Terminal Blues

I hate those couple of hours spent at foreign airport terminals before the boarding call.

It not only means I have oodles of time to kill thanks to hotel front desk staff who insist you leave four hours before your flight - time that's often spent unnecessarily spent at the Duty Free - but I also dreading going home.

Not that this trip's been all fun & games. Quite the contrary, if you've been reading up. And I miss my lady somethin' fierce, and can't wait to see her when I arrive in San Francisco.

But there's always the spectre of returning to the U.S. of A. I hate the feeling of dread knowing that in roughly 11 hours, I'll be greeted by some of the most unprofessional, uncouth immigration officers this side of the former Soviet Union. I sit here knowing that in half a day, I'll be completely incensed by the impatient, ill-mannered bastards who don't know how to stand around a baggage carrousel. And I can feel my sphincter tighten at the prospect of hearing nothing but "Presidential" this and "primary" that and "delegates" whoozawatsits for the next ten months.

If home is where the heart is, then I have one very hardened heart. (Probably more so now with last night's foie gras flowing through my bloodstream.) It's tough being in other countries and experiencing life at a different pace, with different values, and with a different perspective, only to come home to things to realize that all the people you love are surround by things you're starting to hate.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not some America-hater. But with every little footstep on foreign soil, I hate more and more what America's becoming. Impolite. Arrogant. Paranoid. I take criticism decently, so I don't feel offended by how my people and my country are handled by the foreign media. By taking a step back, I can see the ridicule heaped upon our once-great nation for championing liberty and democracy while leaning toward oligarchy and theocracy.

This isn't to say that Europe is perfect. France elected some Bush-lovin' righty in their most recent presidential election, and the previous president had to have a run-off with a freakin' Nazi. But in day to day life, everything is still imbued with a sense of politesse, that life is more than your job or your political party or your stock portfolio. That it matters more how your steak is cooked than which kook you voted for. That it matters more that you say "bonjour" to everyone you see than to call in the TIPS line because they look a bit dark.

Oh well - the grass is always greener on the other side. I should be thankful that I'm coming home to a wonderful woman, a loving family, awesome friends, great co-workers, and the best fucking city in all of America*. For whatever that's worth.


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*San Francisco, for all you misinformed people who thought your hometown is better.

I Am Not Ready

My flight leaves in eleven hours, but I'm not quite packed.

I gathered a bunch of stuff and have a selection of suitcases and backpacks, but I still don't know what I'm taking.

When I did gather all that stuff, I couldn't find my passport. I panicked, stressed out, cussed out almost everyone I care about, and - eventually - I wound up finding it.

I haven't printed out any itineraries, hotel reservations, flight e-tickets... I haven't called my banks to let them know I'll be out of the country, nor have I gotten any foreign currency.

I've only minimally studied the language, and studied the guide books and the web site even less so.

You know, all those things I normally take care of in advance? Non-existent. I've spent the last two months focused on my trip to Europe and my work week in Tennessee, with absolutely no time to think about the next trip. Since I punched out of work today, I've crossed the threshold from two months where my every move was planned and coordinated to fitting fairly strict itineraries, to a time where I don't even know where my airline tickets are, how I'm getting to the airport, or where the hell I'm staying.

In short, this is the least prepared this usually well-prepared traveler has ever been for a trip overseas.

And I'm overjoyed about it.

This is going to be totally different. It's going to be surreal. It's going to be a strange sort of trip as far as my trips go.

Because this time, for the first time since early childhood, I'm heading back to (one of) my motherland(s): Japan.

With my mother.

Eating My Words

Regular readers might remember my tirade on Virgin Atlantic from my last trip across the pond back in January.

I take it back.

This time around, the check-in staff were great. If a bit slow and anal retentive. Hell, they acknowledged that because I'm a well-coiffed, attractive, intelligent man that I deserved a better seat. That and I got there nice and early.

Before the upgrade, they kept my chosen seat assignment, even though I didn't get to online check-in right when it opened.

And god bless their flight attendants. Especially the two who swooned when I told them I wanted to surprise Alannah with a delivery of a chilled half bottle Moët & Chandon imperial rosé to her seat. Hot chicks swooning at my actions will guarantee my travel dollars. Unfortunately, they didn't have any as the in-flight gift option is only available for pre-orders (duly noted!), but they were profusely apologetic.

And while I may sing the praises of VA's hot flight attendants on a regular basis, there is no gal hotter than my gal... whom it turns out also wanted to surprise me with a bottle of champagne onboard.

She's also the hotness because she puts up with my ridiculous on-board text messages.


Still, there's one part of my Virgin rant from earlier in the year that I won't take back.

Fuck them for lowering their prices and filling their planes. What was once a cool flying experience is now déclassé and cramped. Whereas VA was a refuge for the travel savvy, it's now full of the same space-taking, inconsiderate mouthbreathers you find on every other airline. You know who I'm talking about.

And this time I'm talking about the fat, burnt out, pseudo-hippy whore in the velveteen dress with the Mona Lisa (I shit you not) printed across her huge, pendulous, and frankly disgusting breasts. Before you squeeze into such an abomination of an outfit, think of the innocent eyes that might have to gaze upon it. Before you wear a sleeveless number, consider the utter lack of aesthetic value of your cheap, prison-quality tattoos. Before you constantly open the shade on the window in our row - the coveted exit row for which we arrive early and pay extra - consider the fact that we are sleeping or watching movies and don't need that bright light shined in our faces just so you can get a view of the wing - the very same view you have from your own window. Before you do a series of stretches and exercises tantamount to a peep show at the Lusty Lady, consider that no one wants to see you bending over, stretching, lunging, or touching your toes while your fat ass is squeezed like so much ground pork into a velveteen sausage casing - and particularly not for extended periods of time. While people are welcome to hang out, stretch, and take a breather in the exit rows and next to the galleys, it is not for you or your horrid little harpie friends to take up my coveted space, rub your disgusting asscheek against my head, nor repeatedly step on my feet thinking that saying, "Oh, sorry!" will make it alright. If you meant it, you wouldn't keep doing it, you disgusting fucking wretch. Your uncouth behavior and generally fetid appearance made dealing with US immigration and customs relatively pleasing. That's how disgusting you are.

Great, now that I've gotten that out of the way, an overall thumbs-up to Virgin Atlantic. Even with the aforementioned miserable fat wretch whore bitch, it's still a far classier airline than any US-run P.O.S.