Flight BA 0067 to Philadelphia... Saturday 14 May 2022

We took off before 2pm on a relatively clear day. Having not flown for over two and a half years, I was uneasy, but there was no cloud so my unease was lightened somewhat, but only mildly.

I was in seat 37a, an exit seat, so plenty of legroom, but no window I could call my own. To see out I had to turn my head to the left, which is what I did for most of the first 30 minutes, watching land get further and further away. Very soon we were high above ground looking down at what looked like a patchwork quilt of fields. 

I am writing in the past tense, as if the flight took place yesterday, but we’re only two and a quarter hours into a seven-hour flight and already I’m a mess, a mixture of pensive, sad and a little unhappy too. I don’t want to be so far away from home, but with every second that passes I’m getting further and further away when all I want is to be back there, in the garden or in a coffee shop or just doing nothing too taxing. I just want to chill if the truth is known, but what’s new about that?

Lunch (which was served mid-afternoon UK time) was the usual airline food. I always order the chicken and it was fine. There was a pleasant dessert, something like a chocolate cherry crunch, very tasty. There was a cracker too, but I never eat the cheese. 

Once lunch was over, of course, there was nothing to do; the cabin crew normally vanish but on this occasion they were present throughout the flight, busying themselves with serving our every need. 

I was not relaxed enough to read Jonathan Coe’s Middle England. Instead I just sat there thinking about time and trying to sectionalize it in my own head. I tried to think about Philadelphia where it was 11.30 in the morning and then I imagined it being lunchtime and then I thought about how quickly lunch passed and how residents of that great city would soon be thinking “4.30pm, is that the time?” And how, when they thought that, I would be on the ground making my way towards the terminal building and wishing I didn’t have to endure one more flight, that short hop west to Pittsburgh.

The man next to me sported a baseball cap and a black mask; he was reading Cold Granite by Stuart Macbride, a Sunday Times bestseller, which has never been my scene. I’ve never been in to bestsellers. His wife (I’m assuming it’s his wife) was reading a book called Exit by Belinda Bauer, but she (like him) was asleep. I can’t sleep on planes and even less so when I’m anxious and sad. It’s got a lot to do with not having travelled for the past two and a half years.

Where masks were concerned, not many people wore them and nor was I, although I had one in my pocket. I guess if everyone on board had taken a test the day before the flight then I assumed the likelihood of catching Covid was pretty slim. Still, never say never. 

Loads of cloud en route to Pittsburgh

In roughly four hours from now there will be around half an hour to go,I thought.That was how I was thinking. Not that such a thought is in any way heartening. Outside, the white-out world of the clouds was below us. 

My inability to relax was annoying so I took a stroll to the back of the plane and found little to amuse or comfort me. I remember a flight to Tokyo, although it might have been New Delhi, when the cabin crew was a pretty friendly bunch, handing out Celebrations chocolates and happy to pass the time of day with a bored passenger like yours truly. While the crew of flight BA0067 was friendly they all seemed rushed off their feet and had yet to disappear as they normally do. It seemed there was always something to keep them occupied.

I paid a visit to the cramped ‘bathroom’ but was too on edge to give my fellow passengers the finger from behind the bulkhead. Perhaps I wasn't tired or irritable enough at that moment, or perhaps I was already far worse; in four hours time there would be roughly 20 minutes to go. Except the journey – or the hassles – wouldn't be over: there was US immigration to deal with, baggage reclaim and then another flight, albeit a short one. If I’m honest I’d rather have taken the train from Philadelphia, but I never thought of it at the time so now I had to endure another plane journey. As always, I just wanted to get there. Of course I did. As my dad would have said, “you’re not unique”. In a way, however, he was wrong, we’re all unique. Dad would be right in one respect: there can’t be anybody on board who wants to be here, it’s all a means to an end. A to B or A to Z  it all amounts to the same thing. 

“They will write and they will call in,” I heard in my head. I nodded off and had micro dreams that featured random phrases of this nature, but all in a split second. Time was not passing fast. 

“And I saw her standing there,” I heard in my head and immediately thought of a bearded Sir Paul in his younger days.

Outside the sun was shining brightly and was reflected off the white sheet of cloud below us. I could hear a baby laughing or crying, it’s hard to know exactly, but the sound of a baby crying really depresses me.

