Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Christopher’s Summer 2005 Manchester Weblog - Postscript
It took me a few weeks to pull together the last bit of my trip to Manchester. The following entry covers my final day and my trip home. Word to the wise...never ride with a lost cabbie or sit on a plane with someone drinking vodka straight from the bottle.
Okay, I know I have been home three weeks now, but I have been wanting to share with you my final day and flight home from Manchester. I mean, after all, since it was me, you knew that things would not be normal.
When last I had written it was Friday and I was busy getting ready for coming home. Of course there are always last minute things to do, like making a billons copies of German articles and books that I just can’t seem to find in the US. So, I spent a good deal of time at the Rylands library “making copies.” Finishing that work, I hoped onto the bus to head back to Didsbury. One stop after I got on, a young Muslim man got on the bus and came up to the upper deck and sat across from me. Now, in Manchester this is nothing unusual, but this was a week after the bombings in London, and this young man was, well, scary. He was very nervous, carry a large backpack, wearing a heavy jacket (on an 80 degree day). Well, as you might well guess, everyone (including the two Muslim men who had been talking very loudly and messing around at the front of the bus) became quiet and stared at this young man. He just sat there, staring forward, fiddling with his backpack. For two miles we all just sat there, in dead quiet (which is strange on a bus in Manchester because normally people are all talking on their cell phones or instant messaging on their phones so you hear people clicking away). When he finally got off the bus there was a noticeable exhalation and everyone started to breath again. Then, as if it was ingrained in all of us, we all seemed to be thinking, “Was that racist of me?” Well, I don’t have an answer. All I know is that it certainly makes you think twice nowadays about hoping on a bus anywhere in the world.
That Friday night was the release of the latest volume of Harry Potter. Of course I had committed to bringing back three copies for other people (as well as one for myself) so I had to make sure I got my copies. Off I went to the main mall to get my copies. The bad thing about this is that while you can take the bus there, the service stops running at 11:50, which meant that I was going to need a taxi to get home. Oh well, anything for Harry, right?
The bus ride was uneventful (for once) though it became clear I was glad that I did not walk the long distance to the mall, as it is not a straight line and the neighborhoods include a few that are known for “Hoodies” activity (the term used of young boys who wear hooded sweatshirts and generally terrorize entire neighborhoods). Anyways, I arrived at the mall an hour ahead of time, but was well prepared to spend the time because I had brought along my thin backpack with some articles in it. As is typical, I had it under my jacket (avoid being pickpocketed). But to show that the world really had changed, as I was joining the crowds walking into the mall at that time (since the mall has pubs, clubs and casinos as well as a large metraplex, its open til 3 on weekends) I saw several people staring at me very worriedly. Didn’t think much of it until I noticed a couple of them stop a police office at the entrance and talk to him. As I approached the entrance this officer (complete with automatic rifle) came towards me and pulled me out of the flow of traffic. Apparently, several people had notice the bulge on my back and given that I do have a slight Mediterranean appearance, were, well, concerned I had a bomb. Me. Little old me. A terrorist. I was both offended and glad that people were actually worried about security. After having me pull off my jacket, inspect my bag and pad me down the officer felt slightly embarrassed (it was clear in speaking to me that I was about as far from a terrorist as you can get). He started to apologize to me as I pulled on my stuff but I cut him short. “Your doing your job and your doing it well. Stop me as often as you think I look dangerous. We all appreciate it.” And for the first time in three years of travel to the UK, a public servant gave me a hearty smile and a thanks. Very nice (especially since he was carrying enough firepower to mow down the mall). Anyways, after my troubled entry into the nation at immigration, this seemed a fitting way to finish the journey.
Ah, but now, it was time to get Harry-focused. Found the bookstore and joined in the festivities. As you might guess you had:
• Kids (and too many adults) dressed as characters from the book.
• Tons of “Every flavoured Jelly Beans” (from the book)
• Magic tricks
• Trivia contests
• And lots of sales on non-Harry books (hey, the Brits have at least learned conspicuous consumption from us.
