Give me a ticket for an aeroplane
Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part IV
continued from Part III
Saturday, July 2, 2005
Glasgow airport
My flight from Glasgow to Bristol is delayed two hours, to 13:30, and it's a damned good thing, because if it hadn't been, I surely would have missed it. Though the flight from Toronto arrived bang on time, despite having left an hour late (How do they do that?), I was forced to collect my bags, clear customs, exit, then get back in line to check in for the BA flight.
I'm on a mission to get at least one bottle of single malt for AC, to add to his collection. He has 86 different brands of single malt. At the top of his list is Springbank 12 year, not, he repeats emphatically, NOT 10 year. He's told me it's highly unlikely I'll find that. The list is prioritized; the next two are Glentauchers and Glenturret, in that order.
I doubt the £5 voucher will aid in any significant way my mission, so I spend it at Starbucks instead. A grande latte, my usual purchase at this franchise, is £2.19 here.
Though it's noon in Glasgow, my body clock reads 7:00 and, furthermore, it points out, you've been awake all night. Is there no civilized protocol for crossing the Atlantic Ocean by air?
How was the flight, you ask?
There's no such thing as a good flight, really, is there? Unless you're, say, sitting in first class on the upper deck of a 747, on your way to San Francisco to go dancing at The Starlight Room on your birthday. But that's another story.
Let's see: Half an hour into the flight I dumped my salad, which I had just doused liberally with balsamic vinaigrette, into my lap. The flight was full. I was in a window seat, which I prefer, except when the woman next to me on the aisle is on the large side, and settles in for the night, making it difficult for me to get around her and out for a leg stretch. The man sitting in front of me was — sorry, what's the politically correct term here? — retarded. Not severely, but enough to be childlike in his behaviour: talking too loudly, pushing his seat all the way back, then bouncing in it. Utterly self-centred, as children are, but this man had no parent to gently correct his behaviour.
When, after rushing to claim my bag, then back to the check-in queue, after being told by a lovely BA agent that my flight would be delayed, I was so relieved I proceeded directly out the doors and lit up a cigarette. Afterwards, I considered whether to have a beer or a coffee.
Think what you will, but if you've ever done the trans-Atlantic overnight flight you know that when you've been up all night it may be morning, but since your body's already fucked up you can go either way.
Outside on the tarmac the first thing I notice is thick, white letters, two feet long, painted on the crosswalk, warning
Back inside, I vote for the coffee, then do a little shopping to pass the time.
The shops are laden with plaid scarves, tams, shortbread cookies, and assorted knick knacks emblazened with family names. The olde clans have their own tartans, and their own mottos, most to do with battle. Unlike many Canadians, I have no Scottish roots. But Jack is Scottish, have I told you? All the way back, as far as he can trace it, on both sides of the family. Back to the Earls of Lennox.
A lot of people come here hunting for family. The retarded man on the plane was on his way to Glasgow for exactly that reason. I guess I can understand that; If my ancestors hadn't ancestored me for 200 years in a dirt poor landlocked rural country that no longer exists, maybe I'd go record hunting, too.
I might be descended from Catherine the Great.
I browse the family names of the alphabetically displayed bookmarks, paperweights, and keychains, looking for any that are familiar. I like to bring souvenirs home for my friends. But Lynne is French. AC is Jewish (and besides, he's getting the Scotch). Simon is English. Zee is... Polish, I think. Sparky is Irish. Mo, Iraqi. The Viking is, of course, a Viking. No Scots there. I think of my friend Gord, who is of Scottish heritage, but his family name is almost as unusual as Jack's; I don't see it. I don't believe I'll find anything with Jack's last name, because of the unusual spelling, but it can't hurt to look. I spot Foster, as in Carson T. Foster, and buy my favourite karaoke buddy a keychain.
Then I see it. The clan name that, while common when spelled with an O, is rarely spelled with an E — spelled with an E. It's on only one of the many knick knacks, a cheap plastic keychain. But it's the right name, and the motto makes a vow about protecting that which they love, which is likely a reference to land and country, but can be taken many ways, and so I buy it.
I wish that Jack had come with me. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him — he bought my plane ticket. But that's another story.
* * * Go to Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part V
continued from Part III
Saturday, July 2, 2005
Glasgow airport
My flight from Glasgow to Bristol is delayed two hours, to 13:30, and it's a damned good thing, because if it hadn't been, I surely would have missed it. Though the flight from Toronto arrived bang on time, despite having left an hour late (How do they do that?), I was forced to collect my bags, clear customs, exit, then get back in line to check in for the BA flight.
