Holiday Diary, Day 1
This is what they mean by an air of excitement. There's about half an hour to go before the taxi is due, and the boys and I are pacing up and down the driveway. All the bags are in the hallway (or the living room - we're taking a lot of stuff) and there's nothing left to do but wait.
Now, the day is mainly going to be spent waiting, and it might have been better to spend this time doing something productive, but they're excited, and so am I. I'm also, as always, tense about the time. Even though we've left huge amounts of time to get to Stansted, I'm anxious because I won't be driving.
Taxi arrives early, we pile in - how many times in the next two weeks are we going to manhandle three large suitcases and four carry-on bags? Better get used to it. To my disappointment, we take the same route I take every day to go to work - at least at first. I think I'd have gone cross-country, partly to avoid having to look at this all too familiar scenery on the way. Never mind, I'm not driving, I have my boys either side of me in the back, and we're finally going. The taxi journey is remarkably quick, in truth - in spite of the best efforts of the M25, and we arrive at the airport in more than enough time.
The last time I was at Stansted, it was a bit of a scrum; this time it's a lot of a scrum. I spend a significant amount of time just getting to the front of the pack to find out where we're to check in, and even longer navigating to the far end of the terminal building. But soon enough we're checked in, passport controlled, security checked (and which of us, who has been security checked for flights roughly once a week for the whole of this year, gets stopped for forgetting to take off his watch and belt?) and settled down to wait some more.
And it all goes pretty quickly. I have become something of a jaded waiter-in-airports this year, so I was expecting this part to drag, but there is snacking and shopping to be done. (And if you think I'm going to identify which frequent-flyer member of the party forgot his boarding card and had to do the trek to the far end of the terminal twice just to buy some toothpaste, you're mistaken). Some time before the official boarding time, we decide to take the nifty Stansted train to the gate - as much to break up the wait as anything - and we emerge at the pier ready to settle down for some more waiting. But we are pleasantly surprised by the invitation to step on board; the flight is waiting for us, having arrived from Manchester, and we have plenty of time for boarding, arranging ourselves, and generally getting organised. Extremely civilised, and something I'd encourage all airlines to do. Yes, I know that's not realistic, but I can dream.
Push back, and now the time drags - we want to be under way, but there's the usual amount of hanging about waiting for other traffic to be done first. Eventually, we're lined up, and although this is probably my 30th or so flight of the year, I cannot suppress a thrill as we start to roll - gets me every time.
The flight is 10 hours long, but I'll spare you the full details. Instead, here are the highlights from my notes:
Scotland: It's a beautiful clear day, and all of the west coast of Scotland is laid out before us. I spot Stornoway, where I used to fly to on BA 748s all those years ago, but soon it's all behind us.
Iceland: The captain alerts us to Iceland, and it's stunning - a place I've long wanted to visit, it looks bewitching from the air - all rock and tundra, an alien landscape.
Greenland: Truly spectacular, Greenland seems to go on for ever out the right hand windows - during cloud breaks, I'm peering out for polar bears, but there's only white, as far as the eye can see.
Icebergs: Huge great bergs, the size of medium-sized English counties, float by. Awe-inspiring from up here; what must they be like close-to?
Ice floes: And these are just startling - vast areas of frozen or semi-frozen sea like nothing I've ever seen before.
On we fly - Canada gradually asserts itself beneath us, and only now do we begin to understand the scale of it - we're only halfway through the flight, and there are no more countries to cross. As we go, we explore the in-flight entertainment, we play with GameBoys (well, the boys do), we read things, we eat surprisingly good food, we chatter and change seats, we do logic puzzles (well, I do - a throwback to my own family holidays, when I would spend hours lying on Italian beaches doing these puzzles). There's a note here about a sickbag, but we'll draw a veil over that (no, it wasn't me).
We've been battling headwinds all the way, and we're about an hour overdue by the time we start to descend, but the flight's been so good - for which, read the boys have been so good - we hardly notice it. We try to pick out locations we've perused on maps from the air, but a new country is impossible to interpret from above; you need time to get used to the way it looks, and this all looks alien. There's a big sweep over downtown Vancouver, but it's on the other side of the aircraft, and so we let down over the Pacific - the Pacific! - and arrive without having been prepared for what it all looks like.
