….in girl-mode. Taking the opportunity to visit a Pride Event in another country felt a little daring but… well, if you’re not living life on the edge, you’re taking up too much space, right?
Liquids and gels
With the best will in the world, I cannot contemplate trying to take make-up through in hand-luggage. Which of the items count as “liquids or gels”? Pressed powder, surely not. But some which look like pressed powder are not, and the intrusive x-ray eyes will show them up. Mascara, liquid, yes. Lipstick & lip gel, gels, yes (bit of a clue in the name, although a “gel” pen does NOT count – go figure). But what about the lip pencils? An absolute nightmare, and one which I’d have to navigate in boy-mode. That’s non mercie!
Hold That Thought
So, I made sure that hold luggage was booked, simple.
Throw in the make-up that I actually use. Plus nails & lashes & associated gubbins, glues etc. Plus a few wigs. It’s a several days of events after all. Just a few pairs of boots & shoes. OK, seven. But come on that’s hardly any!
A few dresses. OK, twelve. But that’s seriously the barest minimum; it’s for several days and sometimes you don’t know what will be suitable until the last minute. It depends upon the atmosphere. Literally, as in weather, and figuratively, as in the vibe. So twelve feels minimal and borderline miserly. I weigh the suit-carrier containing them and they add up to 4.7Kg; yikes I didn’t even think to weigh the boots & shoes. The weight budget is in danger.
Throw in some stockings and underwear. Leave the non-face depilatory items behind; it’s only for a few days, and all done recently. But put in the wet-shaving equipment for a close shave and the electric razor because that wretched face hair just keeps growing, ½mm per day. Toothbrush, chargers, toothpaste, deodorant, solvents, hairspray, skin care items, essential brushes. Make-up mirror.
Look, I know it sounds like I’m taking the kitchen sink, but lacking any one of these items could be disastrous.
Take the mirror. It is rare to find a hotel room or apartment with a mirror at the right height that I can sit in front of, up close enough to see, with sufficient light. Experts might be able to do makeup standing up, but I am far from expert.
Plus I need the reversibility, with both a 1x and a 5x magnification, and both sides ringed by a light to help one actually see what one is doing. Remember the issue with glasses? Well this is one of the workarounds. So the mirror comes. End of. It’s only 330g, a mere ⅓Kg.
The case is worryingly full as I do it up. And worryingly heavy as I try to move it. The bathroom scales confirm 29.5Kg. Ouch. But under the limit of the weight allowed so ok!
This means no complex stuff needs to go into the hand luggage. I throw in a few boy-mode clothes. Plus all the wires and other technology into the hand luggage and check; we’re under the limit for the hand luggage. Only just, but enough.
I’m worried I won’t have enough socks/undies/whatever. So I re-read my accommodation booking, and the apartment has a washing machine. Phew.
With a sudden sense of horror, I realise that I have a future trip booked for longer (12 days), and that on those flights the limit for the hold luggage is Easyjet’s 23Kg instead of Wizz’s 32Kg. That means I have to put 6.5Kg less into the hold suitcase next time. Damn. I will have to add a second cabin bag at the very least because it will have to go somewhere and there will be more of it, not less, for a longer trip. Maybe, just maybe, I will jettison the boy-mode clothes for that trip and save a little weight that way. I’ve never banished boy-mode for such a length of time, but why not?
That is a problem for dealing with upon my return; I’m on my way for my first excursion now, and there is plenty of time after I return in which to sort out the next one.
Humiliation Is Good For The Soul. Apparently.
I’ll skip over the whole airport security humiliation experience; it’s the same for all of us after all. Unless you are disabled, or of an anxious nature. Or profiled because of race, or what you are wearing. I recall a cartoon showing people queueing for airport security wearing nothing but fig leaves, and someone reading a newspaper with the headline “Fig Leaf Aeroplane Bomb Plot Discovered”. Let’s face it, we’re not far from that already with the millimetre-wave scanners which pretty much reveal whether one is circumcised or not. So let’s draw a veil over that entirely tedious & humiliating part.
