Tag Archives: London

Airport Gestapo #5

. . . . previously, I’d behaved rather badly, I’m told, at Heathrow Airport security and been x-rayed, questioned and generally humiliated at many points throughout the airport. I maintain I was just tired and a wee bit grumpy from a 5 a.m. start.

English: The Calgary Stampede midway, with dow...
English: The Calgary Stampede midway, with downtown and the Calgary Tower in the background. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ten hours after escaping the claws of the airport security reich and having been awake for 20 hours we were welcomed to Calgary – the home of the Calgary Stampede – by Cowboy Bob standing at the top of an escalator in his ten gallon hat, a pleasing change from Stalag Heathrow.

The immigration officer, rather worryingly dressed in a bullet proof vest, was abrupt but business-like wording his short questions for the sleep-deprived and only detaining us for a few seconds.

The Canadian customs officer actually had a sense of humor and commiserated with us for being tired and many time zones from our departure point at Heathrow. It was all going smoothly for two weary travelers and we were still in good spirits at that stage.

Walking tentatively, gazing around and pushing a wayward cart loaded with two weight limit suitcases and two well overweight carry-ons, we must have looked suitably befuddled for an obliging uniformed aide to come to our rescue. “What is your destination?”

Helpfully, it was the only question our addled brains could answer, “Seattle.”

“You need U.S. Customs. It’s upstairs,” and she gave a stewardess-type sweep of the hand to direct us. With new found determination, we strode through the indicated automatic doors, through a lobby, past some shops and found ourselves out on the street at the taxi rank.

“This isn’t right.”

“No, it isn’t.” Stating the obvious is often a delaying tactic while we pull ourselves together. We headed back for the automatic doors and stopped short as they closed in our face, with a big red NO ENTRY symbol staring back at us. With little mental stamina left to guide us, we doggedly retraced our steps out onto the street again.

“This isn’t right.” Tiredness was limiting our vocabulary.

So there we stood, two dunderheads, two experienced trans-Atlantic travelers, who have hopped from London to Baltimore, Seattle and Phoenix, changing planes in New York, Reykjavik, Denver, Paris, Detroit, Toronto, Washington D.C., Montreal, Chicago, Copenhagen, Boston and Vancouver – some of the busiest airports in the world – and yet we stood outside at the curb at Calgary Airport at a complete loss at how to proceed.

“Let’s go back to the doors. We’ll wait for someone to come out,then shoot back in before they close.”

“But they’re no entry.”

“What do you suggest? Take a taxi to Seattle from here?”

Like a couple of illegal immigrants (technically we were as we stood on the street not having cleared immigration in Canada) we waited for someone on the right side of the doors to come out so we could bound through them. That someone was a flight attendant we recognized from our flight. “Can I help you?” he asked in a blessedly non-menacing way as we trespassed.

He took us through some unmarked doors, along a secret passage, pointed out an elevator, indicated a point on the ceiling where U.S. Customs should be “I think,” and disappeared into his phalanx of fellow Canadians.

With U.S. Customs within range, you’d think we’d be home and dry. I hope you’d be wishing us well at this point, or at least for an end to a seemingly endless tale, but there were more calamites to come.

. . . . to be continued.

Not there yet. Only several more annoying hoops to jump through![seattle] (Photo credit: lempel_ziv)
Enhanced by Zemanta

More Bad Seat Karma

 Scene:           British Airway’s check in desk.

How to Survive a Long Haul Flight Cover
How to Survive a Long Haul Flight Cover (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

BA Rep:         Good morning. “Where are you traveling to today?” You’ve got our tickets in front of you. You should know.

Us:                   London.

BA Rep:         “I see you’ve changed your seat.”

Us:                   “Yes.” Seat?

BA Rep:         “You’re in 42K and 53J.”

Us:                   “No!” Huh?

BA Rep:         “You’ve only changed one seat.”

Us:                   “No we didn’t. We changed them both online to 53H and J.”

BA Rep:         “Let me see if 53H is available.” It had better be Buster.

Jimmy and I stared at each other no longer with anger, surprise or even exasperation but with resignation. Five long minutes passed. One of us was facing a nine-hour flight jammed up against the window, trapped in our seat by two strangers. 

BA Rep:         “You’re Lynn?”

Me:                  “No.”

BA Rep:         Puzzled.

Me:                  Puzzled.

BA Rep:         “Oh I see. There’s someone else on board with the same last name sitting in 42K. You’re sitting together in 53H and J.

Me:                  Standing on tiptoe to peer over the high counter and whispering to Jimmy, “It says that right there on our tickets.”

Jimmy:          “I know that. I booked them.”

Me:                  Standing six inches shorter than himself and back down on my heels, “I wish I had realized that sooner.”

Jimmy had been waiting patiently for the BA Rep to realize his mistake. I’d been imagining an attack of claustrophobia in my seat. Panic was the precursor to another trip.

My reward? After a long haul flight and jet lag followed by two straight days of driving through France – a melt-in-your-mouth croissant, sweet crêpes smaller than a saucer and as thin as your hankie and a perfectly brewed café au lait.

Cafe au lait
Cafe au lait (Photo credit: micamica)

Yes, my friends, we’re in France now looking for somewhere to live, as if 48 United States hadn’t enough to offer.

“I’ll probably die before we find somewhere.”

Don’t worry. that was just a comment on our indecisiveness, not Jimmy’s longevity.