Or the Inherent Serendystopia of Modern Travel…
Getting to the U.S. was no trouble, the only letdown being that I did want to try the new biometric PortPASS portal, which in theory lets you skip the endless lines in L.A.X. and scoot through in no time. Much to my disappointment, there were no lines at all, and their Stargate-style portal was out of order. (I think U.S. Immigration is due to upgrade to Windows 3 sometime soon and the system was down.)
The parties and all that were good fun. The view over L.A. from the top of the hills is very impressive, Sean Connery is charming but shorter than I’d imagined, Omar Shariff is an exceedingly elegant gentleman, Steve Tyler is equally charming, Ted Turner is really quite tall, Geena Davis is even taller, Sala Baker and Laurence Makoare are absolutely huge (but happily very sweet) and Paris Hilton fell in the pool.
The One.Ring party was brief; first I tried the main entrance but I got turned down (I’d forgotten my I.D.) and told to go to a different entrance, where I almost didn’t make it in past the heavy security (no I.D. again) but was – lucky for me – recognized by someone. (Alas, I forgot to ask for a goody bag. Damn.)
But it was getting back home that was most eventful.
First of all, the girl at the check-in didn’t want to let me get on my flight. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see your Swiss visa.”
“Ummm, I like ummm… don’t have one, I umm… live there.” (My characteristically spontaneous eloquence once again asserting itself at that crucial juncture.)
“Can I see your resident’s permit sir?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t carry it abroad, it’s not a travel document and Canadians don’t need visas for Switzerland. Besides, I just came from there 3 days ago.”
“I’m sorry sir, you can come from where you like, but you can’t go to Zurich without a visa.”
Notwithstanding my array of amusing foreign and helvetic documents – return ticket on Swiss (which stands for “So What It’s Still Swissair”, by the way), Swiss driver’s licence, bank cards, insurance cards, my Co-op Supercard, all the flotsam of the modern wallet soon spread on the counter, the agent remained inflexible and assured me sternly I needed a visa and was not leaving the US without one.
“But my PortPASS card, can’t you bring up my country of residence from your files?”
“I’m sorry sir, I have no access to that information”
“But I was in France a few days ago, I didn’t need a visa to go back home.”
“These things change all the time sir.”
Goodness I thought, the Swiss government must have waited ‘til my flight left Saturday and then secretly convened to change the legislation on a Sunday so I couldn’t get back in Monday, which would be uncharacteristically swift legislating for a country that has been discussing pension reforms and women’s rights non-stop for about 3 decades.)
“Americans don’t need visas do they?”
“I’m sorry sir, if you’re not an American citizen, I can’t divulge that information.”
“But I’m a Canadian” I said, “a simple citizen of that great dim forest-covered land to your north, a nation of peaceable residents all striving meekly to be mediocre and self-effacing in the light of that great land of liberty to their south that so benevolently provides such a welcome outlet for all that dirt-cheap surplus excess of oil and water and electricity that Canada knows not what to do with, a nation that has never done no wrong to nobody (we don’t shoot each other very often, heck we don’t even club baby seals any more) and why would the placid and pastoral Swiss, pragmatic and benign of nature themselves, require a visa of one such as my humble self? Besides, we supply them with all their foreign ice hockey players, surely asking us for visas would be singularly ungrateful.” No I didn’t say that, if fact I didn’t even think that – it’s what separates we mere mortals from such felicitous and jovial jesters as the Bill Brysons of this world. I was too flustered thinking whether or not I should pull out my library card and how I was going to convince this intractable and officially-bebadgèd woman to double-check her information if they haven’t got that pesky Windows 3 installer up and running yet…
Finally a superiorly badgèd agent was called in who nodded curtly to my now-badgered agent’s queries and I checked in. (I should perhaps have bid my luggage farewell then as it headed bravely off down the belt, but how was I to know what lay in store…)
Once at the gate, the happy gregarious herd of passengers we were at that point boarded the plane, only to be disembarked a little less happy half an hour later. Apparently there was a dent in the plane that made it unsafe for takeoff. The battered model was taken away. (HOW do they get dents in planes is what I want to know; I mean, they don’t exactly parallel park the things in supermarket lots. Or maybe other pilots dent planes with theirs and only PRETEND they’re leaving a note tucked under the other guy’s wipers.) A brand new one wheeled into place. On we got, seat-belt-fastened-and-seat-back-in-the-upright-position we got, and off we went, only to be told there was a generator problem (maybe it had a dent too) and that it would be quickly taken care of as soon as we turned around and got back to the terminal.
Finally, off we went once more, generator problem all but forgotten. A good stretch down the runway, just before the wheels left the tarmac, the pilot slammed on the brakes and aborted. Over the speakers came this timely announcement: We have a light on the instrument panel indicating a cargo door is open, and though we’re pretty certain it’s shut, we’ll go back and have maintenance check it just to make sure. (This is where you wish you hadn’t browsed that how-to-conquer-your-(totally irrational)-fear-of-flying article in the in-flight magazine.)
Back to terminal. Cargo door checked and secured, back out on runway, begin takeoff, slam on brakes midway down runway and back towards the terminal we go. Over the speakers: That darned light is still on, though this time we’re sure the door is shut so it’s most likely the monitoring system that is malfunctioning.
Oh great. Now THAT’S reassuring.
This is where passengers started deciding they didn’t need to get to New York in such a hurry after all and at they could surely catch another flight later.
Great thought I, extra room maybe I can get three across. Then half the crew left. Hmm, maybe three across is not such a good idea after all. Why is the crew leaving, and more importantly, why are some staying? What do half of them know the others don’t and vice-versa? After half an hour, most of a new crew had been assembled (“Just one more crew member to find folks.” How do they choose them, short straws?) when the pilot announced we would continue our game of musical planes.
The third one finally took off, and arrived in New York, where I wasn’t reprimanded for not having a visa for Switzerland (perhaps visa requirements for foreign countries are a state jurisdiction…) and eventually found a flight for Paris (I didn’t need a visa for France either). When finally I got to Zurich the customs officer didn’t even OPEN my passport, obviously unaware of LAX Swiss visa requirements. I almost went back and asked him to look inside after all the trouble I’d gone to, (I mean this New World Order stuff is NEVER going to work if nobody does their part) but on second thought reconsidered. (He might’ve asked where my American visa was.)
Of course the luggage carousel coughed up a surpringly paltry yield, and a resigned crowd of us traipsed off to the lost baggage desk in search of our belongings.
It was not so encouraging, (I mean HOW am I supposed to know WHICH of those three planes in L.A. I forgot my boarding pass on, we got on and off so many times, the seat number was memorised by the time we eventually left) but I certainly hope my suitcase does turn up. My latest sketchbook was rearly full…
Perhaps I should’ve been more obsequious to that check-in girl. I bet she sent my luggage to Patagonia via Irkutsk and Adelaide…
That last work-ridden week I complained of suddenly seems full of fond memories…
WHAT ELSE I DID THIS WEEK…
Surely I’ve done enough after all that?
