Well - yesterday was fun. Up at 8ish, final packing, and on the road to the airport. As usual, there were engineering works on the Tube, so I did a check that the line we were using was available. It was. What I didn't check was that the station we were going to was open. It was open to all lines...except the one we were using. So a rapid change of plan, getting off a station early and cabbing it to Paddington. Dropped over sixty quid on Heathrow Express tickets, got there, everything was fine, got on a plane to Chicago. The plane to Chicago had an arrival time that sssssssttttrrrrrrreeeeeetched, putting us on the ground almost an hour late. Originally, we'd only had a couple of hours to get through US Customs, claim our bag, get a monorail over to the domestic terminal, go through security and find our gate for the connecting flight to Buffalo, New York.
As we sat there on the taxiway in Chicago, technically arrived but going nowhere, the pilot came on the tannoy: "Errr....ladies and gentlement, there's fog here in Chicago..." We knew there was - we had windows. "So there's a bit of a line for parking spots, we're gonna be stuck here for about fifteen minutes..." Mentally, we kissed goodbye to our connecting flight. "On the upside," he said, "there's fog here...erm...for everyone...so if you're trying to get a connecting flight...they're probably delayed too." Gee...thanks.
Just as we were getting off the plane, he came over the tannoy again. "Err, folks, if you're connecting to one of the following cities, see the attendants in the blue and orange jackets when you get off the plane..." he said, listing a host of cities, including Buffalo. We hunted down an attendant and she handed us a bright orange wallet, with our connecting tickets in. Express Routeing turned out to be fun, as we followed this shouty but pleasant young lady in a small snake of orange-powered connectors through the airport. The US Customs hall was unreal. It was like Customs at the gates of Hell - people thronged, crammed in snaking lines that filled the entire hall. We, with our shouty lady leader, bypassed them all, being led to the channel for US Military personnel and Diplomats. That caused a minor altercation, as one lady not blessed with the power of orange tried to push into the orange line, and had to be told by an armed officer to get to the back of the line. I felt for her, but there really wasn't time to quibble about it. We got through customs in record time, and together, which made a pleasant change.Then we waited for our bag. It was endless and agonising as bag after bag after bag turned out not to be ours. Finally, about ten minutes after our connecting flight was supposed to have left, I flagged down another shouty blue-and-orange-jacketed woman, to ask for details of the Buffalo flight.
"Oh, delayed at least two hours," she said. "Don't rush."
Yeah, right.
Not rushing is not really in our make-up in airports. At least not until we're where we're supposed to be. So when our bag finally showed up, we took off, waving our orange wallet at everyone who tried to stop us. Customs Part 2 were fine, waving us on our way. The monorail was fine, and I think I only elbowed one pensioner to the floor in the busines of getting on it - not bad by Chicago standards - and before we knew it, we were racing to the security line, bag in hand, determined to take the bag on the plance with us, rather than checking it again.
"NOOOOOOOO!!!" yelled the third and most crotchety of our trilogy of shouty women - rather stopping us in our tracks.
"What?" we said.
"You can't take your bag through security!" she...well, notsomuch explained as ordered, bullying us to give the bag up to a uniformed, stern-faced man who clearly agreed with her in her assessment of our intellect. We were clearly too stupid to be in his country. We watched the bag disappear through a curtain with a little trepidation, then turned to the business of taking off our shoes and trying to look innocent.
Once we were well-shod again, we ran to a screen. The Buffalo flight wasn't on it! We started making our way to Gate G4, where it was supposed to be, checking screens whenever possible. Gate G4 is, not to put too fine a point on it, a fuck of a long way from security, so we checked quite a few screens on the way, and none of them showed the flight...until.
"Buffalo!" shouted d. "Gate G17!" Pop quiz - G17 - nearer, or further away, would you say?
Yeah, quite. Now all that mattered was the departure time.
"5.45!" called d. She looked at her watch. It was 5.45!
We ran. Not a pleasant experience, probably not a pleasant sight, but needs must. We ran and ran and ran and slammed into the desk at G17.
"You're not gonna get on this flight," said the woman behind the desk. She wasn't shouty. We wondered whether it might be our turn - bear in mind it was nearly midnight by our body clocks by this point. Anyway, there was much tension and drama, but we waved our orange envelopes and looked a bit pathetic and British and, certainly in my case, a bit scarlet from the run, as though if I didn't get on this flight, my head might explode. And they let us on.
Arriving in Buffalo, we were met by Lori, and by Michael, her step-son. What we were not met by though was anything resembling our bag. Apparently a whole lot of luggage hadn't made it on the flight, and there wasn't another flight into Buffalo that night.
We went for dinner (at what was, according to our bodies, 4AM), and so now, we've been in the same clothes - certainly the same underwear - for going on 36 hours. As yet, the case hasn't turned up. All of which makes me not a little glad that, faced with eight hours of international plane flight, I'd seen fit to self-non-medicate, and take no pills of any kind during the trip over here.
Now, you'll have to excuse me - there's a trip to Wal-Mart planned. I need to buy myself some new pants...
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