Paranoid Android

A question my devoted reader. How does one spell hell? No, it’s not a trick question and obviously I spelled it correctly just then. The answer for anyone who has travelled will be a personal perspective. For many years I spelled hell: Heathrow. I now need only three letters: LAX. Three capital letters that strike fear and trepidation into the heart of many a seasoned traveller. Even now as I sit typing in the safety and anonymity of terminal 52I, I am still shaking slightly, although I have calmed down. A little. As with a fight between siblings, one doesn’t get all the blame. Qantas may have started it, but LAX excelled itself to finish it.

Today’s title is courtesy of Radiohead circa 1997. You are correct dear reader I’m not a huge fan, but there could be no other title, as will become apparent.

As I relayed in yesterday's post, our flight was over an hour late leaving Sydney. We had a two-hour window to make the connection in LAX. These flights were bundled by Qantas, so, one might have assumed there should be no problem. Once in the air, we were reassured that there would be no problem. The plane had taken on extra fuel to make up time and conditions were forecast for a smooth flight. At least that much was true, it was a smooth flight and Premium is so much better than Economy.

The first indication that all was not right with the universe came with the first, lengthy announcement by flight staff. Apparently it contravenes American air regulations for passengers to meet in groups or congregate anywhere on the plane. Really? An Australian owned plane, in international air space is subject to the paranoid prognostications of a government in another hemisphere? I was tempted to alert security on several occasions throughout the flight, several people were meeting in clandestine groups near the toilets! Who would have thought? I hope they weren't planning anything big.

We landed in Los Angeles 45 minutes later than originally scheduled. There was no announcement about connecting flights until a few agitated people kept asking questions. No, I was not one them. We were told not to worry, these things are calculated when a plane leaves its home country and measures would already be in place. Ahh, I accurately call bullshit.

The ‘measures in place’ amounted to having two Qantas workers supply named Express Connection passes for Immigration to anyone with a connecting flight. Armed with these "golden tickets", around 150 people charged the mobile desks at the top of the walkway. It resembled a rugby scrum. An Australian one, not an All Blacks one – arms, legs and other body parts everywhere, no structure or coordination. Orange hi-viz passes in hand we descend upon Immigration. A regular international traveller might think this curious; after all, we weren’t actually entering the country, we were transiting through to Canada. But, hey, this is America, the land of the paranoid. All bags came off the plane, even those that were being loaded back onto QF11 to fly the second leg to New York. If they did this in Asia the continent would grind to a halt.

We stood in an "express conection" queue reminiscent of the one for the New Zealand pavilion at the 1988 Expo in Brisbane. It was long and unmoving. The sort of queue where you make lifelong friends. Or grow a beard. Or become an aged pensioner. One of my new friends wished for a coffee. Bad luck, I said, you're in America, they don't understand coffee, they think that is what Starbucks sells. The line stuttered and staggered towards a small number of uninspired uniformed bureaucrats at the pace of a teetering child - in fits and starts.

Finally we reach the desk as our plane would have been leaving the tarmac Vancouver bound. "Declaration card?" the android migration officer dead-panned. "We are transiting to Canada; we were told we didn't need one." I replied. "And I'm telling you they will ask you for one downstairs." came the response. No smile. Officious. As it turns out, they didn't because we weren't setting foot outside the airport ... or so we thought.

Downstairs, one of our bags was waiting for us at the carrousel. The other was nowhere in sight. Just after we'd been assured all bags were out and as Jayne was wrangling the harassed Qantas assistant, our bag magically appeared. Happy days. Straight through the next immigration, sans declaration card  check, sans declaration card, and then up the stairs to the transit area to line up again and wait while the Qantas person found us alternate flights to Van. Westjet is out, we are flying American, leaving in 3 hours from Terminal 5. We are booked in and directed to the American Airlines counter where we queued yet again, only to be told they are unable to do international ticketing. This is a Domestic counter only. "Through that door and turn right," we are advised.

Through the door we go, down the corridor, to be stopped at the next point. "I'm sorry, you can't go through there." "But we were told to come this way." "I'm sorry. You have broken your journey, you need to go outside and walk to the next terminal, collect your tickets and go through security again." WTF. Seriously. And, yes, I get it, but none of this was our fault. We should have been in the air half way to Van by this time!

