The fog blog…
Tuesday, November 7th, 2006There is a particular strain of panic that I get when I wake up in an airport and think I’ve missed my flight. I might well have slept all morning if a “last call” announcement hadn’t jolted me from my snug position on the floor and sent me rushing over to the departure gate, my sleeping mask dangling precariously from my face. Of course, the call was for some other person, some other place as my flight was, of course, late. Walking back to my little patch of floor I noticed a woman smiling at my momentary fear. I must have looked a right old state.
The Airline staff reawakened me a while later. It was time to leave Israel…
My trip had been short, but packed full of interest: My cousin Daniel reciting his Bar Mitzvah portion in the synagogue; Driving through the Judean hills with Daniel & his father Malcolm in what can only be described as a glorified golf cart. Gazelle’s ran about as we followed a route that was apparently walked by Abraham; Malcolm decapitating a baby viper…
As the plane finally took off for London, from where I would connect to a New York – bound flight, I reflected on the reason for the delay: Fog. Now, fog is one of those weather conditions that doesn’t get a lot of attention. Unlike it’s more frequent cousins, rain & sun, and the rarer but sensationally glamorous snow, it tends to get overlooked. But it’s not as if it’s a new thing for the (Great) Briton’s to deal with. Surely a touch of the cloudy stuff shouldn’t be able to bring the busiest international airport on the planet grinding to a shuddering halt. Should it?
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Another strange fog factoid is its odd abilities to permeate people’s brains. Upon landing at Heathrow threw a suspiciously fog-less sky, I saw that I had just enough time to make my connecting flight if the plane went straight to it’s parking space. But no. The powers that be decided to make us sit on the tarmac for 45 minutes as plane after plane after plane took off in front of us, before giving the captain permission to spend about 4 seconds crossing another bloody runway! Why delay an already late aeroplane by 45 minutes rather than a prompt one by 4 seconds?
The connection’s area was full of people who having arrived in Britain, were anxiously trying to arrange passage out again as soon as possible. However, even a brief time on that strange island can do funny things to people’s behaviour, as I observed from the way in which the gaggle of people tried to form a queue, a classic British pastime. The group behind me from Chicago were particularly eagle-eyed about locating those people who might be jumping the line.
“Hey you in the leather jacket, get to the back. Hey! That guy in the leather jacket has jumped the line!”
“Isn’t that his family there?”
“No. He’s a queue jumper. Oy! QUEUE JUMPER!!!”
Not that it mattered. I’ve seen queue’s go faster in a snails dole office. 2 hours and 12 feet later, the airline staff gave everybody free water. I guess they had to consider dehydration first, but I would have preferred a fillet steak and a pint of Grolsch. Then, as if by a miracle, a group of us were pulled out of the line, sent through immigration, down to departures and Bob’s your uncle I was booked onto another flight, a mere 5 hours later than it should have been. Some of the group even got the privilige of having UK stamps in their passports. Life does have its little compensations…
The Dude