Back home it was coming round to 6pm and I just knew that my rear lawn looked smooth and velvety in the evening sun. I might have been sitting in the garden room reading or drinking tea and probably wondering what we were having for dinner. We might have been out on a drive somewhere, it was hard to know exactly. The only constant was the ride and I would no doubt be wondering whether to ride to Oxted again in the morning, Sunday morning. Nothing better than a lazy weekend, but not today.

I was amazed at how hard the cabin crew was working; the crew hadn’t stopped since we took off nearly four hours ago, but they were not working as hard as the mum with a daughter and two young sons, the eldest being around five years old. They were sitting across from me in the middle row, in front of the bulkhead. The mum never stopped. The older boy was quite happy entertaining himself whereas the daughter, who was not yet a toddler, needed constant attention. The middle child was so quiet he seemed invisible.

The man next to me was awake and reading, black mask on. People wandered around while others, like me, drank water from a small, clear plastic beaker supplied by one of the cabin crew. There really wasn’t a great deal to say.

I walked to the rear of the plane again just to get some exercise. The woman with the baby walked back and forth too, holding the baby, and I was standing at the back, close to the galley, and looking at all the small screens on the backs of seats. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, I watch enough of them at home, but for some reason I found it hard to focus or concentrate enough to read or watch anything, I was in a strange frame of mind.

Outside, the Atlantic below looked calm, but it would do at 38,000 feet. There was less cloud, which was encouraging, but it was still very hazy, almost steamy. There were around three hours and twenty minutes to go. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, or the music, although I knew the music would make me emotional. I thanked the Lord that I wasn't drinking. I remember once, on a flight to Chicago, when the euphoric nature of what I was listening to (I think it was Nessum Dorma) brought out the tears. A couple of Merlots at 38,000 feet can do that to me. I tried to conceal it and as nobody said anything I figured I got away with it, but I guess I’ll never know. Music can take me that way sometimes, and poetry (Milton Kessler’s Thanks forever) but it wouldn’t be so pronounced after a couple of glasses of water, although I’d say don’t push it, my frame of mind was such that I could crack at any moment. 

The pandemic was certainly a kind of watershed for me: pre-COVID travel (of which there was plenty) I took in my stride and I loved being away, even though it was always a wrench on day one. Eventually, once clear of the lag, I was fired up and full of the joys of spring, enjoying my hotel room in they way only I can (that’s an allusion to all the silly things I say I get up to, and to be honest most of it is true, although I don’t think I’ve climbed into the wardrobe yet, perhaps later). I don’t think my passion for mooching around the world has left me, it’s just that I’ve had over two years without it and need to get back into that space again. 

With three hours exactly before I reached Philadelphia, I was still regretting not organising the Amtrak to Pittsburgh. I could have checked into a hotel in the city and then taken an early train west, arriving late afternoon – perfect! But I didn’t think, which was typical. I think my problem is that I’ve always got stuff on my mind, things to think about, so that when it comes to something classy, like taking the train, I forget and then live to regret it. But why cry over spilt milk, there’s no point. 

The train thing was a result of the last time I found myself in Pittsburgh. The hotel I was staying in ‘stole' my laptop and passport forcing me to take the train to New York to get an emergency passport in order to fly home. It took 11 hours, but the whole experience was amazing and now I’m in love with long train journeys. I think I could spend days on a train without getting bored. I’d love to ride the Trans-Siberia across Siberia, all the way to China – and back again. You can’t beat sleeping on a train, eating on a train, reading on a train, writing on a train. Is there anything that isn’t more enjoyable than if you’re doing it on a train? I can’t think of anything. And even ‘that’ would be more fun as long as the guard didn’t knock on the door and demand to see my ticket. I wouldn’t mind riding the Polar Express, if it existed. Imagine that! A train with Tom Hanks on board. “Well in that case, tickets please!” That’s what he says in the movie, among other things. 

When I started thinking about elapsed time and how much more there was to go before we landed, I looked at the clock and found it was 7pm at home, and I thought, okay, the One Show had just started, had it been a weekday, and then I tried to think how long it took to reach the time I wanted it to be (in this case 9.30pm, UK time, which was when were destined to land) but it was pointless. Time is time and the only way to make it pass is to do something: watch a movie, listen to music, I don’t know, but I was just not relaxed enough and it looked as though I was going to remain in an unsettled state until we arrived. 

Spotted around Pittsburgh

Outside there was a watery blue haze and I couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began. Sometimes I mistook clouds for land and my hopes rose until I realised it was little more than an illusion.

