The journey started well. Torrential rain at Heathrow but the plane was apparently on time. Except it wasn’t, and was on a stand requiring a bus. Wet passengers although absolute credit to the BA employee who stood with an umbrella between the bus and the covered stairs while the deluge continued.
On board matters became much more calm. Pyjamas issued, champagne provided, followed by more and more as the delay increased. Would have been rude not to. And then off for a somewhat bumpy ride to high altitude where it never quite smoothed out but who was caring?
Joined Rosie for dinner which was good though again the BA poached egg was still solid if not quite as rubbery. Menus below for those who are interested – Rosie had salmon followed by halibut while I had asparagus and beef. Then chocolate ice cream for Rosie and cheese for me. Wines were good though was being semi abstemious by this point.
Films and a brief snooze followed, with the joy of high tea at half past midnight UK time. Somewhat different yet admirable, albeit the stewardess perplexed me by clearing it all away save a small pot of jam, which she then asked me, ten minutes later, if I wanted to keep! Eh no! One particular cinematic joy was a BOAC short film “George and the Flying Boats”. It is simply magnificent, involving a boy getting a flight in a Sandringham, and grown men wandering about on wings and near moving propellers. In short, a reminder why H&S is so overblown. If ever flying BA long haul watch it. It will delight you.
Only fifteen minutes late in Philly, where it was also very windy and wet and horrifyingly humid, and to be absolutely fair we were in the hotel seventy minutes after leaving the aircraft – first off which was most satisfying in a shameful way.
All that smugness evaporated, however, once we hit the immigration queues, where a new circle of hell had been added, just for fun or so it seemed to me. We duly saw a human being who asked aggressively why we were there, as well as scanning all fingers and thumbs and photographing us, but prior to that we had to go through an automated procedure which did much the same – though right hands only – before issuing us with a most unflattering, in my case at least, photo.
This of course sorted the wheat from the chaff and the real test I suppose was to see who was stupid enough to stand in line behind the large family from a southern state who whooped and hollered as they failed to make it work for the fifth time. With Rosie’s help we avoided that and passed through uneventfully. In due course our print outs were looked at dismissively by the officer, marked with a large cross and then taken off us as we left the area. Most odd.
It was therefore a relief to be back in the Monaco Hotel which as a Kimpton has whacky if impressive decor. Not necessarily the best thing after eighteen hours of travel but strangely reassuring and remarkably sleep inducing.
