Chicago O'Hare: Things go badly wrong...

Boston airport is rubbish. Really rubbish. There's no coffee shop where you can sit down and enjoy an English breakfast tea and something to eat. Everything is takeaway on the coffee shop front and customers are expected to take their order away and sit somewhere else, in a communal area. I hate that. I had a decidedly average lunch in a place called Lucca where there was no dessert offering or hot beverage menu. Imagine that! You can't order a green tea or a coffee or whatever because there's nothing on the menu. Don't get me wrong: I didn't want a dessert. I'm trying to stop them completely, erase them from my life so I suppose there not being a dessert selection is good. But in all honesty I could have done with sitting there for a bit longer after eating my decidedly average chicken burger and fries. But yeah, as a result, Boston airport is being branded as rubbish by yours truly. And yes, I hate it. That said, I hate everything right now and I'm taking it out on Boston airport and, actually, Boston itself. I thought it was supposed to be some kind of place you have to visit. New England and all that. Boston, Maine. I started thinking about Stephen King for heaven's sake. He lives in the state of Maine, doesn't he? I'm sure he does, but anyway, this ain't about Stephen King, it's about me and my predicament, which we'll come to shortly. For now, let's keep knocking Boston airport (air side). What about the WiFi? What about it? It's shite! So shite that I have resorted to writing my bile in a notepad and I'll have to copy it in to the lap top later on.

This is just a minuscule part of the queue, believe me...

My hotel was shite too AND it had bed bugs! Yes, I saw one when I jumped out of bed, which means there must be more of them. I was staying in room 308 of the Embassy Suites right by the airport. Alright, it was a case of 'any port in a storm' but hey, bed bugs! Who needs them? And to think I slept with the bastard.

Sixth floor, Aloft Hotel, Columbus

I shouldn't be in Boston. I should be in Columbus, Ohio, but it wasn't to be, thanks to Chicago O'Hare's immigration system or people or whatever. The flight over from London was fine (see previous post) but when we got off the plane and headed for the bit where they used to ask if you were a member of the communist party we found a huge queue. And I don't just mean a huge queue, I mean a fucking huge queue, longer than I have ever seen in my life. It was huge, it was monstrous, it was enormous. If you think you know what a big queue is all about, I can tell you without fear of contradiction that the queue I was forced to join was the biggest ever, no challengers. It was so big that I was standing in it for more than three hours. THREE HOURS! In the process I missed my connecting flight to Columbus and, as a result, a whole new world of shit opened up to me.

The first problem was finding another flight to Columbus – there wasn't any. Or rather there was, but it involved flying to Charlotte and then flying again to Columbus and I wasn't keen on doing that. All I wanted to do was find a hotel for the night and then start again in the morning, but against my better judgement (and remember, my judgement ain't that good after flying eight hours across the Atlantic and every minute wishing it would all end and I could be where I was supposed to be, ie in Columbus).

The boredom of Boston airport and, indeed, all airports...

We were directed to the American Airlines information desk 'opposite K8' and soon realised that flights to Columbus are pretty damn rare and that the Charlotte option was all that was open to us (not that I was prepared to believe that, there had to be another way was my thinking).

Lucca – nothing to write home about...

There were problems. A storm was brewing and, as I sat there on the plane looking out at the thunder, lightning and rain I realised that I didn't want to put myself through an ordeal of extreme turbulence, not after an eight-hour flight from London. I was tired and now I was fed up too and I knew that I simply couldn't face the flight to Charlotte. I had to find another way and so I left the flight which would, I discovered, be sitting on the tarmac for over two hours. Meanwhile, however, I was queuing opposite K8, something I really didn't want to do again, at the American Airlines desk trying to find an alternative to the Charlotte flight I'd just kissed goodbye, not that it was going anywhere. There was an alternative that involved changing airline to United and flying to Boston and then finding a hotel in the city. I really didn't want to do it, I was in a mess and I just wanted to sleep until I felt better, but I couldn't. The United flight departed at 2145hrs with me on it, and I can't remember what time it got in but it was late and then, as I waited at reclaim for my bags, the machine ground to a halt and it was clear that my bags were still at Chicago O'Hare. Thanks to the baggage reclaim guy (although he was wrong) I was told my bags were most likely at Columbus, but I knew that bags didn't fly without their owners, they're a bit like dogs (who sometimes get lost). I hoped and prayed that they would be in Columbus but something told me they weren't going to be there.

