The WWWT Flies the Atlantic on August 10, 2006
by: Pauline E. Abbott
On 9 August I went to bed secure in the knowledge that my suitcase was efficiently packed, my carry-on luggage contained the bare essentials for my flight, my travel documents were in order, my seat was confirmed, and the next day I would fly back across the Atlantic to rejoin my husband in our California home. We had spent a couple of months in England, he had returned two weeks earlier, and I had stayed on for a little more family time.
The first hint that all would not go as smoothly as planned came early next morning when the phone rang as I was in the shower. Clutching a fluffy pink towel about my person, I dripped my way back to the bedroom. The caller was my niece, Rachel.
`Have you watched the news this morning?’ I had not.
`Well, I think you’d better turn on the TV. There’s a terrorist alert.’ With my free hand I located the remote, and watched the chaos on the screen as she continued. In careful tones from Rachel, interrupted with news flashes from the media warning of a dire plot to perpetrate death, destruction and mass murder, I learned of the arrest of `some, not all’ members of a terrorist cell who had chosen today to destroy between ten to twenty transatlantic planes using a mixture of explosive hair gel and a spark generated by an I-Pod. (The exact combination of these lethal forces varied, but that was the gist of it.) Airports across the world were therefore in chaos as massive security measures were hastily put in place. Heathrow Airport, where I was due in about three hours, was said to be gridlocked, with all planes subject to delay, and many flights cancelled.
Thanking Rachel for her warnings and concern, I dressed as I watched the news unfold, and was soon joined by my sister, Alison, who had been due to drive me to Luton to catch the shuttle bus to Heathrow. We combined our talents of common sense (hers) and flexibility (mine) to consider alternative plans, but were each unfortunately caught in the maelstrom of conflicting news and advice.
`Do NOT go near any airport today unless you absolutely have to,’ was British Airways’ advice.
`Use only public transport to approach airports – roads are blocked in all directions,’ said the BBC.
`You can’t even get into the terminals,’ said an airport spokesman. `No airline is flying into Heathrow – there’ll be no planes available to get passengers away – seething hordes … frayed tempers … death by terrorist bomb, mass suffocation, failing supplies … end of civilization as we know it …’
`Passengers are responding good-humouredly to increased security measures. Searches are taking longer, and hand luggage is being reduced to a few items in a see-through plastic bag,’ reported a journalist on the scene.
`Call your airline,’ recommended the British Airport Authority. `The situation is being constantly reassessed.’
I called American Airlines. `Crisis? Is there a crisis?’ responded a laid back young American voice. `Oh, I see … yes. Messages are coming through, but we don’t really know what’s happening.’
I asked about my specific flight. `Yeah, that’s running,’ he replied. `Might be a bit late,’ he confessed. `OK, I’ve just had a message to say we’ll waive the transfer fee if anyone wants to change their plans today.’
`Well, should I?’ I asked. `When could you get me on an alternative flight?’
`I have a couple of seats next Tuesday … would you take a non-direct flight?’
Information, much of it contradictory, was coming thick and fast, and within an hour I made many irrational decisions, many of these also contradictory. I instinctively guessed this situation wouldn’t be over by Tuesday, and told the young man I’d stick with my present arrangements. Along with all the information flow, Alison and I were rearranging, then restoring, my carefully packed luggage. News of blocked roads inclined us to think maybe I should travel to London by train, then to Heathrow by underground. This involves many stairways, so we ripped apart my larger suitcase and chose fewer items to repack in a smaller one that I could carry up and down stairs. Major decisions about life’s essential components were made in frenetic seconds. As we heard NO hand luggage was to be allowed, my possessions were again re-evaluated, and into my smallest purse I put flight essentials like, passport and tickets, money and credit cards, a book, crosswords, reading glasses, comb and lipstick, travel toothbrush and toothpaste, camera. (No hair gel, no I-Pod, you notice – I possess neither.) I wrapped my lap-top in a towel and put it in a sub-bag inside my checked bag.
I called the shuttle bus company, hoping to check road conditions. They were still running shuttles, though their schedule was delayed. `Just catch an earlier bus?’ suggested a young lady from the comfort of her office. Her indifference, obviously springing from ignorance, actually increased my confidence. Surely, if schedules were that dire, she’d have been given some reassuring message to pass on?