Externally, Vancouver Airport looks like any other airport, I suppose - a little disappointing, because I'd been told it was impressive, but inside is a different matter. This is how airports should be - warm, welcoming, efficient - a dramatic contrast to my times at Malpensa - and we're whisked through passport control, baggage reclaim and customs in what feels like no time at all. Never mind that it's nearly midnight by our body clocks; we're in a new country, and just maybe we're embarking on a new life.
Passport control is our first encounter with the general Canadian friendliness - what would be in the UK a surly, mumbled exchange is a real, honest-to-goodness conversation with someone who is really interested in what we're doing, and where we're going. It takes no longer than normal, but it feels so much nicer. Welcome to Canada, they do things differently here...
The taxi driver is Sikh - we could be in London. We could be, except that we're on the wrong side of the road, and London doesn't look like this. The trip downtown is straightforward enough (thinks the person who's going to have to do it again on his own in a couple of days). As we round the final corner, to cross over Granville Island, we're confronted with Downtown - City of Glass, I discover later, and that's exactly right. It just looks so different from what we're used to - tall buildings as far as the eye can see, but so much sea, and so many mountains. Vancouver truly is in the most spectacular setting, especially if seen in good weather - later in the trip we'd see it in low cloud, and it looks quite diiferent ; this is the way to see it.
The hotel is - of course - friendly and welcoming; the boys get to try a little Canadian ("Hi there!") and we decide, having freshened up a little, to take a stroll; try to begin the process of adjusting the bodyclocks. We only walk a few blocks, enough to get a feel for the city. I have, of course, been in Toronto, but for the others, this is their first experience of a North American city, all wrong side of the road and unfamiliar rules - we can walk out in front of traffic, and it will stop. This is going to take some getting used to.
We snack, and wander back to the hotel, weary but happy. Trolleybuses swish by, unnerving in their relative silence, and we begin to grasp that this is a quite different city.
All that's left of the day is a very strange hot tub experience on the top floor, gazing out at the rush hour traffic on the Granville St Bridge, 12 storeys below us, and a meal in the White Spot attached to the hotel - full of calorific Canadian goodness. It's only 7pm, but we're ready for bed. Probably the longest day of any of our lives (certainly so for the boys), but we're here.
And it feels good.
Now, the day is mainly going to be spent waiting, and it might have been better to spend this time doing something productive, but they're excited, and so am I. I'm also, as always, tense about the time. Even though we've left huge amounts of time to get to Stansted, I'm anxious because I won't be driving.
Taxi arrives early, we pile in - how many times in the next two weeks are we going to manhandle three large suitcases and four carry-on bags? Better get used to it. To my disappointment, we take the same route I take every day to go to work - at least at first. I think I'd have gone cross-country, partly to avoid having to look at this all too familiar scenery on the way. Never mind, I'm not driving, I have my boys either side of me in the back, and we're finally going. The taxi journey is remarkably quick, in truth - in spite of the best efforts of the M25, and we arrive at the airport in more than enough time.
The last time I was at Stansted, it was a bit of a scrum; this time it's a lot of a scrum. I spend a significant amount of time just getting to the front of the pack to find out where we're to check in, and even longer navigating to the far end of the terminal building. But soon enough we're checked in, passport controlled, security checked (and which of us, who has been security checked for flights roughly once a week for the whole of this year, gets stopped for forgetting to take off his watch and belt?) and settled down to wait some more.
And it all goes pretty quickly. I have become something of a jaded waiter-in-airports this year, so I was expecting this part to drag, but there is snacking and shopping to be done. (And if you think I'm going to identify which frequent-flyer member of the party forgot his boarding card and had to do the trek to the far end of the terminal twice just to buy some toothpaste, you're mistaken). Some time before the official boarding time, we decide to take the nifty Stansted train to the gate - as much to break up the wait as anything - and we emerge at the pier ready to settle down for some more waiting. But we are pleasantly surprised by the invitation to step on board; the flight is waiting for us, having arrived from Manchester, and we have plenty of time for boarding, arranging ourselves, and generally getting organised. Extremely civilised, and something I'd encourage all airlines to do. Yes, I know that's not realistic, but I can dream.
