British Airways is quite a cruel little institution when you think about it. Flew from Chicago to London yesterday, here's a tale I like to tell:
5:45 p.m. I board the plane, right as rain. 6:30 p.m. I am served a delightful array of sweet-and-sour chicken, a biscuit, and carrots, with a pudding on the side for desert. My water is in a cute foil-covered cup. I wanted lasagna, but my friend the steward was all out. C'est la vie. In recompense, I receive an extra mini-wine, a tasty malbec from Argentina. Fantastic. 7:00 p.m. I do some light reading (Emerson's essay, History). "The true poem is the poets mind." By 9:00 p.m. I have finished both bottles of wine, watched half of Blindside, and am feeling quite rosy, inside and out. Isn't travel smashing? 10:30 p.m. I have reclined (despite the 6' 9" behind me) and dozed off (despite the screaming infant).....
.......11:00 p.m. the lights come on. What's happening. The shades snap up. Up? please put them back down. The child is screaming. Everything is fuzzy. The pilot is saying something about good mornings, we have begun our descent, and it is 6:00 a.m. local time. The steward would like to know if I would like tea or coffee with my breakfast. I would like to know the relevance of that discussion at this time, and does he value his life. Someone hands me a card. It wants to know my passport number. I can't read the fine print because my eyes are still moist from the inflight movie. Landing gear is down...plane stops taxiing...people moving everywhere...its so hot. Stale air.... BAM!
Welcome to Heathrow. You now have a full day to enjoy the bounties of England and one hour of, dare I say, "sleep" to enjoy it on. Cheers.
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