It had begun.
As soon as I stepped on the plane it started to envelop
me. The phobia was slowly rising from that deep, dark acidic pit in your stomach,
through all my veins and arteries and straight to those nerve ends. Do you know how
I feel?
But it was not claustrophobia or even agoraphobia or even
the phobia that associates itself with the fear of flying, whatever that is called, but a
certain type of xenophobia that exists in every English person. Some Anglophiles,
probably most of us actually, harbour a dissatisfaction with the French. Others, the
Germans, but with me it is....Americans.
I dislike their defecation of the Queen's English, their
insular arrogance and their made up Christian names but I had to put that all behind me as
the purpose of my trip was to suss out the suburbs of Chicago in order to find a place to
live. Yes, I was going to live in the good old US of A. So with that in
mind, I cleared all thoughts of prejudice and how the facts had been changed in the
film Saving Private Ryan in order to make it look like the Americans won World War II by
themselves, and preceded on my way to the airport.
Oh, dear Old Blighty. The day started bright and
sunny. Unusual for early June but I had to get a mention in about the weather
seeing as though I know you all wanted to know because that is all the British talk
about. Oh dear, was that a typical stereotype? Don't worry this story is full of
them! Anyway, where was I? Oh yes.......Stuck in traffic on the M42, right in
the middle of the second set of roadworks which had suddenly sprung up as they always do
when BST (British Summer Time) is put in force. You know, I think roadworks must be
organic. Similar to a hardy perennial. They do nothing all Winter. The
occasional crash barrier repair but generally everything stays nicely pruned and cut back
and then as soon as the clocks go forward, its a jungle out there!! I just want to
know what all those road workers do during the Winter??
Road rage started to kick in when a normal 40 minute journey
suddenly became 75 minutes long and I was having to battle with a man in a Micra
that I can only describe as 'mucus' coloured. The car I mean, not the man. He
was just your average, daft male driving a woman's car. Eventually I got to the car
park only to dawdle behind every lazy person that existed who were searching for that
elusive car parking spot that was right next door to the terminal. As you can see
the road rage had not yet subsided. I, like any sane person went further afield
where there was plenty of space to park and was right next to a bus stop. Pure
intelligence. I arrived at check-in in plenty of time only to spend the next 30
minutes being interrogated by the FBI who were cunningly disguised as Australians, who in
turn, were posing as American Airlines staff. Now Australians I have no problem
with. Excellent sense of humour, big Sports fans and big beer drinkers. Sound
familiar? Well I suppose they are descendants of the mighty British Empire.
Now I think the American Airlines boys had been to the
school of Used Car Salesman. After every question that I answered with the
slightest hesitation, he was off to confer with his supervisor and then return to say
"The best we can do is $150 off your old car!"
Of course being part of a nation whose staple diet is
sarcasm its very difficult to answer the security questions seriously.
"Who packed your bags today Madam?"
"My Lady in Waiting did it with a little help from my
butler for the heavier items."
"And where were they packed, Madam?"
"At Harrods, after my personal shopper had selected my
holiday trousseau."
"Have you any electrical or battery operated items
with you today?"
"Yes. My Walkman, Palm Pilot, laptop computer, 35mm
camera, digital video camera and spare APS camera. My hairdryer, curling tongs, hair
straighteners and crimpers, epilator, CD Walkman and portable DVD player."
Luckily I resisted the temptation and once safely
ensconced in the departure lounge, I went in search of reading material for the long
8 and a half hour flight. Being a shopaholic, it was very tempting not to buy the
whole stand. All of a sudden 'Angela's Ashes' became a potentially interesting read.
Although I had brought 2 books with me I didn't believe they would occupy me
through the void which was to be my flight to Chicago. I pondered on a Maeve Binchy
novel but then realised I had all her books already. And then I spied Terry
Pratchett. Excellent stuff, but I already had one of his books in my bag.
"Can't get a new one until this one's finished." A golden rule I had adopted.
Worked very well with men!
After deciding on a newspaper - it would be the last time I
read anything serious about Britain for the next 6 days. But then again the general
election is taking place tomorrow.
I then spied a book with a word in that immediately grabbed
my attention. No it was not 'sex' although that would work if the words Val Kilmer or
Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen were in close proximity! No, the word was 'North.' Now
if you want to know where I got my xenophobia from its probably got a lot to do with
my upbringing and more importantly where I was brought up. I am a
Yorkshire lass, born and bred and I am therefore part of the proudest family of
people in the World. Yorkshire is God's Own County and is not only the largest
county in England but also the most beautiful and most friendly. Ee I could wax
lyrical all day!
