So I’ve left my Dad in recovery in Pennsylvania from his August 9 heart failure. After two weeks there, it was time to leave: I could do no more, and I couldn’t stay forever of course. He looks excellent, and is in the (now calmer) hands of my mother and my sister.
Having flown into Newark back on August 14 was my first trans-atlantic flight alone since 1999 – pre-marriage. Flying back yesterday evening from Newark to Heathrow was obviously the second. We almost always fly British Airways – as I did for these flights too.
Some journeys are arduous. Others relatively easy. This was the latter.
There were no hassles with the car service to Newark Airport, no fuss at bag drop, no real wait at Security.
It was also a strange feeling prepping to fly alone across the Atlantic again.
The flight itself – on a 787 Dreamliner, which is quite a plane – was unremarkable. (Also, I noticed no one getting to know a row-mate rather, uh, well.)
After landing in London, matters were similarly routine: disembarked quickly, and UK border control moved smoothly. (Unlike last time, today’s passport officer – another woman – displayed absolutely no interest in my occupation.)
The luggage was on the reclaim carousel when I reached it. I exited and found myself so early – the flight had also landed early – that my “driver” on this end (my wife) had not yet arrived. I took a seat near one of the “meeting points” in Terminal 5.
Killing time, I checked email, Facebook, and decided to have a tweet. The tweet was (I thought) innocuous. However, it attracted a response from Heathrow Airport’s official Twitter feed:
First time I’ve ever been welcomed by “an airport.” 😉