Can’t keep my mind from the circling sky / Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I
Pink Floyd, Learning To Fly
The flight itself is relatively mundane after the preceding torment. A positive oasis of calm, but a rather dehydrating one – which is terrible for one’s skin, I should point out. The flight attendants glide around effortlessly in their beautifully shaped clothes which I observe with jealous resignation. When one’s waist and hips have the same measurement, it makes it very difficult to get feminine clothes which fit. Years of sedentary work have left me with some weight to shed, and for many years I’ve been too busy either surviving or recovering from DV (a singularly unpleasant experience to recover from). But now that I have incentive to lose it, it is gradually coming off which is no bad thing.
Papers Please!
Immigration/Border Control makes the outbound security checks seem positively friendly and jovial in comparison. The officers have been trained to such an extent that they can stare at you without blinking for minutes at a time. The concept of presumption of innocence is one of which they are dimly aware, but do not accept nor implement. Sometimes they ask “Why are you here?” or “What are you doing in {this country}?”. They have NO sense of humour; if there were any traces of one during training, it has long since been surgically removed.
“I’m here to dress mostly like a girl until I fly back”, is truthful, but likely to be interpreted as a joke, or subversive, or both – neither of which enhance one’s chances of passing muster at this point. “I’m here for a holiday” I reply instead. This is true, of course, but not the whole truth really and The Eyes drill mercilessly into my very soul for what feels like about a week but is really just a few more seconds. Then the officer breaks eye contact and types a short essay, no more than a thousand words or so, into his shiny terminal. He manages to give the distinct impression of ticking various boxes – no doubt “subversive”, “joker”, “dangerous”, “not to be trusted”, and “let him in but watch him like a hawk” amongst them. Then, finally, I’m sent on my merry way, sweating profusely.
You Spin Me Right Round Baby Right Round
Dead or Alive
Baggage reclaim is the next Olympic sport in the decathlon of travel. As a seasoned, battle-hardened traveller in boy-mode I’m used to defensive packing. Wake up in London, go to bed in New York… with luggage somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I’ve learned the hard way to ensure that I have the basic minimum of clothing in my hand luggage. Doing a customer presentation in the casual clothes one travelled in is not an experience to treasure, nor one I wish to repeat.
This simply isn’t possible here because girl-mode is so complicated. Thus the whole trip hangs by a thread as I wait to play Reclaim Bingo and discover whether or not my suitcase made it onto the aeroplane, whether or not it made it with its contents, and how much G-force it has been subjected to even if it did make it. It is for good reason that Baggage Handlers are colloquially know as Throwers. I try to pack to allow for a 3G acceleration within the case (that is, excluding the impact absorption of the case shell itself), having once had a decently strong glass bottle mysteriously smash within a case.
The carousel groans into action, having clearly seen better days. And better decades. Luggage spews forth and begins to pirouette lugubriously around the belt. Lucky winners pounce on their identical-looking cases, sometimes even getting the correct one if they’re really lucky. After a few minutes, the carousel comes to a shuddering halt. Presumably, we hope, awaiting the next delivery of cases since it is now empty and at least half of the players are, like me, still waiting. Several people rest small items they are carrying on the belt, which seems unwise at the very least but provides potential for amusement. Time elapses; an amount of time which has clearly been carefully calculated to the second to evoke the maximum levels of anxiety amongst the remaining passengers.
A buzzer sounds. The carousel is about to restart. I watch with incredulity as those resting items on the belt don’t lift them off. The belt starts, eight people almost fall over. Another large bolus of luggage oozes onto the belt. Finally, just at the moment of maximum despair, I spot my gargantuan case trundling towards me. Phew!
Finally, out of the airport. But I must remember to sort out the baggage allowance for my future 12-day trip… twice as many boots and twice as many dresses will be needed at a minimum…
Sophie Baskerville 