I waited at B6 for a long time...

So I needed a hotel for the night and it turned out that many people were in the same position because of the storm. A man from Costa Rica was waiting for an Embassy Suites shuttle bus so I joined him and jumped on, checked in to room 308 and finally got to sleep around 0245hrs. I managed around two hours' sleep and then woke up in a frazzled state of mind. There was no way that I could simply nod off so I got up, showered and eventually went downstairs for breakfast. That was when I discovered a bug in the bed. Whether it was a so-called bed bug, I don't know, but it was definitely a bug of some sort, which really put me off, I can tell you. I told the girl on the front desk and the driver of the shuttle to the airport. I wonder if they'll do anything about it?

Around 1000hrs I took the train from Airport to State, got out and wandered around. Every shop sold tacky souvenirs: fridge magnets, shirts with 'Boston' emblazoned on the front and other cheap ephemera everybody could do without. I couldn't resist a fridge magnet... and a teeshirt with 'Boston' written on it.

I didn't see much of Boston to be fair, but the bits I did see were not very impressive, it all looked a bit like Peterborough on a dull day. I walked along State Street and then wandered through a couple of covered markets, one selling different types of food, the other selling souvenir tat of all shapes and sizes.

Bored and fed up I walked back to State railway station, took a train to Airport and then strolled through a park to the hotel where I messed around on my lap top before heading to the airport far too early and then found myself bored shitless. I was there for a long, long time waiting for a flight to Columbus. Initially I figured that with my flight at 1710hrs I'd be in Columbus around 2000hrs, but while the time counted down and down until I was expecting the flight to simply arrive at the gate and we all board, it kept getting put back. Suddenly, from saying, say, 23 minutes until boarding it was saying 41 minutes to boarding and on and on it went. I feared it would be cancelled. There was little to do but wander around looking at different gates and seeing if there was anything worth stopping for, ie food and drink outlets. The whole thing had left me tired and angry. My colleague, who stayed on the flight to Charlotte never got to Columbus so, if this was a race (albeit a weird one) we were almost neck and neck, although she had the advantage on me and eventually arrived a few hours ahead, but I wasn't far behind. Her flight, as I might have said, sat on the tarmac for a couple hours before heading to Columbus where her bags awaited her; my flight left later, probably around 2000hrs, I can't remember exactly. The pilot said something that annoyed me. I mean, how can I sit back and relax and enjoy the flight after he said "we're expecting a little weather halfway through the flight and will put the fasten seat belts notice up." Great! That's me on tenterhooks.

On the way to Columbus

The first part of the flight was a white-out. There was thick cloud until we reached 30,000 feet, our cruising altitude, and the rest of the flight was easy, even with the odd bit of turbulence. I don't mind turbulence if I can see what's going on outside the window – that's why I hate night flights.

When the plane landed I went straight to baggage reclaim and told the girl there that my bags were in Chicago O'Hare – or so I'd been told. She confirmed that they were indeed at O'Hare and that she'd get them sent to my hotel – Aloft in the university district of Columbus. They were sent on to me and arrived Monday evening, leaving me just one day to wear the jeans and all the other clothes I'd put on Saturday morning. I looked alright to be fair so there was nothing lost despite the situation. In other words, all was fine and I slowly recovered from the ordeal. I got around seven hours sleep and the hotel was fantastic (of which more later). 

Flying home from Pittsburgh....

I had plenty of time to kill on Friday, but eventually I found myself in a taxi heading for the airport along the interstate. My cab driver wasn't the most talkative man in the world, but we exchanged a few words and the rest of the time I simply gazed out of the window.

When we reached Pittsburgh I still had plenty of time to kill, but I wasn't in the slightest bit hungry having had lunch at Eleven, so I checked out the books and considered buying Helter Skelter, it's all about the Manson murders in the 1960s and it's one of those books I've been meaning to read for some time. In all honesty, though, I couldn't be bothered and instead spent the entire flight – it was only short – staring out of the window again.

Another bridge over a Pittsburgh River – I'll miss this great city...