THEY SAY: Baggage ReclaimBA's agents wear hats. The women, that is. And mine (agent, not hat) has kindly given me a £5 voucher to spend anywhere my heart desires in the airport, on account of the flight being delayed.
WE SAY: Baggage Claim
I'm on a mission to get at least one bottle of single malt for AC, to add to his collection. He has 86 different brands of single malt. At the top of his list is Springbank 12 year, not, he repeats emphatically, NOT 10 year. He's told me it's highly unlikely I'll find that. The list is prioritized; the next two are Glentauchers and Glenturret, in that order.
I doubt the £5 voucher will aid in any significant way my mission, so I spend it at Starbucks instead. A grande latte, my usual purchase at this franchise, is £2.19 here.
Though it's noon in Glasgow, my body clock reads 7:00 and, furthermore, it points out, you've been awake all night. Is there no civilized protocol for crossing the Atlantic Ocean by air?
How was the flight, you ask?
There's no such thing as a good flight, really, is there? Unless you're, say, sitting in first class on the upper deck of a 747, on your way to San Francisco to go dancing at The Starlight Room on your birthday. But that's another story.
Let's see: Half an hour into the flight I dumped my salad, which I had just doused liberally with balsamic vinaigrette, into my lap. The flight was full. I was in a window seat, which I prefer, except when the woman next to me on the aisle is on the large side, and settles in for the night, making it difficult for me to get around her and out for a leg stretch. The man sitting in front of me was — sorry, what's the politically correct term here? — retarded. Not severely, but enough to be childlike in his behaviour: talking too loudly, pushing his seat all the way back, then bouncing in it. Utterly self-centred, as children are, but this man had no parent to gently correct his behaviour.
When, after rushing to claim my bag, then back to the check-in queue, after being told by a lovely BA agent that my flight would be delayed, I was so relieved I proceeded directly out the doors and lit up a cigarette. Afterwards, I considered whether to have a beer or a coffee.
Think what you will, but if you've ever done the trans-Atlantic overnight flight you know that when you've been up all night it may be morning, but since your body's already fucked up you can go either way.
Outside on the tarmac the first thing I notice is thick, white letters, two feet long, painted on the crosswalk, warning
LOOK RIGHTI've been to the U.K. before, I know they insist on driving on the wrong side of the road, and so I understand the warning. I even appreciate their concern for those of us from, oh, every other country in the world where we drive on the right side of the road and as pedestrians before crossing the street look to our left. I wonder why we extend no such courtesy to them.
Back inside, I vote for the coffee, then do a little shopping to pass the time.
The shops are laden with plaid scarves, tams, shortbread cookies, and assorted knick knacks emblazened with family names. The olde clans have their own tartans, and their own mottos, most to do with battle. Unlike many Canadians, I have no Scottish roots. But Jack is Scottish, have I told you? All the way back, as far as he can trace it, on both sides of the family. Back to the Earls of Lennox.
A lot of people come here hunting for family. The retarded man on the plane was on his way to Glasgow for exactly that reason. I guess I can understand that; If my ancestors hadn't ancestored me for 200 years in a dirt poor landlocked rural country that no longer exists, maybe I'd go record hunting, too.
I might be descended from Catherine the Great.
I browse the family names of the alphabetically displayed bookmarks, paperweights, and keychains, looking for any that are familiar. I like to bring souvenirs home for my friends. But Lynne is French. AC is Jewish (and besides, he's getting the Scotch). Simon is English. Zee is... Polish, I think. Sparky is Irish. Mo, Iraqi. The Viking is, of course, a Viking. No Scots there. I think of my friend Gord, who is of Scottish heritage, but his family name is almost as unusual as Jack's; I don't see it. I don't believe I'll find anything with Jack's last name, because of the unusual spelling, but it can't hurt to look. I spot Foster, as in Carson T. Foster, and buy my favourite karaoke buddy a keychain.
Then I see it. The clan name that, while common when spelled with an O, is rarely spelled with an E — spelled with an E. It's on only one of the many knick knacks, a cheap plastic keychain. But it's the right name, and the motto makes a vow about protecting that which they love, which is likely a reference to land and country, but can be taken many ways, and so I buy it.
I wish that Jack had come with me. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him — he bought my plane ticket. But that's another story.
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