UK Trip, Part One: Transit
10:40pm on the tarmac at JFK.
I'm in 21-G, and the twentysomething hipster girl in 21-F keeps referring to the airplane as up in here. "There's no room up in here." "It's hot up in here." "How do I turn off the lights up in here?"
I want her to shut up up in here, but you're not supposed to say things like that to people. Instead I pop the white headphones in, pop the orange pill down my throat, and by the time the plane leaves the ground I'm in La-La land. A country I enjoy visiting and that requires no passport, just a prescription (usually someone else's).
Seven hours later it's 9:40am at London's Heathrow, and I'm groggily showing my real passport to the 20ish South Asian clerk girl. The Londoner (judging by her accent) is as crusty as any Bronx-bred immigration official and takes delight at powertripping me into Q&A stalemates. "You're supposed to fill out [this information], and you haven't, have you." "Well if you don't have [this], you can't do [that], can you?"
If you're visiting a friend in the UK, you're supposed to have your friend's name, number and address on the disembarkation card. The clerk is unhappy with the fact that I've got the first detail but not the latter two. I feel like telling her, What can I say, me and my friend make plans the old-fashioned way--we agree to meet at the airport at a certain time and stick to it, none of this I'll-text-you-when-I-get-there bullshit. Instead I apologize for my supposed lack of preparation, and after she delivers a few eye-rolls and withering looks she waves me through.
But it's not time for London yet. An hour later I'm in the air again, this time on a plane bound for Glasgow.
Bong...clack-clack-clickety-clack-clickety. That sound you hear after the plane has landed, the captain turns the 'seatbelt' sign off and everyone opens their buckles at once.
I stand, open the overhead compartment, and am excited to see--it's just like the flight attendant said! The contents have shifted during the flight! Someone's laptop bag is leaning on my rollie, so I wait before pulling it down.
The Scotsman next to me eyes my small frame and (relatively) large bag, mistakes my hesitance for physical frailty, and offers a cheerful "D'you need help, lad?"
I decline and hide a smile. I've been called a lot of things in life, but never "lad."
I breeze through Glasgow airport, past shops laden with shelves and shelves of beautiful, glorious Scotch whisky of all varieties. Oh this is going to be a good trip up in here.