Push back, and now the time drags - we want to be under way, but there's the usual amount of hanging about waiting for other traffic to be done first. Eventually, we're lined up, and although this is probably my 30th or so flight of the year, I cannot suppress a thrill as we start to roll - gets me every time.
The flight is 10 hours long, but I'll spare you the full details. Instead, here are the highlights from my notes:
Scotland: It's a beautiful clear day, and all of the west coast of Scotland is laid out before us. I spot Stornoway, where I used to fly to on BA 748s all those years ago, but soon it's all behind us.
Iceland: The captain alerts us to Iceland, and it's stunning - a place I've long wanted to visit, it looks bewitching from the air - all rock and tundra, an alien landscape.
Greenland: Truly spectacular, Greenland seems to go on for ever out the right hand windows - during cloud breaks, I'm peering out for polar bears, but there's only white, as far as the eye can see.
Icebergs: Huge great bergs, the size of medium-sized English counties, float by. Awe-inspiring from up here; what must they be like close-to?
Ice floes: And these are just startling - vast areas of frozen or semi-frozen sea like nothing I've ever seen before.
On we fly - Canada gradually asserts itself beneath us, and only now do we begin to understand the scale of it - we're only halfway through the flight, and there are no more countries to cross. As we go, we explore the in-flight entertainment, we play with GameBoys (well, the boys do), we read things, we eat surprisingly good food, we chatter and change seats, we do logic puzzles (well, I do - a throwback to my own family holidays, when I would spend hours lying on Italian beaches doing these puzzles). There's a note here about a sickbag, but we'll draw a veil over that (no, it wasn't me).
We've been battling headwinds all the way, and we're about an hour overdue by the time we start to descend, but the flight's been so good - for which, read the boys have been so good - we hardly notice it. We try to pick out locations we've perused on maps from the air, but a new country is impossible to interpret from above; you need time to get used to the way it looks, and this all looks alien. There's a big sweep over downtown Vancouver, but it's on the other side of the aircraft, and so we let down over the Pacific - the Pacific! - and arrive without having been prepared for what it all looks like.
Externally, Vancouver Airport looks like any other airport, I suppose - a little disappointing, because I'd been told it was impressive, but inside is a different matter. This is how airports should be - warm, welcoming, efficient - a dramatic contrast to my times at Malpensa - and we're whisked through passport control, baggage reclaim and customs in what feels like no time at all. Never mind that it's nearly midnight by our body clocks; we're in a new country, and just maybe we're embarking on a new life.
Passport control is our first encounter with the general Canadian friendliness - what would be in the UK a surly, mumbled exchange is a real, honest-to-goodness conversation with someone who is really interested in what we're doing, and where we're going. It takes no longer than normal, but it feels so much nicer. Welcome to Canada, they do things differently here...
The taxi driver is Sikh - we could be in London. We could be, except that we're on the wrong side of the road, and London doesn't look like this. The trip downtown is straightforward enough (thinks the person who's going to have to do it again on his own in a couple of days). As we round the final corner, to cross over Granville Island, we're confronted with Downtown - City of Glass, I discover later, and that's exactly right. It just looks so different from what we're used to - tall buildings as far as the eye can see, but so much sea, and so many mountains. Vancouver truly is in the most spectacular setting, especially if seen in good weather - later in the trip we'd see it in low cloud, and it looks quite diiferent ; this is the way to see it.
The hotel is - of course - friendly and welcoming; the boys get to try a little Canadian ("Hi there!") and we decide, having freshened up a little, to take a stroll; try to begin the process of adjusting the bodyclocks. We only walk a few blocks, enough to get a feel for the city. I have, of course, been in Toronto, but for the others, this is their first experience of a North American city, all wrong side of the road and unfamiliar rules - we can walk out in front of traffic, and it will stop. This is going to take some getting used to.
We snack, and wander back to the hotel, weary but happy. Trolleybuses swish by, unnerving in their relative silence, and we begin to grasp that this is a quite different city.
All that's left of the day is a very strange hot tub experience on the top floor, gazing out at the rush hour traffic on the Granville St Bridge, 12 storeys below us, and a meal in the White Spot attached to the hotel - full of calorific Canadian goodness. It's only 7pm, but we're ready for bed. Probably the longest day of any of our lives (certainly so for the boys), but we're here.
And it feels good.
posted by Richard at 9:40 pm
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