The airport hotel reminds me of its cheap nature as soon as the alarm on the television goes off. I set this alarm because in quality hotels it turns the TV on and slowly increases the volume until you get out of bed. The cheap ass hotel alarm makes the TV sound like a 1980s alarm clock, weurgh, weurgh, weurgh, weurgh, weurgh, until I practically punch the thing off.
It’s 3.30am and my idea of a gentle awakening is already gone. At least I’m not going to oversleep and miss the flight. By 4.15am I find my way through the maze of strangely numbered corridors and down to the lobby. There’s a sort of blitz spirit among the passengers already down there and we’re all looking forward to starting our journey for real this time.
There’s no scramble for the first 25-seater shuttle bus, even though I’m sure a lot of people should be heading out with us. I guess the hotel bar was too much of a call after such a hellish day. By 5am I’m checked in to the
American Airlines flight to Chicago. Not San Francisco, you understand, but Chicago. Queuing for three hours to get my tickets changed means my only choice was a nine hour flight, followed by a two-and-a-half hour lay over, followed by a four-and-a-half hour flight. This arsehole journey probably wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t the first real trip since the break-up. Travelling on my own adds its own kick to the guts, not that the journey needed it.
The first part of the journey shows how things are supposed to be done. The only minor irk is that the film menu still has last month’s choices listed, so channels aren’t what they say they are. Since I managed to get a copy of the first
Philip Pullman book from Terminal 3, that’s not a problem.
Of course,
American customs and immigration feel the need to intervene in my happiness. No change there then. First the guy shouts at me for not filling in the bottom of the form. All I can think is that in the small cock, big attitude brigade, this guy must be high ranking. When I accidentally fill in UK where my date of birth should be he goes ballistic. "Did you read the form sir, DID YOU READ THE FORM?" he can’t help blaring. Then when security ask me where I’m flying from, I tell them about the cancelled flight and the early start. "You’ve been selected for a special search, Mr Chapman," she beams, like a black Barbie airline security doll, completely ignoring the nightmare journey so far. Cue two meatheads emptying every bit of my hand luggage in an attempt to prove that the previous security teams didn’t know their arses from their elbows.
Once I’m through I have plenty of time to relax in the airport, which is one of the biggest oxymorons ever uttered. At least my baggage is easy to transfer to
United Airlines, with a check-in desk jutting off to the right and no queue. It’s only when my shuttle takes me through to another terminal that I realise I don’t have my umbrella. And where did I leave it? Hanging on the end of the counter with the psycho immigration guard. I sense the warning level in that terminal rising from orange sunset to hellfire red, and think about buying an I Heart Chicago baseball cap to hide from the cameras.
As I join the next flight, I can’t actually believe everything is working as it should. With two other airlines getting it right and BA getting it so wrong, it’s tempting never to fly with them again. But I still have one surprise left. The only thing I haven’t realised about United is that it’s the US equivalent of
EasyJet or
Ryan Air. Which means the only sustenance I’m getting is a cup of tea and a packet of pretzels, despite this being a four-and-a-half hour flight. Unless, of course, I shell out $5 an item. While that becomes tempting at one point, the selection is so dire I can’t bring myself to do it.
Finally, after enduring one twitching sleeper to the left and one fidgeting spoiled girl to the right, we land. I now know how the Pope feels when he kisses the tarmac.
On the upside, because the journey took a day extra I can check straight into the ridiculously good
St Regis Hotel that
HP has booked for me. On the downside, I never got to the hotel I had paid for on Saturday night, which is £75 of my own money down the drain.
Getting to the St Regis isn’t as easy as I first thought. I had planned to take the simple route, which is to jump into a taxi and say "St Regis Hotel please". My taxi driver has other ideas. I know it’s near the
San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (as it turns out its right next door) so I ask for that. His broken English shows no sign of understanding. How big a landmark does he want? Eventually I repeat my request for a third time and just as I’m wondering if I should get out he says "Ahhhh, downtown" and off we go. He then astounds me with his local knowledge by taking us straight into traffic from a nearby baseball game and taking us around the stadium. If I had the right change there’s no way he’d be getting a tip.
Finally, I make it to the hotel and can relax. The journey that was supposed to involve a 10-hour flight and land by 4.35pm on Saturday night was more than a day late. I’m already starting to worry about the flight back.