Making yet another irrational decision in less seconds than it merited – Alison and I would have to leave now – we decided to risk the bus, and if it didn’t get there, I’d take that as a message from the universe not to fly. I’m SO flexible.
`Well, if you’re taking the bus anyway, you might as well take the bigger case with the stuff you wanted,’ pointed out Alison, with deep common sense. So, we ripped apart the small case and restored most of my goods to the larger one – in slightly less good order than they had rested there originally. Also, I made a couple of exceptions. I had NEVER entrusted to checked luggage my diamond jewelry, nor Barnaby the Bear, who really belongs to my sister’s kindergarten class, but travels the world with me to send back news and pictures of his adventures. These items I now left in my sister’s safekeeping, less from fear they might perish with me in mid-Atlantic, bur more out of a very reasonable possibility that in this much chaos my luggage could easily get lost. And how could I explain losing Barnaby to twenty tearful kindergartners?
Alison and I set off to drive to Luton airport, there to pick up the shuttle bus. Roads to Luton, at least, were clear and easy. Airport parking was a plan in progress. Parking had been completely prohibited anywhere near the terminals, and bus stops, but the first hour today was complimentary, to give passengers time to walk in to where they really wanted to be. Summoning our reserves of Dunkirk spirit, we set off flexibly pulling my case to apply commom sense to the bus schedules. It was now 10:38, and the 10:40 bus was nowhere in sight. However, the 9:40 bus arrived at eleven o’clock, so I was in good time to catch it.
Alison pressed upon me a few small packets of biscuits. `You can eat them in the airport, if you have to queue,’ she explained. We both grinned, lightened by the memory of our mother, who had always pressed on either of us, when due to travel, `just take a packet of biscuits with you.’
The bus journey was smooth, and without incident nor delay. Even the infamous M25, prone to delays even on a good day, was free and clear all the way to Heathrow. I walked into Terminal Three without problems, apart from being directed to enter via the entrance closest to my airline. A fairly long queue of hoi polloi stretched back from the main check-in desks, but I capitalized on my Gold status to join a much shorter line for business class. I was beginning to think it had all been media hype – when I stepped up to the desk and received my instructions.
`I’ve just one case to check, and I’ve reduced my hand luggage to this,’ I said proudly, displaying the meager contents of my purse. Alas, a standard see-through plastic bag was held out to me, and my `essentials’ were inspected. I was allowed my passport and boarding card, money and credit cards, keys (if not on an electronic fob), reading glasses without a case, and a comb. Back into my purse, to be added to my check-in baggage, went everything else. There was no appeal, except - `OK, you can keep the biscuits, but you’ll have to eat them in the airport.’
`Any idea about flight times?’ I asked, without much hope. I received a sympathetic smile. `Just go with the flow,’ the lady advised. `Go get in the line for passport control, eat your biscuits, and when you get to the departure lounge treat yourself to a stiff drink and keep an eye on the departure boards.’ Sage advice.
I found the line for passport control easily. It snaked, Disneyland fashion, for several turns around the actual gate, then headed off the length of the row of airport stores, down the stairs, continued along the arrivals hall, and ended up, serendipitously, opposite the multi-faith prayer room. As luck would have it, I joined right behind a crowd of Chinese teenagers, whose similar features and identical uniforms shimmered ahead of me. I knew they left and returned to the line, I suspected their numbers increased and decreased, but I couldn’t be sure. I accepted them as part of my personal flow.
The first part of our three-hour journey back to passport control took us past normal individuals, people who were NOT trying to fly anywhere today. Those with such relatives were ministered to with occasional coffee, or snacks, and words of encouragement. Those of us traveling alone nibbled our biscuits, metaphorically or, in my case, literally, and were thus saved from certain death by standing starvation. I became conscious of how pathetic we looked, oozing forward patiently, each clutching our ludicrous plastic bag of reduced worldly possessions. I wished I had had my camera, but of course it had gone the way of my other essentials. I tried to smile cheerfully at anyone taking pictures of us, in case they were fodder for the evening news.
