Heathrow Hell
July 23rd 2007 07:32
Tower Bridge London
Been through Heathrow recently? Hell isn’t it? Arriving or departing there’s no easy way. For entering aliens like us there are long, nerve-racking immigration queues – altercations up ahead, protesting travelers led off to side-rooms and a terrible, escalating feeling of insecurity. When you finally reach the portals of the realm at the head of the line, there’s a barrage of soul-searching questions from an officious gate-keeper “How long are you staying? Where are you staying? What will you be doing here? Will you be visiting anyone? Who? What do they do? Where do they live? Are you going anywhere else? Where? When are you going back to …?” each one punctuated by a penetrating stare and a slow scrutiny of another page of the passport. Your every response sounds shifty, defensive. Your eyes, dry and glazed from lack of sleep, slide away past him/her to the procession of blameless EU passport holders, dashing past to baggage retrieval. You mumble, trying not to breathe, because you left that zip-lock bag with toothpaste, make-up and deodorant in the seat pocket on your first flight 24 hours ago. Your face is pale. It looks nothing like the carefully made-up, gently smiling one in your passport photo. Neither does the wild wreckage of your hair and besides, it’s a different colour. Sweat prickles in your armpits. You press your arms stiffly to your sides. Now you look as if you’re hiding something You shift uneasily, glance over your shoulder, waiting for a hand to fall. But finally, there’s the clunk of the stamp, a last long, hard look, a grudging, loaded “Enjoy your stay” and you’re in. Now there’s only the tussle with the carousel and, perhaps, the hunt for lost luggage to contend with. After this how can the pearly gates be hard to broach? How can St Peter’s interrogation be anything but a breeze?
Heading out is even worse. You stumble from the taxi, or maybe from the shuttle, with the giant suitcase, a collection of little packs, a handbag and your plastic zip lock. You lose your last quid in a trolley that won't disengage from twenty others, so you drag your luggage backwards and forwards in search of the screen indicating your check-in desk, then weave through crowds to the other end of the terminal to find it. The queue’s already twenty metres out beyond that maze of channeling ropes and it’s not moving. Surely all these people can’t be traveling on your plane! Claustrophobia sets in. God! What if you get stuck in seat F - the one in the middle of the centre row of five? Claustrophobia gives way to alarm as the minutes mount into quarter hours and then to halves. The first hour’s gone and the queue still hasn’t moved. Alarm gives way to panic when a know-all two turns of the ropes further up announces to his mate, in a loud voice, that this queue’s nothing to the one at the Departure gate. At last you reach check in. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” you shriek to those tiresome security questions. You’re so frazzled you forget to ask for that aisle seat near the front. You race to the next queue. Messages run up and down, losing their meanings like Chinese whispers “One bloody drag!” says the person in front “Yeah, big one at that!” you shoot back. You’re still puzzling over his odd look when the next message ripples along from ahead “Hand in all knickers” “No way!” you gasp in disbelief. It all becomes clear, half-way to Departures “One Bag!” “No liquids” You dump your water on the table and frantically stuff all your little bags into one of the packs. "One bloody BAG" you mutter angrily to yourself . The pack bulges and strains ominously against its zip. Now it's like a round barrell and you can't squeeze your arms through the straps. You cuddle it to your chest like a little fat teddy bear. On a screen at the door, a “now boarding’ sign flashes next to your flight number. The queue inches forward. You’re ready to scream. Finally you’re through. But wait – there’s Passport Control. You rip open fat teddy and scrabble like a lunatic through the pockets for the handbag. You rifle madly through its compartments for your Passport and Boarding Pass “Oh for Chrissake!” says an angry voice behind. You ignore it and scrabble on. The customs Officer drums the desk and waits, glasses glinting. Got them! Smiling triumphantly, you hand over the passport. The Customs man looks suspiciously from the red bob in the picture to your scraped-back ash-blonde twist. But at last with a clunk of the stamp you’re through. Then it’s shoes, belt, coat and jewellery off and into a plastic tray at baggage control,. You thrust fat teddy on top and blush as two customs ladies point and giggle at his rotund, bag-stuffed inards on the screen. You scramble back into your coat, then notice that it's inside out. The giggling ladies are in stitches now. Before you can right your coat you hear something that sounds like your name barking over the top of the squeaking belt and shuffling feet. Overhead a screen flashes "final call" next to your flight number. You stuff everything into the still inside out pockets of your coat and, shoes in hand, sprint madly to the gate. “Welcome aboard, Madame” says a composed and condescending Steward “63F, to the right and straight through to the rear of the aircraft” Screaming inwardly and clubbing protruding heads with fat teddy as you pass, you battle off down the aisle.
| 56 |
| Vote |
subscribe to this blog
Comment by MelissaA
Fun Facts
In fact they sometimes lull you into a false sense of security by not making you take off your shoes at the first part but you have to do it later on in the special 'shoe' area - but of course if you beep on the first round they make you take them off there as well anyway AND frisk search you - I still have the heebee geebees from that one and we left Heathrow last Wednesday after being stuck there the night before from missed flight connections and fire alarms!
Comment by yogums