We don't suffer fools gladly in Yorkshire. Need I explain
anymore!
So, I spied this book called 'Up North'. The
latest in travel writing books that suddenly seemed to hog the bookshelves these days.
Not since the days of the classic 'Notes From A Small Island' had so many people
jumped on the bandwagon. Now I know Bill Bryson is American but he is also an
honorary Yorkshireman. He made his home there for over 20 years and does nothing but
sing its praises. You see, I'm not prejudiced against every American.....just every
thing American!
The book I chose is written by a Southern Nancy who thought
he would see what life is like north of Watford Gap. After reading the first chapter
on his rantings about Birmingham which is about as north as the Equator is, I
thought I could do some of that. So here we are, in 29C, in the middle of
'coach', watching a Japanese film - a dubbed film at that. Dubbed in English, although I
could listen to it on the Spanish channel.
I kept an open and calm mind when I stepped on the
plane. After all, my last long haul flight was to Thailand, the land of smiles and
Buddhism. Calm was good. I found my seat and found also that my neighbours
were satisfactory. For one, they were British which meant I wouldn't be
engaged in boring conversations and also they were of average size and wouldn't be trying
to share my seat too.
I arranged my supplies.
Book and personal stereo - For when a rubbish film
came on or worse, an American sitcom!
Bottle of water and aspirin - To ward off the onset of
DVT or Economy Class Syndrome.
Sweets - to annoy people with the crackly wrappers when the
film was on or maybe also for aiding the ear popping procedure which can also be done
equally as well by holding your nose and blowing or sticking your finger in your ears and
yawning. Then again, the sweets idea is a lot less conspicuous and humiliating.
Listening to the jolly banter of the Captain over the
tannoy, I thought, "What lovely, happy and friendly people the Americans are."
My thoughts turned to my last flight to Chicago and knew
this one was going to be better.
I last flew to Chicago about 3 years ago. My husband,
as is now, was then my boyfriend of 10 months and working in the Windy City. I had
a sudden desperate urge to go out and see him. (Its a woman thing!) The only
flight I could get was with Sabena the Belgian national airline. Fair enough, I have
no problem with the Belgians. The problem was I had to fly from Manchester to
Chicago via Brussels. But then not only did I have an extra 4 hours added onto
my journey time but I had to spend all that time listening to Belgian music on the
audio system and watching old films dubbed in Belgian. Long live American Airlines!
Now, they say the British don't complain enough.
Whoever coined that phrase needs shooting! I worked as a Customer Service Manager
for 4 years and that's all the British did! I would probably rephrase the
phrase to say that 'the British don't complain enough to the right people!' We
complain all the time. No wonder we are known as the 'whinging poms' by our convict
descendants. Now I could complain about the standard of service I received to people
it matters most to i.e. American Airlines. Or...I could whinge about my
experience to you.
Well, let's start with the aircraft - a Boeing 767.
Lovely plane. Can't complain that much......Lovely, if you are on a 2 hour charter
flight to Majorca, but 8½ hours of hell to Chicago?! The first 2 cabins were
converted into First and Business classes that us poor or frugal passengers were
deliberately dragged through before we got to the cheap seats. The thing is a 767 is
made for passengers who can do nothing but sit for a few hours mainly because they had one
too many pints at the airport bar during the 6 hour delay and are incapable of
stretching their legs unless they have to siphon off that beer in the toilets. Its
not for normal people who want to stretch their limbs and thump their gluteus maximus just
to make sure it hasn't disappeared because the feeling in it has long gone. We
should be free, not contained like caged animals. Slavery has been abolished , I can
vote, I am my own person and travelling to the land of the free! What I'm
trying to say is there isn't any room on a 767 to move around. At least in a jumbo
you can congregate around the toilets without getting in the way of a trolley or air
hostess. Sorry, I mean flight attendant.