With around two hours to go, land appeared and I presumed it was Canada and that, at some stage, we would head south and follow the east coast towards our destination, but I don't think that happened.

View from room 513, Hilton Garden Downtown

The closer we got to Philadelphia, the thicker the cloud. The plane was full of pent-up energy and was chugging angrily towards its destination, but there was never any turbulence, just the threat of it, which kept me on edge and wishing I wasn't there, but I was there, and soon the plane started its descent and the cloud went on forever and didn't let up until we landed. I was glad to be on the ground, but had the hassle of US immigration to go through and then a grilling from a police officer whose surname was Santiago. I thought he was a cop on secondment from the police force of another country, but I was wrong. Santiago was his name. He was interested in my display unit, which I told him was very boring, but opened it nonetheless, telling him how it could be a rocket launcher; perhaps that was a silly thing to say, but he took the joke and eventually went on his merry way, or rather we did, but police officer Santiago was the least of our troubles. We had the possibility of a bumpy flight through stormy weather ahead of us and once again I found myself longing for Penn Station in New York and the prospect of an 11-hour train journey to Pittsburgh. But no, I didn't bottle the flight and while the rain outside of the terminal building intensified and the skies darkened, the flight was fine. A little dramatic in terms of the size and shape of the clouds that surrounded us like fluffy mines waiting to detonate, but all was well and we landed safely. I was tired but I was glad we had arrived and that all that stood between me and my hotel room was a short taxi ride into town. Our taxi driver was amused by my English accent and kept referring to me as James Bond. Funny the first time, perhaps, but he persisted and I was tired and just smiled politely, humouring him as the journey progressed. Soon he had dropped us at the hotel and my colleague tried to check in but was told by the man on the front desk, one Koda Rugg, that she didn't have a reservation. Puzzled, we asked him to double check, which he did, but then told us we were probably in the wrong hotel. There were two Hilton Garden hotels on the same road and despite the fact that I'd given our driver the address, he took us to the wrong hotel. Still, not a problem, we'll just ask for a taxi to take us to our hotel or perhaps we could walk it. "No, no, you can't walk, it's too dangerous," Rugg said as he pressed a button that ordered a z-Trip cab. But the z-Trip cab didn't arrive and the hotel where we were supposed to be staying couldn't help, other than give me the number of the same cab company the man at the wrong hotel had given us. All around us were people who were leading normal lives. They were fresh-faced and alive and dressed up for a night out and didn't feel dog-tired or jet-lagged like we did; and we both felt envious of their sprightliness as our pain continued. I felt as if this was the end, that we were destined forever to be sitting in the wrong hotel reception area surrounded by suitcases and two rocket launchers unable to leave or get any sleep, this was our lot, our destiny, our end. We wandered around like zombies and eventually, out of sheer luck, a z-Cab arrived and took us to our hotel. Tired and exhausted and feeling extremely low we checked in and went to our respective rooms. I decided to go straight to bed. I cleaned my teeth (or did I? I can't remember) and when I awoke the next morning I still felt awful, terrible, my right eye aching, my head throbbing. I phoned home and was advised to rest on the bed, which I did (thankfully) and I started to feel a little better. I walked to a Starbucks on nearby Market Square and ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a bottle of mineral water, not forgetting some weird egg dish the name of which escapes me. Earlier, in the hotel reception area, I bought a Hershey bar and some kind of almond and coconut chocolate bar, both of which I consumed with gusto before heading out for the aforementioned Starbucks. I started to feel better, but not 100%. In fact, it wasn't until I hit the sack, early, around 7pm – after another trip out to buy mineral water just in case I felt dehydrated during the night – that things started to look up. I slept for over 10 hours, more sleep than I'd had for a very long time, and I felt great. My eye was no longer aching, my headache (the first one in years) had gone and I was ready for what the world had to throw at me. It's Monday night now, but my day has been good and was rounded off with a wonderful meal in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square. Personally, I think it is the best restaurant in the whole of Pittsburgh and might say as much on Trip Advisor. I would like to return here soon. I know it's better than any of the restaurants I have visited in Pittsburgh and that's all that matters. And on that positive note, I'll sign off.

Last hours in Philadelphia...

After packing my suitcase and checking out of the hotel I handed my luggage to the bell hop or the porters or the guys on the concierge desk, whatever you want to call them, and then headed out. My plan was to visit the Mutter Museum – a place where you'll find skulls and embryos and damaged limbs and all sorts of horrible things, but you know what? It wasn't horrible enough for me. I was expecting a much bigger building with much more horrific exhibits, but no, it was a little tame. Even the bit where you could see what it was like to have your arm amputated was, well, it was tame. I left $18 worse off and then walked a long way down 22nd Street before realising I was travelling in the wrong direction. I retraced my steps until I found Locust and headed towards the centre of town and, of course, Bellini.