It was a pleasant hour. It was one of those rare instances when total strangers in Manchester actually talk to each other. Sharing about favourite characters and the like. I wandered over to the travel section of the bookstore and noticed people looking at the American travel books, so of course, I played the expert and told them where to visit and where not to. People were especially interested in Colorado. Yes, some did think we road horses (didn’t help that the one travel book for Colorado Springs only mentioned the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame). This came in handy, because several of these people actually let me in ahead of them in when we formed a queue to get our Harry Books. This happened at 11:45, and the excitement built. Out came the books. Stacks upon stacks. The tension mounted. And at 11:59 (they jumped the gun) they started checking us out. In line you would grab your book as you closed on the counter. At exactly 12:02 I grabbed my copy and read the first two pages (to say that I read Harry before 99% of the rest of the world). The gal behind me opened her copy to the last pages. I immediately slapped it shut on her. “You cant do that. You have to read it from the beginning. That’s cheating.” I said all this with a smile (we had been talking to each other for the past 20 or so minutes, so I wasn’t a complete stranger). She gave me an embarrassed nod, and acted as if she had been caught trying to steal the Crown Jewels. “I just want to know that Hermione didn’t die.” At this everyone laughed.
Checking out and making the way to the taxi shed to get a ride home I was quite satisfied with my nights work. I had fun, got all my copies for under 10 pounds and was ready to make a short trip back home.
Now, from the mall to Didsbury should be about a 10 minute drive at that hour of night. Should be is the key word. There was (as you would expect) a large queue at the Taxi shed and so I got in line. Most people waiting were intoxicated. Then there were the large numbers with their copies of Harry in hand. I was too enthralled in the first few pages to notice that I had come to the front of the queue, and two drunk men dived into the taxi that should have been mine. I of course had committed a venal sin in the British way of life, and for this I would be punished. Standing in queue’s is about paying attention to the line, not reading. How did my punishment come about?
The next taxi pulls up. I say, “Going to Didsbury.” The response, “Ah, just get the F*** in the back. Not a great start, but, well, I only need to go ten minutes. So I get in back, and the taxi driver starts cussing some more, “I cant get the F*** out of this place. I am so lost.” Okay, worse sign, but it is a confused traffic flow. Eventually (after two or three false starts) I manage to direct him out of the mall. No problems now, right?
Well, it turns out that, while this man has lived his whole life in Manchester, he never leaves the north of the city. I asked him how long he’d been driving a taxi. “Oh, about ten F***ing years.” And then he says, “Do you know the way to Didsbury, because I have not F***ing clue.” And that is how the next 40+ minutes of my evening went. Him cussing. Me nodding. Him turning around because we had just ended up in the middle of nowhere. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. I saw a lot of that part of Manchester. Finally I directed him to the M65 motorway, and was able to get him to Wythenshawe and then within a mile the college. I could tell you much more, but you can guess from this what the ride was like.“This is good, I said.” He apologized. “I am so F***ing lost. Don’t know why the F*** people want to be in that part of town. Oh yea, I have to charge you what’s on the meter.” At this point I almost used his favourite word that starts with an F. My little journey cost me 20 pounds 70 pence. Yikes!!!! Needless to say, I just wanted to put distance between me and my driver, and got out of the car and paid quickly. And, will you believe this, he looked at the money I gave him and stared at me as if I should tip him. I didn’t. And as he pulled off I heard, “F***.” New rule. Never ever take a taxi in Manchester. I’d rather be mugged. Its cheaper.
Saturday morning dawned quickly. The school assistant principal gave me a lift to the airport (for free and we were there in ten minutes) and I was ready to start my trip home. Got checked in, went through the special BMI security (have I told you how much I love BMI) and then onto the courcouse. What do I see when I get to the councourse? “Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince on sale for 12.99.” The concourse literally had thousands of copies of Harry staring at me. It never occurred to me that I could have just purchased my copies at the airport. No waiting for an hour in the mall. No bomb pat-down. Now 20+ pound taxi drive. Oh well, I guess adentures never come cheap.
