A ground.
There was flown yesterday, can not fly today, maybe not fly tomorrow.
Grey, impalpable and ominous, gray cloud of volcanic ash hovering over our heads, perfectly located between 6,000 and 10,000 meters, on the highways of the sky.
Edinburgh airport is completely paralyzed.
Its inhabitants are provisional in a surreal limbo, waiting for some Viking ancestral deity decides to appease the fury of the volcano.
I decide to take a ride on the track to check the reactors of my aircraft are properly covered and sealed. Hopefully tomorrow afternoon we will leave for Copenhagen.
way back to the terminal I am intrigued by a quiet airport operator absorbed in reading Metro Edinburgh.
Through the deserted runway while taxiing and join him, with his harsh Scottish accent, to himself mutters incomprehensible words: "... Efiathal Eiaflatakut ... "
He stops, sighs, past stubby hand on the milky already sunburnt face and looks at me looking for help.
"How the hell you pronounce it?" He asks, pointing to a leaf spot.
Eyjafjallajökull , the unpronounceable Icelandic volcano through which we are talking at the point where you normally run the huge wheels of the jetliner.
I smile, give him a pat on the back and look at the sky behind him, heading north.
It is said that the slightest flutter of a butterfly is capable of causing a hurricane halfway around the world.
So I am to observe that in the end, the unpredictability can be fascinating.
I do not think the same way the President, but so be it.
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