menace to the skies
Well, I`m back in the colonies. Currently reconnecting with my roots (i.e. playing Grand Theft Auto, watching Young and the Restless) in Ottawa.
Getting my stuff back to Canada was quite the hassle. I flew from Berlin back to Edinburgh last Wednesday to collect my two big suitcases from the friend`s house where I`d left them, then carted them up and down the three stories to my old flatmate`s current flat where I was spending the night. The next day at the airport the girl checking me in shot me dagger eyes when each of my two bags came in at near 30kg, but I sweet talked that bitch with some blather about "Air Canada Regulations" and "needing pity," and she didn`t even charge me for being overweight. As I was going through security, however, I saw a group of minions crowded around the computer after I had passed through the metal detector, looking at the x-ray of my backpack and giving each other meaningful nods. One lady kept running her finger along this blackish space that was the shape of a gun. Yup, guys. I`m bringing a gun on board right there in my carry-on, no attempt to hide it. Anyway, they made me unpack the whole thing to discover the culprit: flip flops. It`s okay, unsupportive footwear has no direct correlation with terrorism. When I got on the plane, the flight attendant took it upon himself to give me a rather heated lecture about the excessive size and weight of my carry-on. I settled that with curt smack in the jaw. And by that I do mean a sweet and repentant smile.
That night I left my things in storage at Heathrow during my layover. The next morning, the lift from storage to the terminal was broken, so I carted my suitcases down an ominous flight of stairs and then about a fifteen minute walk to the next terminal. The Air Canada attendants were much more up-to-date on their own baggage policies, and made me redistribute the weight between my carry-on and suitcases before charging me 32 pounds.
The real problems started when my plane landed in Toronto. I assumed my bags would transfer automatically, so breezed through customs and over to Connections. Sweet homeland! People who talk normal! I could almost smell the Tim Bits! As I was practically scampering to my next flight, however, I was greeted by a patronizing security guard who demanded, "Where are your suitcases? Everybody ELSE knew to get their suitcases. Why didn`t YOU get your suitcases?" It seemed "I didn`t know" is the answer of some sort of leprous social ingrate. I was sent to the Lost and Found to fill out a bunch of forms about why I`m such an idiot and why I`m so unobservant. Then I had to meet a "baggage escort" who could take me back through customs. My Escort (not as sexy as it sounds, trust me) babbled away about the ins and outs of the baggage racks and the whole behind the scenes process of getting luggage from the airplane to the baggage carrels. Finally i saw one of my suitcases descending from the abyss (aka the hole where stuff comes out of). . .and it was open. Well, it looked like everything was intact, so I sort of rezipped, and cast my eyes on Suitcase 2. This sucker had definitely been through some rough shit during the journey. The handles had broken off, the front pocket was completely ripped, and the seams looked in serious danger of spontaneously splitting apart. All of my baggage tags had fallen off. As I was struggling to get these monstrosities onto a trolley (Escort told me he couldn`t help because, and I quote, "I`m old"--he was about 36), a little twit of a bomb sniffing dog approached my non-broken bag and started groping it.
"What do you have in your bag, miss?" asked his keeper.
"Uh, clothes, books, shoes."
"Do you have any FOOD in here?" Is "food" code for anthrax??
"I don`t think so."
"Well, I have to tag you for inspection. If the dog says there`s food, there`s food."
Reluctant to take the authority of a horny beagle over my own memory--but nevertheless not entirely sure--I was escorted (by my Escort, naturally), to security, where this tiny woman yelled at me about a) taking responsibility for what`s in my bags, b) not lying to her ("if the dog says there`s food, there`s food" was basically the mantra of the airport staff), c)not being insolent. To make a long and sad story short, she entirely unpacked BOTH of my suitcases, even the one the dog had ignored (indignant fucker), and found nothing, not even a candy wrapper. And I`m pretty sure doggie was sniffing three weeks worth of dirty underpants.
Getting my stuff back to Canada was quite the hassle. I flew from Berlin back to Edinburgh last Wednesday to collect my two big suitcases from the friend`s house where I`d left them, then carted them up and down the three stories to my old flatmate`s current flat where I was spending the night. The next day at the airport the girl checking me in shot me dagger eyes when each of my two bags came in at near 30kg, but I sweet talked that bitch with some blather about "Air Canada Regulations" and "needing pity," and she didn`t even charge me for being overweight. As I was going through security, however, I saw a group of minions crowded around the computer after I had passed through the metal detector, looking at the x-ray of my backpack and giving each other meaningful nods. One lady kept running her finger along this blackish space that was the shape of a gun. Yup, guys. I`m bringing a gun on board right there in my carry-on, no attempt to hide it. Anyway, they made me unpack the whole thing to discover the culprit: flip flops. It`s okay, unsupportive footwear has no direct correlation with terrorism. When I got on the plane, the flight attendant took it upon himself to give me a rather heated lecture about the excessive size and weight of my carry-on. I settled that with curt smack in the jaw. And by that I do mean a sweet and repentant smile.
That night I left my things in storage at Heathrow during my layover. The next morning, the lift from storage to the terminal was broken, so I carted my suitcases down an ominous flight of stairs and then about a fifteen minute walk to the next terminal. The Air Canada attendants were much more up-to-date on their own baggage policies, and made me redistribute the weight between my carry-on and suitcases before charging me 32 pounds.
The real problems started when my plane landed in Toronto. I assumed my bags would transfer automatically, so breezed through customs and over to Connections. Sweet homeland! People who talk normal! I could almost smell the Tim Bits! As I was practically scampering to my next flight, however, I was greeted by a patronizing security guard who demanded, "Where are your suitcases? Everybody ELSE knew to get their suitcases. Why didn`t YOU get your suitcases?" It seemed "I didn`t know" is the answer of some sort of leprous social ingrate. I was sent to the Lost and Found to fill out a bunch of forms about why I`m such an idiot and why I`m so unobservant. Then I had to meet a "baggage escort" who could take me back through customs. My Escort (not as sexy as it sounds, trust me) babbled away about the ins and outs of the baggage racks and the whole behind the scenes process of getting luggage from the airplane to the baggage carrels. Finally i saw one of my suitcases descending from the abyss (aka the hole where stuff comes out of). . .and it was open. Well, it looked like everything was intact, so I sort of rezipped, and cast my eyes on Suitcase 2. This sucker had definitely been through some rough shit during the journey. The handles had broken off, the front pocket was completely ripped, and the seams looked in serious danger of spontaneously splitting apart. All of my baggage tags had fallen off. As I was struggling to get these monstrosities onto a trolley (Escort told me he couldn`t help because, and I quote, "I`m old"--he was about 36), a little twit of a bomb sniffing dog approached my non-broken bag and started groping it.
"What do you have in your bag, miss?" asked his keeper.
"Uh, clothes, books, shoes."
"Do you have any FOOD in here?" Is "food" code for anthrax??
"I don`t think so."
"Well, I have to tag you for inspection. If the dog says there`s food, there`s food."
Reluctant to take the authority of a horny beagle over my own memory--but nevertheless not entirely sure--I was escorted (by my Escort, naturally), to security, where this tiny woman yelled at me about a) taking responsibility for what`s in my bags, b) not lying to her ("if the dog says there`s food, there`s food" was basically the mantra of the airport staff), c)not being insolent. To make a long and sad story short, she entirely unpacked BOTH of my suitcases, even the one the dog had ignored (indignant fucker), and found nothing, not even a candy wrapper. And I`m pretty sure doggie was sniffing three weeks worth of dirty underpants.