Out onto the street. LA just like I remember it: smokey, noisey with cars everywhere and we hadn't left the airport, but we were walking on US soil without completing an incoming declaration card. However, I was so stressed at this point I couldn't even revel in that fact that I'd beaten the officious immigration guy. Down the street we trundled, bags in tow to Terminal 5. Up the escalator to the check-in kiosk where we discovered we were not seated together. An unexpected surprise and the flight was full. Trying to stay positive, it was only a three hour flight and at the end we would be out of the US, in Canada and seeing Dan.

Ticketing done, it was time to go through security. Boots off, belt off, jacket off, I may as well have gone through naked. Into the body scanner and out the other side. Um, sir, you have objects showing around your wrists and on your back. I held up my arms showing my watch and bracelet. "My back," I questioned? "Yes sir," he said as he put his hand on my back to pat me down. "You're sweating." "Oh, yeah, it's warm outside," I smiled.

Our flight was leaving from an adjacent regional terminal which required a shuttle transfer. Happily this removed us from several screaming children. The shuttle had three passengers and it was air conditioned. "Things are starting to turn our way," I thought, somewhat prematurely as it transpired.

Into the shed, sorry, I mean terminal, while Jayne began to reflect on all the "positive experience at LAX" signs we saw. Aiming for a gold class experience at LAX. Have an awesome day. Signs do not create an experience and words are cheap. The experience at LAX: hell. And it wasn't done with me yet.

We had an hour to kill before boarding and we were both getting very tired. It was nearly 24 hours since we had got out of bed. People began arriving for the flight. The plane arrived. People began queueing. They checked boarding passes, passports, made announcements about stand-by passengers. Then they made more announcements, of which we were lucky to understand not much more than a few words. The attendant on the microphone spoke very quickly and the PA system blurred her voice. She kept talking, everyone kept looking, more people lined up. Then, sans microphone, "Sit down please, we are waiting for another flight attendant." Boarding time came and went. Another announcement followed to explain why the attendant was missing in action - she had been deposited from her previous flight at Terminal B in the main LAX and therefore was having to navigate her way over to where we were - if her journey was anything like our "express" experience, we might have to bunker down overnight. The crowd lining up began to dwindle until it ceased to exist. Then 30 minutes after our scheduled take-off, down towards the gate walks, Elise, our new attendant ... to crowd applause. 

The door opened. It was time. Finally LAX was giving me up. Oh the joy. The rapture. The excitement. Actually, none of that. I was dead on my feet and dared not sit down in case I fell asleep. On to the plane. I had a corner seat. By that, I mean I was in the last row next to the window. Jayne was in the first povo row after Business Class. The last time I was this tired on a plane was an horrendous flight from Barcelona to Rome. Well, I was told it was an horrendous trip. I fell asleep on the runway and woke up as we were coming in to land.

Sleep came but did not stay and I awoke every time my head fell forward onto my chest. Jayne was sharing a similar experience, 15 rows to the front of me. In my more lucid moments and when the smoke was thin I stared out the window at a foreign landscape. Bare granite mountain tops, lakes, rivers and trails cutting across the vista. Patches of snow that had defied the sunlight and green forests. The smoke, from forest fires burning, was pretty much everywhere at the moment. It was so heavy in some areas, it permeated the plane's atmosphere.

Landing in Vancouver provides a good perspective of its size. Urban sprawl with pockets of high rise, but neither on the scale of Sydney. It is a working port and some areas are industrialised while others have given way to leisure. 

Heaven and hell are a juxtaposition and so is LAX and YVR. The visitor experience in Van is the antithesis of Los Angeles. They really are there to help. "Having trouble with the passport kiosk? Here, let me explain how to do it." Answer three questions and suddenly, you are out into the freedom of Canada. The difference was palpable and most welcome. We are doing the same trip in reverse, but I swear, it will be the last time I travel to or through LAX.

Jayne's first interaction with a Canadian in the wild, well, in the airport, ended up in apologies all round. "Sorrey".

And then. And then? And then Dan arrived, in the flesh, not on a computer screen. You'll have to wait till the next post to read about that. I don't want any LAX negativity to rub off on our reunion. Aside from a brief trip home for Cait's wedding in April of last year, we haven't seen him for almost 2 years.

And, finally, I'm sorry this is so delayed, but there was a lot to write about LAX. I will try to write daily from now on, but as usual, no promises. Time with Da is eating what would be blog time.

au demain (as they say on east coast)