There was a woman on the flight with two young children. Her husband was in New Mexico with her other kids and I swear I overheard her say that she had five kids in total. The kids with her on the flight were very well behaved and the tiny one (a baby) didn't make a sound. I ordered tea with creamer and was given a small pack of pretzels.

Our descent into Charlotte seemed slow. There was so much cloud that we didn't see land until the last minute. For a while I thought I was going to have to go through security again, but I didn't; I just walked to gate D11 and discovered that I had just 23 minutes before the flight to London started to board. I considered buying a magazine, but in the end I didn't bother. Nothing appealed and while I did eventually opt for Newsweek, the credit card machine didn't seem to be working so I boarded with nothing but my notepad and a pen to keep me company. I figured that if there was nothing I wanted to read, I'd have to write something myself.

After take-off I sat there writing about my journey, but it was short-lived. When the food arrived – we all had a choice of chicken or pasta – I stopped and afterwards watched 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Shining (both Kubrick movies and both brilliant). But two cans of beer brought on drowsiness and eventually I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up we were about an hour out of London Heathrow and 'breakfast' was being served – blueberry muffin, blueberry yoghurt – and I ordered a cup of tea too.

Apart from a bit of turbulence, the flight was smooth, although there were some hectic moments while we were still on the tarmac. I hate it when a passenger goes missing (although it's never happened before) as I wonder whether the cabin crew does anything about it. As I boarded I overheard one of the crew saying, "there's a woman on board without a boarding pass" and I felt like saying, "Well bloody well kick her off the plane, you idiots, she might be a terrorist!" I said nothing, but I quietly seethed with anger. I think it was the prospect of a long night flight that had made me feel so short-tempered. I hate night flights.

And then there was Sabrina Wong. Apparently they couldn't find her and came asking the passengers where she might be, as if we'd know. Later I saw a Chinese-looking girl walking nonchalantly down the aisle and thought, "that's her, that's Sabrina Wong!" She took a seat behind me and I spent a few minutes wondering whether she was the passenger without a boarding pass. I never found out.

I felt remarkably chirpy when the plane landed in the UK and decided to wait for my local cab company to come and pick me up. I sat in Terminal Three's Caffé Nero drinking tea and munching an almond croissant and after about an hour the mobile rang. It was the taxi driver. The quality of his driving left a lot to be desired, he kept stopping abruptly, shaking me from a light slumber. While I replied 'no problem' when he apologised, I wasn't happy, but I was too tired to argue. That's what I hate about minicab drivers, it's the luck of the draw who you're going to get and whether you're going to enjoy their company or whether they're going to be any good at driving.

I got home and inspected the garden. Things had certainly grown since I left a week ago.

My plan is to stay up until around 10pm and then hit the sack, it's the best way to deal with jet lag. Whether I go on a ride tomorrow, I don't know. Let's see how I feel.

Travelling to Pittsburgh, USA...

When the conveyor toaster collapsed in front of me I knew that breakfast wasn't going to be that memorable an experience. Then, when I noticed that the cutlery was plastic and the crockery made of paper, my suspicions were confirmed. This was basic. But in many ways it didn't matter; it wasn't that bad a hotel.

I'd checked in the day before, at around a quarter to eight in the evening, having taken a taxi from Pittsburgh airport. It had cost me $60 and my driver told me he was a recovering alcoholic who claimed he didn't sleep well because he drank too much diet coke. More fool him, I thought, as I bade him farewell and entered the lobby of the Hampton by Hilton.

Now that's a huge hotel room! You can't see the kitchenette!

The check-in was friendly and the man at the front desk guessed it was me by my accent. He gave me my room card and directed me to the elevator where I travelled all the way to the top and discovered that my room was huge. And by huge I mean enormous. It was the size of a small conference room and would probably seat around 50 people 'theatre style' if the need ever arose. I found myself wondering why a hotel company would waste so much space. There was only a bed and a sofa in the room, plus a television, and I figured they could have made around four average-sized rooms out of the space occupied by mine.