I think also I have been spoilt. Now
I'm not one to sing Britain's praises as you know, but the best airline I have flown
with is British Airways. I know I'm not an expert, but due to my recent job and love
of travel, I have flown quite a few times. Now, service in the air has changed
a lot since I first flew and also once you have flown scheduled flights you will never go
back to charter flights again. Recently, I flew quite often to Ireland both
south and north. 4 different airlines competed for my money but I always chose
BA where possible because of their breakfasts. The meals provided can say a
lot about an airline. You see, the flight to Ireland is only 1 hour but with BA you
get a fully cooked breakfast - scrambled egg, sausage, bacon and beans plus orange juice
and tea or coffee. But with British Midland you get a measly croissant and a cup of
tea and on Aer Lingus its a tiny muffin. And as for British European just remember
to eat before you get on the plane. So what could I deduce from the American
Airlines meals. Although I hate to admit it the food was very good. Well
they are a member of the One World alliance with BA. There was a choice between
chicken or salmon. Not having a good track record with salmon I opted for the
chicken. Nice, all white meat with sweetcorn mash, broccoli and carrots. There was a
small salad to start and chocolate mousse to wash it down - Lovely!
We were plied with drinks to start with. I was
surprised to find I had the choice of Diet Coke OR Diet Pepsi (sorry about the
product placement there, folks!). It was like taking the Pepsi taste challenge!
They came around again immediately after serving the first round of drinks and then
immediately served the meal. They then came around twice with tea or coffee.
But then that was it until an hour before the flight landed when they served a light snack
of pizza. Very nice, but have these people never heard of DVT. On BA they were
constantly walking around with glasses of water and encouraging you to get up and walk
around. On this plane the seat belt lights must not have been working properly as
they were constantly on. And have you noticed how the plane always hits turbulence
when your meal is being served or you have just eased yourself into one of the aeroplane
toilets?
Once the meal was served and all the debris collected -
that's all the attendants did as they seemed to be obsessed with collecting your rubbish -
that's the last we saw of them. There is one thing to be said about American
Airlines recruitment policy - they are definitely not ageist! the majority of the
female attendants were my Mother's age. The men were obviously gay but then that is
the norm on any airline. but the women not only were the same age as my Mother but
they acted like my Mother too. i.e. they treated the passengers like children. They
were constantly telling people off for standing in the aisles or refusing to serve people
if it wasn't convenient for them. God help you if you pressed your little attendant
button by accident. It was like being back at school. So I made sure I
was well behaved otherwise I got the distinct impression they may have me deported
before I even got into the country.
Anyway, the 8¼ hour flight flew by, if you pardon the pun, mainly because I was
writing these recollections and I hurried off the plane in order to be the first in the
queue at immigration.
The immigration hall was like a social security office. Throngs of people hoping
that they had filled out their forms correctly so that they wouldn't have to shamefully go
to the back of the queue or even worse be taken off for interrogation. You were not
to step across the red line until you were called. And when I say called, I
mean you had to look for the slightest eye contact or nod which you may take as a summons
to come forward. Again, you went through interrogation.
"Why are you here? When are you leaving? Where are you staying?"
I answered all my questions correctly and so was free to collect my luggage.
This I did and hurried to the exit where I would be welcomed into the open arms of my
husband who would be patiently waiting after getting off his flight from Montreal an hour
earlier. But no, he was not there. I waited a while and then decided to
ask at the information desk about his flight.
" Hello. My husband was due in at Terminal 3 form Montreal. Can you
tell me if his plane has been delayed or not?" I asked.
"This isn't Terminal 3, this is Terminal 5" was her reply.
This was to be my first encounter in the unique American art of completely not
listening to anything you say.
"I know this is Terminal 5 I am asking for information about a flight
arriving at Terminal 3."
"Oh, we only have information on flights into this terminal. You'll have to ring the
1-800 number"
So off I went to the payphone and rang the number she had eventually given me.
But the automated voice system had to give up on me because it couldn't understand my
accent. After the fourth time of asking "Is this correct?" and me exasperatingly
saying "NO!" it put me through to a human being who told me that Kevin's flight
had been delayed for 3 hours. So I sauntered over to Terminal 3 via the
monorail. Chicago O'Hare is a very large airport. And waited at the baggage
carousel, hoping that Kevin had checked his luggage in. Otherwise, there was nowhere
else to meet. American airports are totally different to European airports in the
fact that you can meet somebody straight off the plane at the gate instead of a secure
arrivals area. So any Tom, Dick or Harry can use the Duty Free!
Eventually Kevin and I met up and we took a cab to the Ambassador West hotel which was
to be my home for the next week whilst we found a more permanent abode.
My American Adventure had just begun.
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