I'm a sucker for "Love, Actually." The movie. There's that opening scene at London's Heathrow Airport. And that closing scene at London's Heathrow Airport. With all those people, waiting, waiting, waiting for their loved ones to come through those magic sliding doors. The people waiting have balloons. They have flowers. Posters, even. They cry. They laugh. Everybody hugs. And Claudia Schiffer is there.
The only person who ever met me at Heathrow was a cranky minicab driver who got my name wrong (Krister, it would seem), thought I was going to be a man, and then complained I didn't text him far enough in advance so he'd have time to get a coffee before we left the airport. And I've never seen anyone famous in an airport, except for the one time I flew back to London from Orlando, and Jonathan Ross--the David Letterman of the UK--was on my flight with his family. (First class, of course.) His wife has strange hair.
9/11 has taken all the joy out of homecomings. Now, when I land in West Palm Beach, I call my 80-year old uncle (he drives a red Ford Mustang) and try in vain to describe my location. "I'm under a sign that says FOUR, Uncle Ray. FOUR!" Once, when he picked me up, he had a Diet Coke for me from Taco Bell. On the drive home that night, through that odd part of Florida where there's nothing but nothing and stars, he told me he believes in extraterrestrial life.
In Chicago, I land at the International Terminal. The doors sweep open and there they all are again, with their balloons and their signs and their flowers and sometimes, even little dogs. (Isn't that illegal?) Even at 5:30 in the morning, when the United flight from Sao Paulo lands, they're all there.
I take taxis home from O'Hare a lot. I don't mind taking the train TO the airport when the enthusiasm of my impending departure can propel me down the El stairs with my 70 lbs of luggage-to-be-checked. But I can't make it back up those stairs after eight to ten (or more) hours in the air, and there's a shortage of escalators and elevators in my part of town, along with Good Samaritans. Apparently.
A taxi back from O'Hare is 1778% more expensive that the train for me. Fact. But I like the early morning taxi drivers. They're happy that I'm not drunk, and because they''re from Nigeria, Iran, Romania, Morocco, the Ukraine or anywhere that ends with "stan" really, they know what I've just been through. "I hate flying through Frankfurt," they tell me. "There's nothing there." "Now Heathrow Terminal 5. That's a good terminal." "Schipol immigration officers! I am a U.S. citizen, but they only care about where I was born." "You know that United flight from London to Washington DC? The one with only one TV screen for the entire plane? That is the worst!"
"How long is it since you've been back?" I'll ask, during the amazingly quick trip into downtown Chicago at this time of the morning. "I haven't seen my family in five years," they'll say. Or ten. "I go back every Christmas. Because I am a Christian." Or, once, "I have never been back. I cannot go back. If I go back, they will kill me."
The only person who ever met me at Heathrow was a cranky minicab driver who got my name wrong (Krister, it would seem), thought I was going to be a man, and then complained I didn't text him far enough in advance so he'd have time to get a coffee before we left the airport. And I've never seen anyone famous in an airport, except for the one time I flew back to London from Orlando, and Jonathan Ross--the David Letterman of the UK--was on my flight with his family. (First class, of course.) His wife has strange hair.
9/11 has taken all the joy out of homecomings. Now, when I land in West Palm Beach, I call my 80-year old uncle (he drives a red Ford Mustang) and try in vain to describe my location. "I'm under a sign that says FOUR, Uncle Ray. FOUR!" Once, when he picked me up, he had a Diet Coke for me from Taco Bell. On the drive home that night, through that odd part of Florida where there's nothing but nothing and stars, he told me he believes in extraterrestrial life.
In Chicago, I land at the International Terminal. The doors sweep open and there they all are again, with their balloons and their signs and their flowers and sometimes, even little dogs. (Isn't that illegal?) Even at 5:30 in the morning, when the United flight from Sao Paulo lands, they're all there.
I take taxis home from O'Hare a lot. I don't mind taking the train TO the airport when the enthusiasm of my impending departure can propel me down the El stairs with my 70 lbs of luggage-to-be-checked. But I can't make it back up those stairs after eight to ten (or more) hours in the air, and there's a shortage of escalators and elevators in my part of town, along with Good Samaritans. Apparently.
A taxi back from O'Hare is 1778% more expensive that the train for me. Fact. But I like the early morning taxi drivers. They're happy that I'm not drunk, and because they''re from Nigeria, Iran, Romania, Morocco, the Ukraine or anywhere that ends with "stan" really, they know what I've just been through. "I hate flying through Frankfurt," they tell me. "There's nothing there." "Now Heathrow Terminal 5. That's a good terminal." "Schipol immigration officers! I am a U.S. citizen, but they only care about where I was born." "You know that United flight from London to Washington DC? The one with only one TV screen for the entire plane? That is the worst!"
"How long is it since you've been back?" I'll ask, during the amazingly quick trip into downtown Chicago at this time of the morning. "I haven't seen my family in five years," they'll say. Or ten. "I go back every Christmas. Because I am a Christian." Or, once, "I have never been back. I cannot go back. If I go back, they will kill me."
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