring in Seville, eaten innumerable patatas bravas and croquettes, wondered if Picasso was really an artist, slipped on many tiles, quenched my thirst with Sangria. I realised it never tasted the same twice, everyone had their own unique recipe but it didn’t really matter, it still served the same purpose. I’d embraced another place, far away, a different vibe. I’d stepped out briefly. While I’d been away, a bin had been arrested, bonfires had been lit, bands had marched, there were spats all over Twitter, the battle between the BBC and GB News had concluded, a traditional heritage had been celebrated in its own way because that is what we’ve always done even though no-one really understands why. As we descended through the clouds over County Antrim, approached the strange place I call home, the lights were on all over Belfast. It was beautiful, it was almost midnight. From above, it was impossible to see anything other than a peaceful city settling down for the night. I knew despite its confusion, its complexity, its cultural limitations of an Ulster fry, I would never live anywhere else. I listened to 6A and 6B, barriers had been overcome, 6B simply cared about how 6A would get home. There was warmth, a kindness, a hope, love. And all because of Google translate. It was good to be home to my people. “Can anyone speak Northern Irish?” I thought².
[1] A beer and the bill please!
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