I've probably mentioned before that I don't like large hotel rooms – or large rooms full stop.There's something about sleeping in a wide open space that unsettles me, but I was so tired that I could have slept anywhere. Earlier I'd endured an eight-hour flight from London Heathrow to Charlotte, North Carolina, and it wasn't the smoothest of journeys. There had been prolonged periods of turbulence that required everybody to be seated and, if I'm honest, I wasn't that happy with American Airlines. I much prefer British Airways, but for some reason I'd opted for the former.

The flight was late for a start. We were supposed to take off at 1215hrs but I don't think we left the ground until around 1300hrs, if not a little bit later, probably 1330hrs. But what annoys me is that I always get the feeling that the Americans, while supposedly being big on 'service' and 'have a nice day' don't actually give two fucks about the customer. They seem to be saying 'like it or lump it' and work on the principle of the captive audience. So, the flight's late but there's no explanation as to why and it goes without saying that everybody accepts it. I think if people were more reactionary – and by that I mean if they simply, en masse, said, 'fuck you, American Airlines, we're going back to our hotel, sort your fucking lives out!' then perhaps they might change their attitude.

The view from my hotel room...

And then, on the plane, that whole class thing came into play; the whole notion that the further back you are in the plane, the scummier you must be and, therefore, the least service you get as a result. I was in seat 30D, an aisle seat, and when it was time for the food to be wheeled out, the 'trolley dollies' rolled past me and headed towards the front of the plane. One of the American airline hostesses was a big mamma. She seemed pleasant enough, but man she was 'wide', but more of her later. I knew then that I'd have a long wait until they reached me and sure enough I did. Eventually, however, along they came and there was a choice between chicken and pasta. I opted for the former and, as airline food goes, it wasn't too bad. What I didn't like was the wine. It was awful. Normally on planes I ask for a couple of those small 187ml bottles of red wine and I get a Merlot or a Cabernet, but this time I noticed that the trolley carried a huge bottle of red wine and they were dishing out paper cups of it. Now, that's fine, you might say, probably much more wine than in a small bottle, but the quality was piss poor. It was so bad that I handed mine back after a few sips.

The view from my hotel room looking left...

But let's get back to the trolley dollies. One of them had such a huge arse that she had to shimmy diagonally along the aisle and every time she went past me she nudged me, and I had to make sure that my tea or water or whatever I was drinking was in my right hand, otherwise it would have been knocked clear out of my hand and into my lap. It got very annoying and even if I had advanced warning – and by that I mean if I could see her coming at me from a distance – she still managed to nudge me. Her arse was so huge she'd do a fine job acting as a fender for ships coming into port.

There was plenty wrong with the flight. The screen on which I was supposed to be able to watch movies didn't work and the speakers they gave me to listen to music were shit, so I simply didn't bother. There wasn't even a map showing the plane as it made its way across the Atlantic. And that was another thing: time passed slowly; very slowly. I passed the time reading. I had a copy of The Week, an excellent publication, along with The Times and not forgetting a copy of GQ that I'd bought a couple days earlier. There was a good article in there about the Manic Street Preachers, and an interview with Chris Evans ahead of Top Gear reappearing on our screens, and not forgetting an article by Tony Parsons on Brexit, which, I must admit, took me closer to voting out rather than stay, although I still think I'll vote to stay.

A bill poster in downtown Pittsburgh

The turbulence didn't worry me as much as it used to, which was just as well because it was prolonged. As a consequence I remained seated for most of the flight with only brief sojourns along the aisles just to stretch my legs.

Towards the end of the flight I struck up a conversation with a guy across the aisle from me. He was a really nice bloke who reminded me of the television journalist John Sargeant, although he was an American from North Carolina who'd been on a Norwegian cruise. His day was much longer than mine had been. While I didn't leave the house in London until 0900hrs, he'd been up around 0400hrs, in Copenhagen and had flown to London to catch the flight we were both on. Our conversation was friendly and touched upon all sorts of subjects: Donald Trump, gardens (or 'yards' as he put it) cycling, St. Petersburg, Copenhagen, Norway and so on. His wife, who had the window seat next to him, looked tired and didn't say much and in a way I envied them because they were getting home whereas I was miles from home. They would get to see their 'yard' but I wouldn't see mine for another week.

