To fly Heathrow to Buenos Aires costs a thousand pounds.
Nipping across to the continent and picking up a flight from Madrid is half the price. The official reason is that more people fly on the latter route as South America is a magnet for the Spanish speaking world and so the economies work better.
Nipping across to the continent and picking up a flight from Madrid is half the price. The official reason is that more people fly on the latter route as South America is a magnet for the Spanish speaking world and so the economies work better.
For my part, I would always prefer to fly on a dedicated route rather than a part time after thought even if it does mean trusting my life to the Spanish.
Europa flew us seamlessly from London to Madrid and after an eight hour stop over we crossed the tarmac to their gleaming new A320 that waited to carry us the thick end of 10,000 miles to Buenos Aires. What no one seemed to have considered was that there is nowhere to touch down between the two points in the event of trouble; that is, barring a wet landing in water deeper than our cruising altitude.
Air France tried this trick a couple of years ago and the evidence is still being dredged from the sea bed. So it was with a prickle of concern that I inspected the aircraft inside and out, before take-off.
Wings: Two - check.
Tail: One - check.
Pilots: Three – check.
Engines: Two … hang on just a second. Two engines for 10,000 miles! My brother’s Lexus has two engines and it doesn’t even leave the ground!
Or travel at 600mph!
“Surely there must be some mistake?” I asked the stewardess as she tightened the wrist restrains.
She shrugged as she reached behind me to add a couple of extra turns to the back-up elastic band.
Blessed with a window seat, I stared blankly at the top side of the wing, checking my numbers again and again. Definitely one engine on this side; I hoped that there was at least one on the other, but I wasn’t holding out much hope for more than that.
And then they fired up. Normally the hum increases to a roar before the throttles open wide and the tarmac is blasted off the surface of the runway as 100,000 lbs. of thrust propel the steel tube full of kerosene and holiday makers skyward.
Flight UX041 was having none of this. The engines whispered as we picked up speed, easily drowned out by the chirping of the Gameboy from the seat in front. Conversations ten rows forward filtered back as the creak of the straining super-structure, normally concealed from the ears of nervous passengers, quickened pulses all along the aisle.
Madrid receded below as we eased into the midnight sky and then the purring engines throttled back and we hung suspended in silence and blackness for the next thirteen hours, the only hint of progress being the periodic updates issued by the drop down screens.
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