It’s September 11th, 2010. In three days, I will be boarding a plane, set for Florida. It’s far from the first time that I’ve been on a plane and it’s not even the first time I’ve travelled myself, but still, the thought of it is daunting.
I fly out of Glasgow International at 6am, going to Amsterdam Schiphol. From there, I fly to Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta International, before the final flight to Tampa, Florida.
The last time I travelled alone was back in 2006, when I went to Arizona, and while I got there in one piece and didn’t lose anything, it was still anything but a happy time. The problems only really came about in the American airports, where it felt like you were being treated as a potential terrorist. A case of “We don’t want you here, hurry the fuck up and get out of our country!” – Being shouted at, moved from place to place, without a second thought as to how confused and wary the passengers might feel.
The return journey was possibly worse than the outward journey. I’d checked my bags in at Phoenix. Using an e-ticket machine to print out my boarding card for the flight to LAX. Fine. I asked the woman who was there if I’d need to re-check my bags at LAX, or if they’d go right through. I was told I’d need to re-check them – with this in mind, upon arriving at LAX, I made my way to baggage claim, to collect my bag and then re-check it before the flight to Heathrow.
I waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. I waited until every last bag was off the carousel. None of them were mine, I wasn’t the only one who was apparently missing their luggage, a woman, also british, was left waiting as well. We both made our way to the helpdesk. At the desk, a woman asked what flight I was on, I told her and when I did, she all but laughed in my face, telling me that my bags were checked all the way through. Great.
I’d wasted loads of time waiting for my bag that was never meant to be there in the first place. I rushed out of the baggage claim area and made my way around the airport (LAX is set in a circle) to the British Airways spot. Not knowing where exactly it was, I had to go around every single bit, checking each sign as I went. Eventually I found it. I went in, and searched for an e-ticket machine to get my boarding card for the next flight. I couldn’t find one anywhere and so went up and asked someone who worked there.
“Excuse me, could you tell me where the e-ticket machine is?”
“We don’t have any.”
What? Figuring she must have misheard me, I asked again.
“Could you tell me where the e-ticket machine is?”
“We don’t have any. What flight are you on?”
I told her, and she informed me that the flight was boarding and that I’d better hurry up and get a ticket and motioned behind her to the British Airways desk.
I ran to the desk, the whole area is pretty much empty (the flight was boarding!) I ask for a boarding card, and the woman at the desk asked for my bags.
“I don’t know where they are…”, I told her. Confused, she printed a boarding card for me and I ran around the corner, only to be faced by a large line for security.
Now, keep in mind that at this point I’ve been informed by the ‘helpful’ woman that my flight was already boarding. The queue had, at least, 60 people in it – all having to take off their shoes, empty their pockets, be scanned. How the hell am I going to make it to the gate in time? — I stood in line, as it slowly moved along. Sweating. On the verge of tears. Just wanting to get home.
Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, I got through. I ran to the departure lounge only to find… The flight’s not boarding at all. Not even close. So not close, in fact, that I had time to sit down — calm down — and tell the whole story to my Mum, via phone, before they even started boarding the flight.
Here’s hoping this adventure to the USA goes better than the last, in terms of travelling.