Experienced travellers write often of perilous journeys to foreign climes but one thing I’ve noticed is they rarely comment on how you really feel when you arrive. 

The white cloud that fills your head; the memory wipe-out that means you can’t remember your name when filling in the immigration form. You walk into supermarkets and suddenly don’t know what you like to eat, what you’ve ever liked to eat; you read “aching” instead of “arching” in guide-book descriptions of vaulted ceilings. I suppose at least I’m managing to read guide-books. 

(My friend John, whose house we are staying in, says he has the white cloud feeling all the time).

But perhaps those experienced travellers didn’t fly with Mexicana.   Then they’d really know about peril.  Then they might understand the white cloud in my head.

We had the journey from hell.  I’m not going to write much about it now, because I’m waiting to see how Mexicana Airlines are going to handle my official complaint and subsequent expenses, and also, more importantly, I’m not back home yet.  What if it was all a message from some higher power?  I’m not saying the whole world revolves around me, but when it takes five attempts and three days in airports to get somewhere you do start to think someone is trying to tell you something.  Like: DON’T TAKE THIS TRIP!

I have to hurry, everyone is waiting for me.  But I will say this: real Mexicans do sing La Bamba.  At 3.30am our neighbours woke us with a perfectly in-tune rendition of the classic song.  And to think I thought it was just for tourists.