We were warned that the approach into Charlotte would be bumpy, but having spent most of the flight seated due to turbulence, nobody really cared and soon we found ourselves on the ground and going through the hassle of American immigration, queuing in a long zig zag queue and eventually coming out the other end. I had a connecting flight to Pittsburgh and somewhere along the line I managed to say goodbye to the man and his wife before going through security again – I hate going through security – and then striding purposefully towards the gate for last flight of the day.

I reached Pittsburgh around 1930hrs and jumped in the aforementioned taxi to the hotel and then, after dropping my bags in the room I went to meet a colleague in a restaurant across the street. It was something like 0130hrs UK time, but only around 2000hrs here in Pittsburgh. The restaurant was called Eleven and it was dark and bustling and the food was good. I ordered chicken with risotto and greens plus a glass of cabernet and finally managed to relax a little. I knew I'd have a rough night's sleep later, mainly because of the journey and I did wake up two or three times, but eventually I could see daylight so I jumped up and took a shower and then it was breakfast and that conveyor toaster and the paper plates and then we took a walk around town and eventually a bike ride too, which, arguably, was one of the best rides I'd ever taken in a foreign country, mainly because it followed disused railroad tracks and skirted the river, passing many old relics from Pittsburgh's steel industry heritage. I'll write a separate post about that later.

Right now, as I write this, I'm not in my room (as I normally am when I write stuff). I'm in the hotel's business centre, which is very good. In fact, if you forget about the paper plates and that conveyor toaster that took it upon itself to simply collapse in front me, this is a nice little hotel. There's even a pool, which I'm tempted to use this week, although I've just had a tremendous bit of exercise on the bike. In fact, going back again to the paper plates, they're not that bad an idea. There's no restaurant in the hotel – always a bit of a bummer in my books – but at least that means we get to sample the delights of Pittsburgh's culinary scene.

I've been to Pittsburgh before. In fact, as we came into land I could see the 'cathedral of learning'. The so-called 'cathedral of learning' is Pittsburgh University. It's a tall, grey building that stands out, a bit like a cathedral, and was close to where I stayed when I was last in town, back in 2013. I remember the street where my Quality Inn was located, the Boulevard of the Allies. What a great name for a street. I crossed it earlier today as we, my colleague Paul and I, walked around town.

Weatherwise, it's not so good. While it was 70 + degrees in North Carolina, here in Pittsburgh it's cold and cloudy and spitting with rain. Yesterday it was raining too. The guy in the cycle hire shop said things were going to improve, but the ride we took earlier was, shall we say, a little 'bracing', but worth every minute. It's so nice to ride a decent bike. Well, not decent, but a bike that works, a bike with all of its gears, a soft saddle and fully blown up tyres. I don't think my bike back home is ever in such a state, it's always got faulty gears or dodgy brakes or something wrong with it.

I'm amazed at how many hotel brands are owned by the Hilton Group. There's Hilton Hotels & Resorts, Waldorf Astoria, Conrad Hotels & Resorts, Canopy by Hilton, Curio 'a collection by Hilton', Doubletree by Hilton, Embassy Suites by Hilton, Hilton Garden Inn, Hampton by Hilton (where I'm staying) Homewood Suites by Hilton, HOME2 suites by HIlton, Hilton Grand Vacations, Hilton HHonors.

Last year in Cleveland at roughly this time I stayed in a Doubletree. What a great hotel! The main thing there was the free cookies. And on that note, it's time for lunch, or it will be shortly. Today, Sunday, is our only day off. From tomorrow onwards we have to work so I've got to make the most of my time today. We've had a decent bike ride and now it's time for lunch.

Somewhere I can hear Don't You Worry Bout a Thing by Stevie Wonder.

Flying home...

After dinner I moseyed on upstairs to room 535 – a number that adds up to 13 (5 + 3 + 5 =13). I bring that up because the flight number of the American Airlines plane that was not going to take me to Chicago on Friday evening was AA3073, which also adds up to 13. Had the gate been 13 I might have re-booked and would probably have ended up in the Sheraton with my other self in the same restaurant, wondering why the bloke sitting alone in the corner reading USA Today was, in fact, me. But let's not go there, it gets too confusing.

