On the Way!

I'm up in the air right now – literally: I'm on my final flight, from Dallas Fort Worth to Guatemala City. It's 6.45 in the evening, and we're somewhere over Mexico.

I very nearly missed my flight on Tuesday morning, as I was packing and saving laptop files all through the night, mostly because I managed to find more fun things to do at the last minute instead. I arrived by taxi just 35 minutes before take-off … at the wrong terminal: My driver woke me up as he dropped me off at the China Airlines check-in at Terminal 1, but, to my surprise, the lady at the desk there told me that China Airlines has check-ins at both terminals, and the Japan flight was leaving from the other.

She pointed me in the direction of the skybus to that terminal, and I headed off, adopting that panicked, waddling gait and wide-eyed signage staring particular to people carrying too heavy bags while rushing to a place so far unseen. The signs for the skybus said This Way and That Way, and then stopped. Then they started saying Shuttle Bus to Terminal 2, This Way and That Way, and then stopped. I had come so far only to realize that I must retrace my steps, so I did, this time waddling faster with wider eyes and more lost head turns per second than I had employed before.

I found the elevator to the skybus, stepped in, and hit the Door Close button about twenty times in succession, ignorant to the squeals of pain and annoyance coming from those people being pounded by the doors as they tried to follow me in.

Once we arrived at the third floor, the doors opened and more signs beckoned us to keep waddling in a panicked fashion this way and that way, up stairs, down long corridors, across bridges over highways, down more stairs, and along more lengthy corridors, finally to the waiting skybus, which glided us into Terminal 2, where, thankfully, only a few more corridors, twists and turns led me to the check-in. I realized, during this great journey from Terminal 1 check-in to the skybus terminal, that I could have walked directly to Terminal 2 in half the time.

When I finally reached the desk, the check-in was closed. Mercifully, the very nice woman at the China Airlines group check-in took pity on the sweating foreigner she saw before her and quickly processed my ticket and bag and sent me toward the gate with a pleasant "But you should hurry up!"

I had just enough time to wake my best friend up with a hurried 'Good-bye and take care' call before waddling one last time onto the plane, where I took my seat and looked out at the tarmac I won't be seeing again for a few months.

The service both on the plane and at check-in were fantastic, I have to say; China Airlines have really made some improvements there. Everyone was polite, attentive, and pretty, which helped ease away the stress of the hurried morning. Good food, too.

Tokyo Narita airport was very nice, but I have nothing much to report about that, other than the ubiquitous "Very clean and very expensive". I changed up a thousand NT and bought myself a sandwich and some chocolate, and read my book while waiting for the flight, American Airlines 060 to Dallas.

I had mixed feelings about the service on American Airlines. Firstly, AA seems to be the place where cabin crew go to die, as all those on this flight were grey – perhaps it's a requirement, because grey matches the navy blue of the uniform. Also, I noticed the crew to be a little impatient and very condescending, particularly when assisting the Asian passengers. I guess, when you're a 55-year-old flight attendant, you've heard the same questions a few thousand times too many, and you used up all your polite responses in the eighties.

Still, despite my first impression, and with a little more understanding, I soon began to enjoy the friendliness of the service, which was free flowing when not demanded. All I remember of the eleven-hour flight was slipping out of slumber to eat before quickly sliding back into sleep again. My request for vegetarian fare didn't go through, so I ended up enjoying the bread rolls and salads from two trays otherwise destined for meat-eaters. At least the breakfast offered more for the non-carnivore.

It was lucky I caught up on sleep during my flights, because U.S. Immigration was ahead of me, with the long, slow-moving lines that are indicative of a more careful (paranoid?) approach to welcoming visitors to American soil. I had been warned that the process wasn't anything to look forward to, so I was surprised to find that there were plenty of jovial and helpful staff on hand to assist me with my forms (they fill them in for you – not sure if that counters the security measures or not, but I appreciated it nonetheless, much as one would appreciate someone sitting a test on one's behalf, guaranteeing a pass). Friendly signs assured me of the professional and courteous nature of the officials waiting to screen me, and a uniformed man mingled among the waiting queues with a little beagle named Brady to add to the cheer.

Brady was a sniffer dog, trained to sense and indicate the presence of any contraband in the passengers' bags. Still, everyone thought he was cute and enjoyed watching him, his tail a-wagging, his ears a-flapping, and his nose a-sniffing, ready to grass on those with grass on them. I smiled as he scampered along the line toward me, enjoying watching the little fella loving his job so much, and grateful that I had nothing in my bag to give the American security personnel a chance to show what they can do.

And then Brady stopped at my bag. He sniffed it all over, again and again and again and again. I looked in wide-eyed alarm at his security-guard handler, who in turn looked questioningly at me; my fellow passengers stepped away from my bag and its canine admirer and glared at me while I stared confusedly down at Brady, who in turn stared intently at my bag.

But he didn't give a signal. Then it hit me: he can smell the sixty or so dog smells that my bag must have picked up when I lived at the holding centre. "Oh, he can smell my dogs", I explained. "I have sixty!" The guard looked at me in disbelief, the passengers looked at me in horror, taking another step back, and Brady, not sensing any distant cousins or family friends among the aromas, went on his merry way to check out some of the less odorous baggage. The guard chuckled as Brady led him away.

My flight had arrived at around 3.30, but it was 4.30 before we finally got through the lengthy queues at immigration, so I hurried through to the departure gate so I could check out the duty-frees and get a sandwich before my 5.50 flight. But now we have to go through pre-board passenger screening, and this was an America still affected by the events some seven years before. The line was even longer and even slower than immigration … and far more intimidating.

Security agents scanned the lines of people waiting to pass through, and I noticed one who had taken a particular interest in a Spanish-looking fellow behind me. He glared at him sideways almost the entire time, and called another agent over to indicate his concern. I wondered what the agent had noticed that the screening process wouldn't: to board a flight in the US, you have to put everything you can through the x-ray machine, including your shoes!

When it was my turn, I followed the clear instructions and took several minutes to take my laptop out of its bag, put my jacket and sweater in a tray along with my change and my shoes, and later the belt that set off the metal detector as I passed through. Then I had to pass through some strange machine that looked like a phone box but which propelled jets of air over my person to detect explosives.

Not having lived with sixty phone boxes, the machine paid less attention to me than his canine counterpart, and I passed the test with flying colours. I took several minutes to get dressed again while watching the Hispanic guy be sat down and scanned again with some other detectors. I observed his frustration as I headed off to change some money, where I heard my name announced over the speakers, and telling me that I was the last passenger they were waiting for to board.

And so, here I am, somewhere over Central America, with tiny pockets of civilization glistening far below me in the surrounding darkness, wondering how I'm going to get from Guatemala City to Antigua safely so late at night ...