Gate 24

Chapter One

"And for a whopping fifteen British pounds, you can buy a Happy Meal from McDonalds," the lady at the front of our bus - Rochelle, I think - announces. "Honestly, do not recommend that you buy food from here; wait until you've boarded the aircraft.

As the overheated bus pulls into the military airport of Dalaman, Turkey, the beautiful nine o'clock sunset is blocked off by dull, grey skyscraper-like buildings towering above the rural town we drive past. All that's on my mind is a cigarette - when will my next smoke break be?

As I'm about to raise my hand from the back of the bus, after wiping a trickle of sweat from my forehead, that is, Rochelle laughs out loud through the booing microphone she had been given. "For all of those wondering about smoking, Gate 24 is the only gate where smoking is permitted. Nowhere else tolerates smoking."

Someone in front of me, a short redheaded girl, shoots their hand into the air. "What are the rules for duty free stuff?" The accent indicates she's from up north; most residents from within the village were, with only three families from my flight ending up at the same hotel as me.

"For every person, one lighter - in your hand luggage - is permitted; no lighters are accepted in your suitcases," Rochelle answers, smiling. "Every over-eighteen can have two hundred cigarettes for themselves, no more are allowed per person." She then talks about tobacco and how much of the stuff you're allowed on board, but I zone out, not really caring for the rolled up stuff. All I want s a cigarette.

The bus pulls to a halt, revealing the departure arrivals door as we file off of the bus. Few Turkish men - suspicious looking compared to those handling my luggage after my arrival - surround the bus, hauling suitcases of various shapes and sizes out of the bus and onto the pavement the thirty of us wait on.

My suitcase, grey and rather small, is one of the first to reach the pavement; scrambling through children and the elderly, I reach the suitcase, fastened by the lime green band securely fastened around it. Pulling my aviators off, I step into the airport, with the loud suitcase dragging behind me. All around me, men and women in formal attire beckon tourists through scanners, ask us to leave suitcases and luggage on the conveyer belt slowly moving bags through some kind of scanner.

Choosing the one with the shortest queue, I read the signs as I pass. It asks me to remove belt, glasses, loose change, electronics and various other items - including my cigarette box and lighter - from my pockets. Placing it all in a tray, I let my bags and the various items from the depths of my pockets scan. Nothing suspicious or hazardous is found.

It soon becomes my turn to pass through the scanner. As I walk through the rectangular frame, nothing bleeps; surprisingly. In all honestly, I expected the metal detector to fire up as my face entered the scanner - I guess piercings don't seem to be a problem anymore. Then again, the last holiday I went on was six years ago...

"Passport."

The lady stood on the other side of the belt holds out her tanned arm, asking me for my identification. Handing her the red booklet, the booklet that means so much to any, every traveller, I refasten my belt, put my glasses onto my head, strap on my watch and refill my pockets before retrieving my luggage. Rucksack on my back, suitcase handle in hand and body redecorated in accessories, she smiles and hands back the red booklet.

The next stage is for me to get out my ticket, leave it in my hand with my passport and head over to the checking in desk. From the looks of it, anyone flying to Exeter can book in between gates nine and sixteen. Number eleven seems the shortest, so I pull up behind an older couple I recognise from the flight here; I think they sat behind me, if I remember correctly.

They turn to talk to me, ask about my resort and how it was, but I'm not one for conversation. My replies, usually a couple of syllables per answer, slowly become vague "yes" or "no" answers. All I want is a cigarette, god damn it.