I got a reasonable night's sleep, aided by the fact that, seven days since I flew out of the UK, I was now fully acclimatised with US time – and now I had to go home and re-acclimatise myself with BST. That glass of red wine and the meal (see previous post) also helped. I washed, shaved and showered and soon found myself back in the restaurant eating granola, fresh fruit, a yoghurt and a slice of bread, not forgetting a mug of black tea. I was tempted to go the whole hog and have the hot breakfast (sausages, scrambled egg, diced and fried potatoes, hash browns) but I decided to keep up with my regime of healthy eating.

My Jumbo 747-400 to London Heathrow at O'Hare's Gate M12

Back in the room, albeit briefly, I did my final checks. Had I left anything behind? No. And I was off. Check-out was simple and the shuttle bus took all of five minutes to reach the terminal. Then there was security. Security is weird because it's not consistent. Some airports demand that you take off belts and shoes, others don't. Cleveland wanted shoes off. The worst bit about flying is going through security because you have to take the lap top out of the case, put it in a tray of its own, empty your pockets and then walk through the scanner. Sometimes you have to raise your hands above your head, like a criminal, and be searched by one of the guards, other times not, and then you find yourself on the 'other side' in the strange world that exists beyond passport control where the shops sell expensive perfume, wines and spirits, not forgetting watches and stuff you rarely see people actually wearing.

I tend to ignore the shops and head straight for the coffee retailer, although I always order tea and sometimes a pastry of sorts. Then I sit down, realise that hell will freeze over before I manage to suss out how the WiFi works and simply resign myself to wandering around, looking at other people waiting for other planes going to other destinations.

I started chatting with a woman from Cleveland who was on her way to see her mum, to surprise her because it was Mother's Day on Sunday. We talked about mice and houses and gardens and she seemed very amused at the fact that I was looking forward to having lunch at Romano's Macaroni Grill on O'Hare airport (opposite gate H3 if you're interested and well worth a visit). I think she was amused because, apparently, Romano's Macaroni Grill is a chain. The woman, whose husband worked for American Airlines, has plenty of family in Chicago and will probably visit most of them while she's in the Windy City. She was on stand-by and managed to get on the flight. In Chicago we said our goodbyes and she hoped that I would enjoy Romano's. I did, but I shouldn't have ordered lemon drizzle cake.

In fact, the drizzle cake led me to spend around an hour, possibly longer, simply walking around the airport. I passed virtually every gate in an effort to burn some calories and I must have burned plenty hauling my hefty suitcase behind me. The walk not only did me some good, but it was an education. I discovered that I didn't have to go through security twice in order to access the international terminal and Gate M12 from where my BA jumbo would depart. There was a bus service going from Gate K12 and that, my friends, is worth remembering. When I say I went through security twice, I meant that I endured it at Cleveland and you'd think that would be it, but no; at O'Hare, having arrived at what was essentially the domestic terminal, passengers taking the transit to the international terminal then find they have to go through security again – but not if you take the bus from K12.

The international terminal was a lot swisher than the domestic side of the airport (although it didn't have Romano's). I decided to do some more walking but not until I'd asked for a better seat. They'd given me a seat in the middle row of the plane (a 747-400) and I wasn't at all happy. The thought of being sandwiched between two other passengers for seven hours was horrific, but I was in their hands and after leaving them my boarding card, I wandered off and once again found that I couldn't work out how to use the airport WiFi.

When it was time to board I found that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that I'd been upgraded. The bad news? I still had a middle aisle seat sandwiched between two passengers. But there was more room and I decided to endure it until after dinner and then stand up in the galley area for an hour or so. Dinner was good and because I'd been upgraded I got a real wine glass (made of glass) a menu from which to choose either pasta or steak and a cloth napkin instead of paper. I opted for the steak, listened to Money for Nothing by Dire Straits about half a dozen times (the music choice was awful) and then got up and went for a wander around. After standing in the galley area for about 30 minutes I walked to the rear of the plane where I a found a seat used by the air hostesses at take-off. I sat here for some time watching the sun rise outside as we edged our way towards daylight and chatted to an IT consultant from Bournemouth who, like me, has a 16-year daughter about to take her GCSEs.

The flight itself was relatively pleasant. No turbulence. I returned to my seat for breakfast (a chunk of cake) and found that my fellow passengers – the ones I was sandwiched between – were both asleep. I had to wake one of them up to take my seat.

