Departing and Arriving
Leaving Portland was easy. Drop off the poodle, get a Lyft to the airport. Go.
We were taking a puddle-jumper up to Seattle to catch a flight to London and then Venice. Portland’s newly remodeled airport is a symphony of hewn wood. It’s truly beautiful. But it’s ¾ done. Passageways are blocked. Some parts of the airport are still draped in nylon construction wrap. The Alaska wing of PDX is right there when you drive in. As you drive into the airport to drop someone off, look to your right. That’s the Alaska terminal. But you can’t get there from here. The mostly complete new airport layout requires that you circumnavigate the entire facility instead of taking what should be an easy hard right turn at the ticket counter.
Alaska says we are checked it through to Venice. Great. When we land in Seattle, British Airways does not agree. For days prior I could not get the Alaska or British Airways app to grant us a boarding pass. But now? Now that we’ve landed in Seattle-Tacoma Airport, I guess I am blessed. I can now download an electronic boarding pass. But only for me. Not for her.
We get to the gate with our assigned group (we are law abiding airport citizens) and my electronic boarding pass works just fine. Her paper pass requires a trip to the front desk. Furious typing resulted in a freshly printed and minted British Airways boarding pass which, apparently, transcends borders. It worked from Seattle through London to Italy. It must be the British Airways logo stamped in the upper left corner.
On the flight I fall asleep listening podcasts, wake up, restart podcasts, and sleep through them again. I try reading. I’m working my way through Cathedral by Raymond Carver. Carver is a short-story writer from the Pacific Northwest, but I read all of his stories with a southern accent. I finally finish a short tragedy about a boy killed by a motorist on his birthday, and a forgotten birthday cake. His stories are about human connection at its most mundane and they will punch you right in the gut when you least expect it. I find myself misty on the flight, and remember why I usually watch garbage movies on planes.
We land at London Heathrow. I am pleased to find that Brexit doesn’t require us to revalidate our passports. Heathrow Terminal 5 is a cacophonous tire fire. We manage to find a vegetarian take on a full English breakfast (no rashers, no black pudding, vegan sausage, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, eggs, a distressing lack of mushrooms, and HP sauce). The breakfast performed to specification. My breakfast Guinness cured what ailed me. Guinness made close to the source has a depth, a quality, that makes you want to whistle a little tune. It’s hard to describe, but it is better in every way.
Heathrow and British Air conspired to not give us any gate information until boarding time, so we sat with noise canceling headphones and watched the video billboards repeat the same ads for jewelry and Marshall guitar amps. A beautiful blonde woman fashion-walked through a world of gold and Swarofsky Crystals then a cool-dad silently whaled on a guitar in a dusty barn repeatedly and forever. We are surrounded by Gucci, Prada, and other aspirational brands. I try to imagine a bored prince wandering the airport. "Yes, give me the most expensive one you have."
We smooshed our way onto our tiny plane to Venice, full of tourists and travelers returning home. I dozed through most of the 2 hour flight.
The Venice airport had the most efficient passport control I have ever experienced. I stepped up to a gate and scanned my passport. I stepped up to another gate, removed my hat and glasses then a robot took my picture. A green light blinked; the gate opened; welcome to Italy.
Our travel agency arranged for someone to meet us at the airport and finagle transport to our hotel. A young Italian man who spoke English with a British accent guided us out of the airport to a small seaport built of brick and concrete. The modernist rectangles reminded me of a nice And there was a smoking area. Ah Venice. Some papers and carbon copies of those papers were handed to serious looking men, who led us to a wooden speedboat and we were ferried to the island of Venice.