I became aware that not everyone had benefited from the tough-love of my particular check-in clerk, and some were still clinging to contraband items. To no avail. As we approached passport control teams of officials came among us, looked through our see-through bags, and demanded the surrender of all that was held dear – the last crumbs of food, the last slick of hair gel. Behind me in line stood two large young men heading for New Zealand. One had just cycled from Land’s End to John O’Groats. He still held a paperback book, and was ordered to throw it into the official trash bag.
`Hang on, ‘ he protested, `I’ve been reading this all week. I’m THIS far from finishing it’ and he held up his fingers showing about twenty remaining pages. There was no mercy. In it went. Equivalent scenes of torture and suffering were enacted up and down the line. I hastily swallowed my last biscuit.
Standing beside the passport control officer was a female guard, assigned to give a final frisson of alarm to female passengers attempting to conceal lipstick or breath-freshener. She opened up my money-holder and squeezed its inner pockets suspiciously. No shampoo oozed out, so I was allowed to pass.
This brought us to a line to pass through a security check, where we removed jackets and shoes and submitted them, and our plastic bags, for X ray. EVERY passenger was patted down after the X ray – no racial profiling, unless you count the human race. One more official re-inspected our passports, and we were freed into the chaos of the departure lounge.
This was a heady freedom. Now out of line, we could move at will from rest room to airport store to cafeteria. Souvenir stores, of course, were not doing a roaring trade. Unless you could use an entire bottle of perfume before boarding, no point buying it. Only speed readers would invest in a book to be discarded in the terminal. No ties, socks, or plaster replicas of the Royal Family could be taken on as gifts or mementoes.
I purchased some comestibles – a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a bag of jelly babies (for medicinal purposes). I figured I could read and sacrifice a newspaper, and even a pen with which I might begin the crossword. The cheapest pen cost three pounds, and a friendly clerk whispered, as I tendered it `They’ll take it away from you. I could sell you a pencil for 40p?’ I gladly accepted her offer.
Notice I’m five pages into my account now, and I haven’t even seen a plane. On the other hand, I haven’t seen a terrorist, either, which is good.
I consumed my sandwich, made a start on my water and jelly babies, and enjoyed the first stages of my crossword, before taking a turn about the departure lounge. It was about two o’clock, and the departure boards showed flights due to leave at eleven were either cancelled or showed `please wait’ signs. No rush, apparently, so I strolled slowly around a couple of circuits of the hall. There was a subconscious eeriness which I didn’t at first identify, until I noticed lines to use the few airport phones. NO ONE had a mobile phone glued to the ear! NO ONE was telling anyone `I’m at the airport!’ NO ONE was tapping away importantly on a lap-top, or even unimportantly on a computer game. Indeed, the end of civilization as we know it!
Time passes, time passes. The time for my flight passed. I finished the crossword. I almost finished the jelly babies.
Soon after three thirty – the time of my flight – it actually flashed up on the departure board! Go to Gate 13!! Not an auspicious number, but a gate number nevertheless, towards which I now hastened, thoughtlessly dropping my pencil into my plastic bag as I walked, munching my final few jelly babies.
A line at Gate 13 confirmed that here was another security point. Sure enough, our persons and our possessions were to be X rayed again. But here came an example of some of the arbitrariness, or perhaps just sympathetic weariness, of the so far strict enforcement of rules. Ahead of me a distraught parent pleaded for, and was granted, dispensation for a puzzle book carried by his child. And it was granted, on production of a receipt from the airport store! I asked if there was any way I could buy a book – no, I was too far into the system! However, in denying my request, officialdom somehow overlooked the presence of my contraband pencil, which I was to discover some hours into the flight … whatever is necessary will be available.
We passed through American Airlines X rays, and were again without discrimination all patted down. Our shoes were removed, and it was someone’s unenviable job to prod the insides of all sweaty sneakers to check for liquids. Maybe my day wasn’t so bad, after all.
Here at the gate the scenery was featureless – no stores, no rest rooms, no refreshments. And I had really had my fill of people-watching, seeing all around me now as automated Duane Hanson sculptures. So, I stretched out on adjacent seats and closed my eyes for the duration of the wait at the gate – which was lengthy, given the exhaustive nature of the security checks.
