I suppose I should have remembered that bad things, as well as good things, come in threes. True enough, the first couple of bad things weren't really bad - a necessity to book before going to the airport lounge; a breakfast that went astray. No big deal, really. Not enough to ring warning bells for the flight.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
We decided to fly to Boston via Dublin so that we could take advantage of going through US immigration checks with lovely Irish people, rather than the US Department of Homeland Security people. Lovely people in their own way, I'm sure, but with a reputation for being ... surly.
We had plenty of time in Dublin airport to get off the Gatwick flight, find our way to the US immigration area, do the checks and catch our onward flight. Or, we did, until our hour long flight to Dublin was delayed by almost an hour because the baggage was stowed unevenly. Or something. The cabin crew were reassuring. We still had plenty of time. It was a doddle. Just follow the signs and we'd whizz through, no problem.
Hmmm... Call me naive, but I did believe them. Almost.
The Department of Homeland Security was quite a long way away from our arrivals gate. No problem. Plenty of time. Those lovely Irish people would check us through rapidly, knowing we had just 20 minutes before the Boston flight left. Wouldn't they?
Well, I'm sure they would have. But unfortunately the US immigration wasn't staffed by lovely, laid back, blue eyed, red haired Irish people. The man who took our details was very definitely American. He was thorough. Pleasant enough, humourous even. "Jennifer, what's your first name?" Um, "Jennifer?". "There, it doesn't get harder than that". Ho, ho, ho.
Trouble was, we'd whizzed through to him so quickly, the photographs of our baggage hadn't caught up with us. So, in we went to a sort of holding area, with about 15 other people from our flight, all onward bound, all awaiting baggage identification, but no-one with as tight a time restraint as us. Again, call me naive, but I'd have thought our humourist would have passed the urgency of our case on to the single person processing us all. Ho, ho, ho.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Other people were called up and released. "Through the glass doors to your right and turn left". Five minutes left till our flight was due to leave. Two more people appeared to deal with the now growing number of increasingly agitated passengers. Two minutes. I saw a tough looking woman pick up our passports and stood up. "Mr Hill?" Yes! "Is this your bag?" To be honest we'd have said yes to a battered rucksack at that point just to get out of the room and on the flight.
Fortunately, we were able to correctly identify both our bags. "Our flight leaves in two minutes, will we make it?" I should have known better than to try to reason with the full force of US officialdom. She shifted the gum to the other side of her mouth. "Out of the glass doors to your right and turn left."
As we duly exited through the glass doors and turned left the tannoy announced our flight was closed. I began to run towards the distant departure gate, waving hard at the tiny figure of the lovely Irish man who was taking our boarding passes.
As I sat, out of breath, in my seat, I saw my bag being loaded into the plane. Well, I thought, at least my bag, being last in, will be first out. Will I never learn? Guess who's bag was last onto the carousel at Logan airport...
You got it. Mine.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
We decided to fly to Boston via Dublin so that we could take advantage of going through US immigration checks with lovely Irish people, rather than the US Department of Homeland Security people. Lovely people in their own way, I'm sure, but with a reputation for being ... surly.
We had plenty of time in Dublin airport to get off the Gatwick flight, find our way to the US immigration area, do the checks and catch our onward flight. Or, we did, until our hour long flight to Dublin was delayed by almost an hour because the baggage was stowed unevenly. Or something. The cabin crew were reassuring. We still had plenty of time. It was a doddle. Just follow the signs and we'd whizz through, no problem.
Hmmm... Call me naive, but I did believe them. Almost.
The Department of Homeland Security was quite a long way away from our arrivals gate. No problem. Plenty of time. Those lovely Irish people would check us through rapidly, knowing we had just 20 minutes before the Boston flight left. Wouldn't they?
Well, I'm sure they would have. But unfortunately the US immigration wasn't staffed by lovely, laid back, blue eyed, red haired Irish people. The man who took our details was very definitely American. He was thorough. Pleasant enough, humourous even. "Jennifer, what's your first name?" Um, "Jennifer?". "There, it doesn't get harder than that". Ho, ho, ho.
Trouble was, we'd whizzed through to him so quickly, the photographs of our baggage hadn't caught up with us. So, in we went to a sort of holding area, with about 15 other people from our flight, all onward bound, all awaiting baggage identification, but no-one with as tight a time restraint as us. Again, call me naive, but I'd have thought our humourist would have passed the urgency of our case on to the single person processing us all. Ho, ho, ho.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Other people were called up and released. "Through the glass doors to your right and turn left". Five minutes left till our flight was due to leave. Two more people appeared to deal with the now growing number of increasingly agitated passengers. Two minutes. I saw a tough looking woman pick up our passports and stood up. "Mr Hill?" Yes! "Is this your bag?" To be honest we'd have said yes to a battered rucksack at that point just to get out of the room and on the flight.
Fortunately, we were able to correctly identify both our bags. "Our flight leaves in two minutes, will we make it?" I should have known better than to try to reason with the full force of US officialdom. She shifted the gum to the other side of her mouth. "Out of the glass doors to your right and turn left."
As we duly exited through the glass doors and turned left the tannoy announced our flight was closed. I began to run towards the distant departure gate, waving hard at the tiny figure of the lovely Irish man who was taking our boarding passes.
As I sat, out of breath, in my seat, I saw my bag being loaded into the plane. Well, I thought, at least my bag, being last in, will be first out. Will I never learn? Guess who's bag was last onto the carousel at Logan airport...
You got it. Mine.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