In Europe the Brits are considered to be hardworking, almost neurotic about working hard. To an American the Brits do not strike you this way. This was shown again this morning because the airport-employed cleaning crews that clean all the planes decided to not show up to work until 40 minutes after their start time. Listening in to the BMI staff, this is evidently not a new problem. They show up when they want. So, because of this, we could not get on our plane until 11:40. This mean that my nice tight schedule to make my connection to Denver just got tighter.
Once on and taken off, the flight was smooth. There was weather over Iceland, so we went a bit further north. Not that I noticed, as I was immersed in Harry. Finally as we closed in on Chicago I realized that I was going to have to stay tuned in if I was to make my connection. We landed and disembarked. Got to the immigration line as the 4th person, quickly through (I love America), and went to wait for my bags (which you drop off with the airlines after clearing customs). First one in line waiting for the bags. Have my trolley and just need my bags. The rest of my flight starts to filter in, and the bags come off the shoot. More bags. More bags. Time is slowly ticking away. More bags. More bags. Yep, you got it. The very last two bags to come off the shoot are mine. No kidding. The last two bags on the entire plane. How is that possible???
Through customs, and to the United desk where I tell them, I am not going to try and run to make my flight. They tell me “No Sir, lets get your re-checked.” Now, the great advantage to still having my bags is that I can negotiate much better. “You know, I am actually heading to Colorado Springs, any chance that I can get there?” Now, you must understand that in addition to being Premier Status with United I am always very nice and make a big point of only flying United. So, of course, they bend over backwards (“we really aren’t supposed to do this….but for you.”) and now I was booked through in two hours to lovely Colorado Springs. They even gave me a seat at the front of the plane. I love United.
Well, they have no control over who is sitting next to me. So far this trip had been relatively without hassle. But from Chicago to Colorado Springs I got to have one of those, “well, this has never happened before” moments. I get on the plane, stow my stuff, and pull out Harry. Then I see this grey haired lady walk on, talking very load to no one, and sit down…in the seat next to me.
Now when I sit down, I mean:
• After trying to put her bag in the overhead compartment and in the process hitting me twice.
• Taking her half out of the middle. No kidding, she sits down with her elbows pointed directly outwards, and taking half of my seat airspace. Fortunately I am both skinny and like to curl up in my seat.
• And finally, unbelievably, she pulls out an entire bottle (20 oz or more) of Skol Vodka and turns to me and says, “I have to drink this, I am afraid to fly.”
Normally I am very friendly with seat mates, but between wanting to read through Harry (just getting to the good parts) and not wanting to deal with someone who is drinking vodka on the plane, I decided to stay very quiet.
What followed was two hours of dealing with an increasingly weavey, burping, alcohol smelling, drunk person in the seat next two me. She was weaving constantly into my seat, letting off the sound of burps that had to be prelude to vomiting. The bottle of vodka was gone before we were over Nebraksa, and only then did the flight attendant see it, and take it away. So now I have to deal with her burping, and slobbering (yes, slobbering) on the handrest for the whole of a state and a half. I had no idea how big Nebraska was. I kept my airsick bag out and handy, hoping to protect myself should the worse happen. The worse did not happen, though I didn’t dare disturb her by getting up and going to the bathroom.
We landed, and she stands up (well more falls upward from her seat) and pulls down her bag (hitting the guy behind me. She tries to roll the bag out of the plane. It jackknifes. I help her pull it upright. She takes one step – jackknife. Now remember, we are at the front of the plane. At this point, missing my kids, not wanting to get thrown-up on, and desperately needing the loo, I dive over the first class seat, and bound up the jetway. I have no idea if any of those people every made it off the flight, and I must admit that I didn’t see this women again the rest of the time I was in the airport. All I care about was:
• Going to loo (first things first)
• Getting to my luggage
• Hearing Alethea scream across the luggage area “Daddy” Daddy” “Daddy”
• Seeing Justus totter towards me
• Having Tanya welcome me home with a big kiss
And walking out of the airport and seeing that big mountain staring back at me. Never again will I leave for four weeks I have any say over it. (or sit next to someone capable of downing a whole bottle of vodka in an hours time).
