Great relief when I checked into the flight home
the evening before my departure ! The major hurdle of a last-minute
cancellation now largely behind me. But even though I was totally prepared with everything 'squared away' where it should be, the actual
departure from the house turned out to be extremely stressful. I've always
hated that last minute dependence on the reliability of the taxi to the
airport. So when it was apparently ten minutes late, tensions were rising. I
then checked my last message to them and saw that actually I had ordered it for
an arrival thirty minutes earlier - so it was forty minutes late, eating deeply
into the extra time I always allocate for such journeys. I tried to text them.
No response. Next, an anxious phone call and then that infuriating message 'not
registered on network' came up. A complete melt-down threatened. In search of
help I somehow got through to the main house and a very competent couple (my
landlady's son who happened to be there and his partner) rushed over. Their
phone worked. Apologetic messages from the original taxi firm, who had been
confused by all my changes after earlier flight cancellations but no
alternatives available. Fortunately a local taxi service who I had never heard
of came to the rescue. A huge black limo with darkened windows. His name was Bud. He gave me an exact time of arrival both to the house and the airport. I would make it for the right time with two minutes to spare.
By
this time my wallet with the card I used to hire the new taxi had 'gone
missing' in the panic. After another wasted five minutes looking for it, I gave
up and off we went with me sitting in
the back panting through my mask, zipping and unzipping bags until I found it
put way in the wrong place !
Fortunately
it was a fast unimpeded trip. Not much traffic and those dreadful
claustrophobic road tunnels as you approach Logan airport Boston (which are
frequently clogged up) were completely empty.
As was the terminus. It was all very bizarre - with nothing open except
the check-in desk - no business lounge, cafes or shops, not much light, just groups
of masked employees standing around chatting to pass the time. Every third
seat was off-limits. Nowhere to go but
something to do. I had to fill out a great long on-line form telling the
authorities where I would be for my 14 day quarantine period. The only way I
could do this was to get out my main lap-top, find somewhere to plug it in (as
its battery is useless) unearth my adaptor and to string up all the wires. So I
sat there for the hour it took festooned in electronic spaghetti and just did it. My reward was a certificate sent to my phone which I had to show since they
said you had to have done it before boarding the plane. The first boarding call
came early just after I had finished all this.
They
boarded by little groups of rows starting at the back. There were only about 50
of us - all Brits or Continentals as far as I could see - so it didn't take
long. I had used my points for a Business Class seat. There were only four of
us plutocrats aboard, the nearest about 20 feet away. Everyone was masked. We took off exactly on time. Not the normal
service of course, packaged meals, but we were well looked after. No drinks
trolley, but the young lady came to enquire what would like. 'A G&T please
I said,' I said (my first for five months but that's another story). She must
be used to gauging expressions and came back with two of them and a bottle of
wine. Plastic disposable glasses. Supper followed - a superior but cold package
of stuff. Disposable cutlery. Before the end of the first film, a grim little thing on the Polish mafia, I had fallen
asleep. Breakfast was also a package but had an enormous wrap with a bacon
omelette thing inside. Extremely difficult to eat, while avoiding the cardboard
container that it came in, as it just wouldn't slide out, as I imagine it was supposed.
Heathrow
was just the same as Logan. An echoing space. The electronic immigration machines were shut off. We
followed socially distancing stepping stones in lines to a couple of human beings behind glass screens.
Unmasked I was surprised to see. I handed over my phone with the certificate on
it and the passport. 'Welcome back !' he said. A loo stop and three
hand-sanitisers later, I was in the reclaim luggage hall. Ours was the only
carousel in operation. I arrived in time to see my book-laden suitcase
disappearing back into the maw of the system but it soon re-appeared. It all
took about ten maybe fifteen minutes.
No
2 son had been a bit concerned about meeting me because of the crowds, but he
was one of less than half a dozen greeters in an otherwise deserted and empty
lounge. Taking no chances, he sprayed me down in the car park. Logically, I
should have reciprocated I suppose. He then kindly drove me home. England
looked much the same as ever, making me wonder why I ever left. It was good to
be back.
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