We landed, I said goodbye to my IT friend and then headed towards departures to find my taxi driver who had called to say he was outside. I then endured a nightmare journey that involved said taxi driver missing turnings (clearly no idea of where he was) asking personal questions and playing his music miles too loud. I was so relieved to pay up and get out when I reached home.

Stranded in the Windy City

Travelling can be a right palavar! And it always seems odd that I start to make decisions that will somehow backfire on me later in the day. One, for example, was deciding to check in my suitcase. I put my laptop in there and my wallet full of receipts and all because I figured that with such a full suitcase I'd have one helluva time getting the laptop back in after going through security. So I checked it in: mistake number one. Well, perhaps that was the only mistake, I don't know. I also distinctly remember a conversation I had with Mike, the manager of my hotel, the gist of which was that to fly long haul with an American airline was not good and certainly not as good as flying with British Airways. And guess what? I will eventually fly home on an American airline. It's amazing how conversations tempt fate in a certain way and how decisions come back to haunt me.

Anyway, I reach Indianapolis airport, Sam drops me off and I go through security and, for the first time ever, I hear my name boomed over the tannoy system. It turns out they want to search my bag and they need the combination on the lock. I give it to them and that's the end of it, although I start thinking, what if they simply steal my laptop or my wallet? So that bugged me, but I went through the security process and soon it was obvious that there was something wrong with the plane. It turns out that there's a faulty door and we, that is me and my fellow passengers, wonder if it'll be fixed in time. Eventually it is fixed and we're sitting in the plane. Outside there's some pretty severe storms going on and this means, as we're making our way to the runway, the pilot decides to turn us around and go back to the gate to get more fuel. Why he didn't have enough fuel in the first place is not explained, but I'm thinking it's got something to do with re-routing the journey and so on.

But of course it doesn't end there. We're told 10 minutes, but it turns into a couple hours and soon it is obvious that all of us on board are going to miss our connections. We eventually fly out of Indianapolis, the flight's pleasant, we land and then the process of sorting things out begins. I wanted to know what would happen to my suitcase as it won't be transferred to the London flight because that was long gone. Eventually I'm rebooked on an American Airlines flight to Dublin for Saturday night and this means a stay in the Marriott O'Hare, which is fine if you forgive them for labyrinthine corridors.

Dinner was pleasant enough and that old Dunkirk spirit crept in too, which is always nice. There was a small group of us: an American judge from Indianapolis and his South Korean wife, a former cop from Colorado and a girl who's heavily involved in to some kind of historical re-enactment society based in Indianapolis (she was flying to Lake Tahoe, the rest of us to London). In fact, the cop was staying near to me in Kingston upon Thames.

We all had breakfast and then I checked out and right now it's Saturday morning and I'm considering going downtown, although I don't want to be stranded down there and miss my flight, but I'll probably jump on the train (the CTA) at a place called Cumberland and ride the 40 minutes into town just to say I've been there. I need to be back around 3.30pm to catch the shuttle back to the airport (Terminal 3) and my flight to Dublin and from there my flight to London.

I discovered by chatting to people and listening to media reports that Indianapolis and Chicago are virtually equal in the battle to be the USA's most murderous capital. Whoever loses, of course,will be number two and it's looking as if Indianapolis might win. And guess who was staying in a dodgy neighbourhood out on East Washington? Yes, you guessed it. Me. And my taxi driver told me there were crack heads in a motel a few blocks away from my hotel and all manner of unsavoury people hanging around elsewhere. And now I'm in Chicago, a city with similar crime credentials.

I can't upload any images for this post because my camera is in my case along with everything else I need. American Airlines kindly provided me with a small overnight bag containing all the essentials, so at least I could shave and brush my teeth, but they didn't provide a change of clothes so I'm dressed exactly as I was yesterday. Still, I'm rested and ready to get back on the plane later today.

Leaving Pittsburgh...

I woke up to rain and grey skies, but it seems to have stopped and I know from watching the weather forecast on TV last night that things will hot up next week. It's been good while I've been here: very hot and plenty of blue skies both in Cleveland and Pittsburgh.

Room 2318 of the Cleveland Marriott – too many pillows, too many beds.

