Off and Flying!

Sunday, October 19, 2008.
I have not been kidnapped, shot at, nor even harassed—a great trip so far! But now that I have made it safely to Logan airport, I am going to have to leave the good ole USA.
Pete Hurn—that once and future racecar driver—got me to Boston without incident. (Of course, I had to tell him what lane to merge into whenever. He drives real slow for a former racer) Thankfully the busy highway to Boston had about six cars on it. Good thing the Red Sox are playing away on this the last day before the World Series or this place would have been crazy.
I don’t know whether to be glad or sad to be flying to the other side of the globe with the Sox up for their last stand against Haverhill’s Carlos Pena and crew. You see I started following this team long before Red Sox nation was invented. I went first when there was a “Ladies’ Day” and Mom took me to see the Sox play for half price—probably 25 cents. The Red S beat the White S of Chicago something like 19 to 3. I thought all the Red Sox games would be like that, being only about 10 at the time. That was the year Ted Williams was back from World War II, Pitcher Dave “Boo” Ferris went 25 and 6, Johnny Pesky was at short, and they won by a dozen games over the (I hate to even say it) Yankees. We were the greatest team in baseball that year and played the Cardinals in the series. Then it happened—the first time, but not the last time. We were one out away from the championship and managed to blow it!
That scarred me for life. The wounds went deeper in 1967 and on through the whole century as the curse worked its evil magic on our darlings.
Now we’ve had a championship or two. And once again are one game from sudden death. And my old syndrome slices through my psyche like a hot electrode hooked up to my most sensitive nerves. So maybe its good to be 40,000 feet over the Atlantic when the final out is in the books. I’ll read about on the Internet next week, since the stupid British papers will just have football (Soccer) and tennis and all those wimpy European “sports.” What’s wrong with those people? Maybe that’s why the Pilgrims came to New England—to think up some decent sports!
Anyway, Pete got me here safe and sound. I must say I sort of was hoping he’d pull of a couple of 180’s on the highway—you know—since it was so empty of vehicles. But I understand—he’s getting old just like all of us. Only some are getting more old than others. It’s a shame, when you think of it. I hope I’m over the Atlantic when I get old, so I won’t have to watch my final inning on national TV….
Anyway, Pete peeled rubber making his getaway from Logan, while I snaked my way through the labyrinth of airport protocol. I was so proud! I had printed my own boarding pass before leaving home, with my seat picked out and everything. So I expected to whiz through to the gizmo that takes your x-ray once you take your shoes off? Not so fast! There was a shorter line for us advanced techies. But we still had to hoist the baggage onto the scale and have our passports and visas checked out.
But wait! I axshully learned something. I had a small bottle of water in my carryon – four tenths of an ounce or something like that that gets a pass at security in Europe and India. But not here. O no! As luck would have it, I chose a line where the man was leaning back on his stool with no customers. I said, “You look lonely.” He gave me a look and waved me over to his conveyor belt. Soon he’s telling me I have a water bottle. Verboten! But since my line is empty, he reverses the conveyor so I can take it out. What if I drink it and send it empty? YES! So a few swallows (even thought they do not a summer make) gets me at least a bottle I can fill up on the other side. I thought that experience might be useful to one of you should you follow these labyrinths to the wide, wide world. So I have my bottle! And I fooled ‘em, too. There were a number of molecules of H2O still in the poor sad little plastic I now consider a true friend to be treasured forever. I’m looking for a bubbler now to give the little guy a drink. So I’ll sign off for now.
(8 hours later….)
Heathrow airport, near London. We got here early due to a tailwind of up to 150 mph. A bit spooky to be the only one going through another checkpoint, most of my fellow travelers having detoured to Thai Air. Here you do not have to open your computer case as you do in Boston. But you do have to remove your belt. Mine is black. In the terminal all the shops are dark and gated. It’s not quite 5 AM. No signs of life, except a TV showing early news, plus a couple of window washers. So I stretch my cramped legs wandering the long ramps to 25 gates. I am so bored I find myself reading message boards.
Did you know that in 1946 Heathrow was a tiny hamlet with a few lazy “tents?” It had a small airstrip that sent out a few hundred flights per year. Now it covers 3000 acres, has 4 terminals, and services more travelers than any other in the world. It employs about 68,000 workers, serves 2500 sandwiches a day and sells a bottle of whiskey in the duty free an average of every 7 seconds.
Well, that’s a lot more than I need to know. So on to another lounge. At least now there are dishes rattling and sleepy tellers at the exchange counters. All the TV news is about the recession and how it’s going to be rough until 2011. Jings!
But in truth only God knows—and He is not telling. I guess I’ll have a slice of prune bread Ellie sent along. That will keep me going.