I think that we can all agree that the airport is always a fairly priced opportunity to pick up a few last minute essentials . To avoid this, I work from a packing check list which has three things on it; socks, moisturiser and an ATM card.
This is why I live in constant fear of forgetting my passport.
We flew from Gatwick which is currently bidding for third runway status in a David and Goliath struggle with Heathrow. Gatwick has all the cards but Heathrow has all the Londoners. Common-sense should prevail but Gatwick's successful bid is bound to be a mysterious no show at the award ceremony, only to be found dazed and bleeding in a back alley dumpster, minutes after Heathrow scoops the prize by default.
Gatwick's main disadvantage is that its easier to swim to New York whilst lashed to an anvil than to get to the airport; and so our journey proved. We missed our bus due to the perils of a second pastry; the train was cancelled at Reading and the scheduled replacement unicorn service was late. In the end we made it by a whisker thanks to the benevolence of a passing hippogriff.
Once safely ensconced on a Norwegian Air Dreamliner to JFK, the painful memories of Gatwick's Tuna Nicoise (which arrived without the tuna) and Sausage Surprise (which arrived without any surprises) began to recede. The plane has so many gadgets that it is a wonder that it can get off the ground.
The windows dim; the cabin maintains the air pressure of a moderately flash penthouse; the lighting is so amazing that you begin to suspect that they have laced the air filters with LSD.
The only questionable surprise was Boeing's decision to dispense with the toilets. I swear the seat discreetly catheterised me shortly before take off and if true, this not only avoids the mid-flight meal time toilet trolley dodge but also brings the added benefit of fuel savings. Norwegian doesn't have to fly around storm clouds and I didn't have to tolerate the usual whimpering indignity of pretending I had spilled my Lambrusco during turbulence.
Since 9/11 all transatlantic flights reputedly carry an air marshal. I searched for the tin star without success and the passenger in seat 57, who looked suspiciously like Wesley Snipes, shifted uncomfortably when I asked to see his gun. Fortuitously, our neighbours smoked him out with some increasingly rowdy behaviour that initially had the air stewards, then the 2nd officer and finally the captain paying visits to row 36. I blame the LSD.
Wes strolled forward, did some jujitsu and the rest of the flight was peaceful.
Landing at JFK, clutching our ESTA, I had a feeling uncomfortably familiar to the departure check list anxiety, when there is no longer time to go back for the passport. The ESTA asks all kind of difficult questions over which it is easy for the unwary to stumble.
Had I previously committed acts of sabotage?
Yes, but only my career and past relationships.
Was I entering the country to commit acts of moral turpitude? The guidance notes helpfully suggested that this might include activities that are inherently base, vile and depraved. Its so hard to tell. Would I be OK if I planned to be base and depraved but not vile?
I turned to Google as the queue snaked slowly forward to the paunch with the gun. It was he who would determine whether I would be granted entry to the world's greatest democracy (ahem) or have to watch The Great Gatsby three more times while enduring 8 more hours of those crazy lights.
Did I plan wickedness, degeneracy, iniquity or sinfulness? The list went on at some length.
The answer to each was almost definitely probably; but what I planned to do in the privacy of Bloomingdales' ladies underwear section was surely my business?
Ultimately, I am the kind of person who hands back change when the teller makes a mistake and I do not have a poker face. If I told the truth, I was on a plane straight back to Gatwick. If I lied, paunch would see through me in an instant and escort me to be probed in the back room.
In the end, I needn't have worried. As it turns out, large swathes of America have succumbed to moral turpitude since my last visit, thanks to the Guy At The Top.
It seems hard to offend anyone nowadays.
This is why I live in constant fear of forgetting my passport.
We flew from Gatwick which is currently bidding for third runway status in a David and Goliath struggle with Heathrow. Gatwick has all the cards but Heathrow has all the Londoners. Common-sense should prevail but Gatwick's successful bid is bound to be a mysterious no show at the award ceremony, only to be found dazed and bleeding in a back alley dumpster, minutes after Heathrow scoops the prize by default.
Gatwick's main disadvantage is that its easier to swim to New York whilst lashed to an anvil than to get to the airport; and so our journey proved. We missed our bus due to the perils of a second pastry; the train was cancelled at Reading and the scheduled replacement unicorn service was late. In the end we made it by a whisker thanks to the benevolence of a passing hippogriff.
 |
| Worth missing a bus but not a plane. |
Once safely ensconced on a Norwegian Air Dreamliner to JFK, the painful memories of Gatwick's Tuna Nicoise (which arrived without the tuna) and Sausage Surprise (which arrived without any surprises) began to recede. The plane has so many gadgets that it is a wonder that it can get off the ground.
The windows dim; the cabin maintains the air pressure of a moderately flash penthouse; the lighting is so amazing that you begin to suspect that they have laced the air filters with LSD.
 |
| It is properly psychedelic! |
The only questionable surprise was Boeing's decision to dispense with the toilets. I swear the seat discreetly catheterised me shortly before take off and if true, this not only avoids the mid-flight meal time toilet trolley dodge but also brings the added benefit of fuel savings. Norwegian doesn't have to fly around storm clouds and I didn't have to tolerate the usual whimpering indignity of pretending I had spilled my Lambrusco during turbulence.
Since 9/11 all transatlantic flights reputedly carry an air marshal. I searched for the tin star without success and the passenger in seat 57, who looked suspiciously like Wesley Snipes, shifted uncomfortably when I asked to see his gun. Fortuitously, our neighbours smoked him out with some increasingly rowdy behaviour that initially had the air stewards, then the 2nd officer and finally the captain paying visits to row 36. I blame the LSD.
Wes strolled forward, did some jujitsu and the rest of the flight was peaceful.
Landing at JFK, clutching our ESTA, I had a feeling uncomfortably familiar to the departure check list anxiety, when there is no longer time to go back for the passport. The ESTA asks all kind of difficult questions over which it is easy for the unwary to stumble.
Had I previously committed acts of sabotage?
Yes, but only my career and past relationships.
Was I entering the country to commit acts of moral turpitude? The guidance notes helpfully suggested that this might include activities that are inherently base, vile and depraved. Its so hard to tell. Would I be OK if I planned to be base and depraved but not vile?
I turned to Google as the queue snaked slowly forward to the paunch with the gun. It was he who would determine whether I would be granted entry to the world's greatest democracy (ahem) or have to watch The Great Gatsby three more times while enduring 8 more hours of those crazy lights.
Did I plan wickedness, degeneracy, iniquity or sinfulness? The list went on at some length.
The answer to each was almost definitely probably; but what I planned to do in the privacy of Bloomingdales' ladies underwear section was surely my business?
Ultimately, I am the kind of person who hands back change when the teller makes a mistake and I do not have a poker face. If I told the truth, I was on a plane straight back to Gatwick. If I lied, paunch would see through me in an instant and escort me to be probed in the back room.
In the end, I needn't have worried. As it turns out, large swathes of America have succumbed to moral turpitude since my last visit, thanks to the Guy At The Top.
It seems hard to offend anyone nowadays.
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