Today I start the long journey home. First a taxi from here to Pittsburgh airport, then a flight to Chicago O'Hare and from there a flight to London, arriving at just gone 7am in the morning on Sunday. I'll be glad to get home.

On Friday night I found an Asian restaurant in the Oakland area of town where I'm staying. I was driven down there in the hotel shuttle bus and the woman driving told me she'd never been to London, but had been to Manchester and, for some reason, Kingsbridge in Devon, a place that holds a few bad memories for me.

Room 606, Quality Inn, Pittsburgh. No bulbs in those lamps, by the way.

The meal was good – a spicy Thai dish and a couple of cold beers – but I hate dining alone as you can't win either way: you're a sad man if you just sit there (as I did) and you're even sadder if you bring out a book and start reading. I was surrounded by couples and groups of friends as this was a Friday night, but once I'd finished my meal, feeling a little sad and lonely, I got the bill and walked home while it was still daylight, up the main street and then left past the Magee Women's Hospital and into the Quality Inn (which has been 'home' for the last couple days).

While I might have cast a few aspersions on the old Quality Inn, it's actually been very good. It takes me a day or two to acclimatise to some hotels – I had similar low views of the El Tropicana in San Antonio, but eventually warmed to it – and now I really like this place too. The shuttle driver was a pleasant, homely woman, born and bred in Pittsburgh; the service, generally, has been friendly and the room, while a little basic, was fine. I prefer a bit of plain-speaking decor: lamps, plugs, a desk and a bed, a TV set and a bathroom. What else do you want? Alright, bulbs in the bedside lamps would have been nice, but you can't have everything.

View from room 606 Quality Inn, Pittsburgh – note 'Cathedral of Learning',
the tall building, which is part of the University of Pittsburgh.

It's odd being in America again. I always feel, as I wander the streets, that I'm not really a human being, but some kind of bit player in the video game Grand Theft Auto. Perhaps I am. GTA's Liberty City could be any American city and that's possibly why, as I wandered around Cleveland and Pittsburgh they both seemed a little familiar to me; not that I spend my time playing GTA – I think I've tried it once or twice – but there you go. Having said that, as I wandered the streets, I occasionally felt as if I should have been trying car doors to see if they were open and, if not, smash them open with my elbow and then drive around the city, just like in GTA. I hasten to add that I never did any such thing – who said video games can be a bad influence?

I put off having to pack up and check out. I hate checking out of hotels, even if it is a little easier than it used to be, especially when my room has invariably been pre-paid. I just pay for my extras and that's only a couple of international phone calls. I had to check out by 11am and I left my bags with the concierge, not that The Quality Inn had a concierge, it's just a phrase that means they'll keep them in a store room until I return. The plan was to wander around, probably not very far, certainly not downtown as it's too far to go, so probably around the streets or down to Oakland's downtown, but I've been there before and there's little to see bar a few low-end stores and a handful of restaurants.

I decided to head to downtown Oakland where I sat in a Starbucks reading the New York Times and enjoying tea and lemon drizzle cake. Then I wandered into a few shops and eventually had lunch in Mad Mex, a Mexican restaurant along one of the back streets. Not sure if I like Mexican food. It's all very samey, but Mad Mex was pretty cool and I enjoyed a couple of vanilla stouts and a chicken burrito before heading back to the hotel to pack things up and head for the airport.

The flight home was a little touch and go in terms of making the connection to London. The Pittsburgh to Chicago flight was delayed by about 20 minutes, and when I reached O'Hare I had to leg it to gate K12 to catch the flight home. It wasn't as good as the BA flight coming out – inferior food – but otherwise it was a pretty cool flight. I had seat 21J, by a bulkhead and a window, meaning a little more leg room than normal. It was a smooth, seven-hour flight to London and I spent a lot of it reading Graham Greene's Stamboul Train. I managed to get about an hour or so of sleep and, when I arrived at Heathrow, I felt alright.

The Heathrow Express took me to Paddington where I took the Bakerloo line to Oxford Circus, changed on to the Victoria Line and then, at Victoria, took a train home. I was picked up at the railway station and we went to see mum for lunch; and then had a much-needed kip, followed by a shower and dinner and now, here I am finishing off a blogpost I started yesterday in Pittsburgh.