Time travelling!

21/03/09 (again!)


It’s the morning of the 21st March again, yes, again.
At some point during the night we have crossed the International Date Line – how cool is that?? I am now officially in yesterday and it didn’t even tickle! (Unless it was that patch of turbulence over the Pacific…) That means that unless I fly around the world the other way at some point, I will ALWAYS be a day younger! ;) And approaching my 30th birthday that can only be a good thing. I feel as though I have stolen one golden day from Time himself!

We fly over more clouds, lots of clouds, and the shadow of the aircraft passes ephemerally over them. There is a rainbow coloured sheen where the small spot of darkness touches the fluffy grey clouds (I guess that should be gray clouds now I’m over the USA!) and I wonder why a shadow would have a halo here but nowhere else. Very pretty, very odd. Maybe there is a higher moisture content in these clouds?!
Pretty soon, I can tell we are coming down as my water bottle is flattening itself and I can hear it, every so often, clunking to itself as another squash-line buckles. It still amazes me that these forces don’t do more to our brains and bodies than just make our ears pop! Had I been a less-informed scientist, from the days when ‘planes were only just being invented, I should have cautioned the hare-brained and foolish young men who would be pilots, to be wary of their brains dribbling out of their ears, or of their internal organs combusting with the pressure! But then again, I suppose ‘we have the technology’. Fortunately.
Or I’d have been on a boat around the world and who knows where that would have led – storms, tidal waves, sea serpents, sharks, or shipwrecked on a desert island with only dowager duchesses and stuck-up but wealthy young men from the City for company. Perhaps they would have looked down upon me as a lesser mortal and I’d have been scrubbing clothes and fetching water for them. OR maybe I would have been the only young woman of marriageable age and would have to have kept close to the dowager duchess and her middle-aged daughter as chaperones, despite the airs and graces… But back to the tale in hand…

Ooh!
Land!
After the cool, green emptiness of Atoroea and the vast, dusty, red tracts of Australia, this area looks horribly busy! We circle over the monopoly houses below, watching the massive civilisation swirl around beneath us. I have nothing to hide, but I have heard Stories and I also really hope that the nameless They haven’t lost my poor little luggages. I last saw them in Christchurch and I’m half-expecting never to see them again – They are probably still cruising around on the carousel in Sydney waiting for me.
And I’ll not be coming…
*imagining luggages staring wistfully at passers by like lost puppies*
Sniff.

We are circling again.
Are we nearly there yet??
I think we might be stacking. Hmmm…
Or perhaps not…
The wings I am watching intently slowly extend further back, dipping and curving their large flaps ever downwards. They’re quite elegant in a grey and grubby way.
We sink down into grey clouds. I see the estuary below and the glint of water on rivulets. One such rivulet snakes prettily around in a perfect pre-horseshoe bend. I see tower blocks and tree-decked hills beyond.
San Francisco International is a rather forbidding building from a distance. Chunky, squat and grey, but nevertheless imposing. I suspect it is larger close to…
I peer at the wings again – so many pipes and cables this far under the flaps… Ooo…
We touchdown uneventfully and herd into the terminal. San Francisco (SF) airport is large and rather sterile. I queue in an interminable queue for customs and immigration – The first section of the running of the USA gauntlet. The queue shuffles forwards erratically and I am fortunately in front of the large group of American kids who are queuing. There is an interesting mix of people here actually, Brazilian, Black American, Maltese, English, Scottish, German…
Me.
Contrary to popular expectation and dire warnings about body cavity searches they are neither scary nor rude here in San Francisco. I do have my photograph taken (not my best side after 18 hours of travel but I think I avoid looking like a homicidal maniac and that’s the main thing!) and my fingerprints are scanned by a little green glowing box – all very X-files and futuristic. I think back to my job in the Home Office and wonder how efficient the IT systems supporting that little green box and other biometric data really are…
The young lady in the cubicle in front of which I am standing quizzes me about where I will be staying and why and what my purpose is here… She asks about my cousin’s visa and I say I don’t know but that he is married to a local lady, which seems to suffice for the girl’s records. She is clearly not being paid to be friendly but she is at least faintly cordial and allows herself a small, dry smile at my enthusiasm at meeting little Tomas for the first time. She asks me about what’s in my luggage too, and gives me a squiggle on a bit of card that I need to take to customs… I suspect I may have some naughty things with me, though I think I posted home most of the things that I was sure wouldn’t make it or sent them with Andrew to avoid the USA.
Hah!
I toddle off towards baggage reclaim much relieved and clearly not looking like a dangerous criminal, despite the sticky, harassed and sunken-eyed look!
Baggage Reclaim is a vast and intimidating hall with a cluster of tired people waiting . I stare disconsolately at the carousel, feeling cynical about ever seeing my poor baggages again.
Bags circle and are snatched.
I sigh.
But wait!
‘I see a little silhouette of a case!
Scaramouche, scaramouche, and it has a yellow strap on!’
It is indeed my very own suitcase – not shredded, not battered, possibly not even opened – if they have, they’ve done a neat job.
Hooray!
I collect my first luggage and we wait anxiously for its sister – At least now I’ll have clean socks and some of my souvenirs, even if the other one doesn’t turn u-
There it is!
Also undamaged, unopened and very much here – who said that flying into the USA was scary? It appears to have been much maligned, though I suspect that LA may be a different story!
Right, now, before I can run out of the door into the fresh San Francisco air, I have another obstacle. One which could be almost as scary as immigration.
Customs.
I clutch my little docket and head for the ‘something to declare’ aisle, just in case… All the luggage gets scanned and arched anyway, so I may as well be honest about any accidental naughties!
I don’t have long to wait in the ‘I think I might have naughty fruit and veg in my luggage’ queue as it’s pretty much just me and I watch with some trepidation as I explain that I have energy bars and my box of cereal (which is still in my hand luggage!) with me and is that ok? A monosyllabic, sullen grunt from the enormous black woman who helps me heft my cases onto the conveyor belt and I trot through the arch to wait for it to come out the other side.
A heart stopping moment when the young Latino man watching the screen says, ‘What’s that?’ and I rack my brains to think what he could be referring to…
I go cold but step up to the offending bag and look at him worriedly.
He announces that there is something in there and I twig.
My apple!
Oops.
I think the fact that I have admitted it and help them find it amuses them slightly and there are twitches of smiles as I confess and dive in to look for it – what a pity, I would have enjoyed that.
It takes us a good five minutes of ruffling amongst pockets to find it, stuffed in at the bottom, a little battered, but still glossy and bearing a Palo Alto identification sticker from some mountain or other in New Zealand.
The Latino guy cheerfully confiscates it and then notices the sticker, with a certain amazement. Palo Alto is also the name of a local town…
He waves me off, guilt and apple-free, and as I depart, still with cereal and energy bars intact, I see him waving the much-travelled apple at his mate and calling, ‘Hey, look at this sticker! I haven’t seen one of these before; you want it?’ He is joined by an older chap, who presumably collects the stickers, and they both trot off to peer at my apple.
That cheers me up no end.
Hello San Francisco!