Waking Up In New York
30th October 2008
Yesterday I shared my personal space with a 20-year-old Jewish guy and an older businessman who supplies vegetable hair colour to retailers worldwide. I had seat E on a Virgin flight to New York, the first time in years that I haven’t had a window seat when flying solo. In fact I can’t remember the last time that I was ‘in the middle’ (flying parlance for squashed in a space far too small for one human being let alone one and 2 halves because inevitably the people in the seats next to you will try and invade and steal valuable centimetres especially the men who always seem to sit with their legs wider than God intended but they do it on the train as well so it’s not a surprise.)
The 20 year old’s legs were way too long for the space provided by Mr Branson, so he tried to combat that by leaning them in my direction. At such times I followed the in-flight health instructions by moving my legs ferociously, bend and stretch, rotate ankles, extend leg out and whack, get over your own side. The businessman’s legs were less of a problem. It was his arms that I had to contend with. We had to jostle for position on the armrest, taking in turns to sit with our elbows pinned to our sides.
It wasn’t the best or worst flight in the world, but the queue for passport control was of gargantuan proportions. An hour. It took one hour to clear immigration. When I finally made it to the front of the queue, my friendly immigration officer told me he had a communications diploma and did a bit of work in telly before realising that it didn’t pay. I sympathised (oh how I sympathise) and went on my way smiling, with just the bag carousel craziness to contend with and a niggling doubt that my airport pick up may have given up on me.
The bags were there, jumbled and deserted on a stationary conveyor belt, which had long stopped moving having spurted out the final bag at least 30 minutes before the passengers made it to the baggage hall. It’s always such a joy to see one’s bag. Joy and relief that I won’t have to spend another day in already tired clothes. With one last hurdle remaining I wheeled my trusty pink and red suitcase to the arrivals hall with trepidation. Would my taxi be there? Out I strolled into a trickle of faces (previously a sea, I’m sure) scanning the signs. Laura Watts, does that say Watts? No. Can’t read that one, no, no, no, nearly at the door now, there it is! Laura Watts! That’s my lift to Manhattan. My eyes moved from the sign to the person holding it, he can only be described as one of the most curious looking people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. My driver. Round and well, round and kind of squashed looking. Welcome to New York!
The 20 year old’s legs were way too long for the space provided by Mr Branson, so he tried to combat that by leaning them in my direction. At such times I followed the in-flight health instructions by moving my legs ferociously, bend and stretch, rotate ankles, extend leg out and whack, get over your own side. The businessman’s legs were less of a problem. It was his arms that I had to contend with. We had to jostle for position on the armrest, taking in turns to sit with our elbows pinned to our sides.
It wasn’t the best or worst flight in the world, but the queue for passport control was of gargantuan proportions. An hour. It took one hour to clear immigration. When I finally made it to the front of the queue, my friendly immigration officer told me he had a communications diploma and did a bit of work in telly before realising that it didn’t pay. I sympathised (oh how I sympathise) and went on my way smiling, with just the bag carousel craziness to contend with and a niggling doubt that my airport pick up may have given up on me.
The bags were there, jumbled and deserted on a stationary conveyor belt, which had long stopped moving having spurted out the final bag at least 30 minutes before the passengers made it to the baggage hall. It’s always such a joy to see one’s bag. Joy and relief that I won’t have to spend another day in already tired clothes. With one last hurdle remaining I wheeled my trusty pink and red suitcase to the arrivals hall with trepidation. Would my taxi be there? Out I strolled into a trickle of faces (previously a sea, I’m sure) scanning the signs. Laura Watts, does that say Watts? No. Can’t read that one, no, no, no, nearly at the door now, there it is! Laura Watts! That’s my lift to Manhattan. My eyes moved from the sign to the person holding it, he can only be described as one of the most curious looking people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. My driver. Round and well, round and kind of squashed looking. Welcome to New York!