At almost six o’clock I was aroused from my supine state by a commotion. People were surging towards the actual gate. I thought I had missed the calling of group numbers, but no. The plane was apparently only half full, and obviously no-one had anything to stow in overhead compartments, so we were encouraged just to stroll on board at will. Never have I experienced so effortless a boarding procedure! No blockages in the aisle as someone struggles to insert an impossibly large case into a small space, no bumping of oversized hand luggage into aisle seat passengers, no officious restowing of surplus items – everyone just walked on and sat down! The end of civilization as we know it …
The attendants were really friendly. They exchanged experiences with us, having been relieved of THEIR hand luggage in the same system. `We’ve no cosmetics,’ they wailed. `Here, you can have an old magazine. No, we’ve no books. I HAD a book of my own, but they took it ..’
An announcement was made by the chief attendant. `Well,’ she began, `its as if we gave a party, and nobody came.’ Looking around, I could see the plane was only about half full. Apparently many people had cancelled today’s flight. `So just feel free,’ she said, `to move about the cabin and find yourself a comfortable spot.’ I felt a surge of cheerfulness as I realized I would have two seats to myself and, given my size, would be able to achieve at least a foetal position for some rest. Furthermore, there were so few of us they decided to serve us drinks before take-off, and a phenomenal level of service continued throughout the flight. I BELIEVE I had a first class dinner!
That was, of course, once the flight began. First we had to wait our turn on the runway, and we finally took off just before seven o’clock. About three and a half hours late. Not TOO bad.
The first class service and the extra seat room almost made up for the total lack of mental stimulation for the next ten hours. I mused on the allowance of reading glasses – what exactly were we going to read with them? The only works of fiction on board were the instructions on how to open the little packets of airline goodies … The movies were not appealing – Tom Cruise’s manic rescue of his threatened wife in Mission Impossible was not a good choice. Bruce Willis playing a raccoon was irritating - one thought he should be out here dealing with the terrorist threat. A couple of BBC sitcoms filled a little time.
A minor crisis occurred towards the end of the flight, as we were supposed to fill out customs declarations. The attendants had no pens. Passengers dredged up about three between them, which were passed around. I discovered my pencil, and used that – let them challenge pencil if they dare!
Spirits were lifting perceptibly as we neared Los Angeles airport and prepared to land. It had been a grueling day, but it was nearly over. We had survived threats of death and destruction. We were almost home … A round of applause broke out as we landed, at about 10:30pm.
We weren’t TOO dismayed when told our gate was occupied, and we’d have to wait on the runway for a slot. `That’s the bad news,’ announced our captain. `The good news is, we don’t charge you for the additional time spent on board.’ We even laughed!
However, as we actually rose and began to walk down the aisles – another eerily simple procedure today, just standing up and walking! – his voice betrayed real concern as he added `I’m REALLY sorry. I’ve just been told that all baggage is being re-screened as its unloaded from the aircraft. There are three planeloads ahead of us. It’ll be about one o’clock before you get your checked baggage.’ A communal disbelieving groan broke out. `And I’m sorry, too, I’m to tell you that if you decide to leave without your baggage, it will be destroyed by airport police. You will not see your bag again. I am SO sorry’
As we discovered, he couldn’t but be sincere – the crew were subject to the same delay, and had to wait with us to retrieve THEIR stuff.
This last straw, being so unexpected, left some in tears. We were ushered through into the baggage hall, where we discovered there were no rest rooms, no seats, no water. In various stages of distress exhausted passengers milled around, or propped themselves on luggage carts or carousels, in a sauna-like atmosphere. The good news is, it didn’t take until one o’clock, but `only’ until twelve, before our re-examined luggage came through and was released to us. Jim was still waiting patiently in the arrivals lounge, and his smiling greeting was wonderful to behold at the end of such a day.
What does this imply for the future of air travel? Today, the day after my adventure, it is perhaps a little early to guess. The current alert is not over. Some suspects are under arrest, but recruits to terrorism seem unlimited. Theories of blame are rife, though not all motives for terrorism are understood. Slightly relaxed, and increasingly confusing, restrictions in baggage now apply. Will we eventually be flown naked about the world, and issued with basic clothing on arrival? Will airport retailers find new business niches in rental? Will overhead compartments in future be filled with traveling libraries and supplies of toothpaste? Will planes eventually be bombed in such numbers that the commercial airline industry collapses? IS this the end of civilization as we know it? Or is this another `scare’ that we will soon forget?