Tiramisu, home-made, at Bellini, Philadelphia – yummy!

The restaurant was empty bar a small party of people celebrating their daughter's graduation. I ordered potato and leek soup followed by tortellini with mushroom sauce and shrimp and then I fell victim to temptation. All week I had avoided desserts and rightly so, but a home-made tiramisu was not to be missed so I ordered one followed by a peppermint tea. After paying the bill I hobbled out on to the street and headed back to the Doubletree and then to the Good Karma Café next door for an orange blossom tea and a read of my book, Unknown Pleasures by Peter Hook. Soon, however, it was time to pick up my cases from the hotel and take the shuttle to the airport. And then, of course, all the travel hassles start, not that there were many of them. The main grief is always security and I'm amazed how the procedure changes. Why did I have to take my shoes off on the return flight when I didn't have to take them off coming out? Annoying. Once through I just sat at the gate (A16). Normally I'd go and find some kind of burger or chicken joint and order a glass of cabernet and get chatting with somebody, but this time I just sat there waiting to board.

I tried to upgrade myself by explaining my back issue in the hope I'd get sent to business class, but no, they weren't interested unless I paid the best part of $500. Sod that. So I sat in seat 44C, an aisle seat, on the 747 that would be taking me across the Atlantic. During the flight I mixed watching the map – I'm intrigued about something known as the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone, which is in the middle of the Atlantic. What is it? There's stuff online about it, but I've not had time to sit and read it. Anyway, it exists and that's all that matters. Or does it matter? Probably not. When I wasn't watching the map I was reading or looking at my watch, which was set to Philadelphia time.

Inside Bellini, Friday around 1pm...

The flight was smooth and soon it landed (at 0636hrs). I hobbled off the plane, picked up my case from the baggage reclaim and then went in search of my Albanian taxi driver. He was a nice guy, but for some reason took me home via central London, along the West Way, Hammersmith, Chelsea, across Wandsworth Bridge, through Streatham and Croydon and eventually home. I went straight to bed and slept for six hours solid, waking around 1530hrs. And now I'm just chilling, the Eurovision Song Contest is on and spaghetti bolognaise is cooking in the kitchen. What more could I ask for?

I liked Philadelphia, it was good city, an established city, like New York and Chicago and I hope I'll go back there again soon. My pal Martin lives there and I'm hoping to return soon.

In Philadelphia...Day two and Day Three...

The day kicked off with a spot of running. Not me, you understand (I can't stand running and for good reason). No, it was the general population of this great city – for it is a great city. People of all shapes and sizes were wearing shorts and tee-shirts and pounding the tarmac of Broad Street for a 10km run – Broad Street, believe it or not is 10km long, probably longer.

Contestants in the 10k Broad Street run...

I overheard somebody in the lift say there were over 30,000 runners and it was, I must say, a great spectacle. There were police on Trek mountain bikes mingling with the runners, some looking a little puffed and overweight, but clearly there, I'd imagine, to prevent a tragedy like the Boston bombing. We stood on the sidelines taking snaps on our iphones and then dived into a coffee shop where I enjoyed an orange blossom tea (which was seriously good).

At 1000hrs (or thereabouts) I met Martin, my pal in the hotel lobby and we took the train to Chestnut Hill where he lives. What a wonderful place. Beautiful houses, birds tweeting from the trees, the scent of flowers in the air and, most importantly, tranquility. There was a row of decent shops too and I was reminded ever so slightly of a place in the UK called Lindfield in West Sussex, only miles better – not a tacky convenience store in sight.

After a drive around the local area we finished up in the Tavern on the Hill, a small, dark, woody sort of place offering excellent everything from decent ales (I opted for Becks no-alcohol beer) and some good food too. I tried a Philadelphia special: a cheese steak sandwich, which was fantastic.

Tranquility in Chestnut Hill

The local trains (and buses) over here are run by an organisation (or company) called Septa. I jumped on a train leaving Chestnut Hill at 1456hrs and got back to the downtown half an hour later, alighting at Jefferson and heading straight to the convention centre where I'd be based for the next few days.

My colleague and I milled around, had dinner and then hit the sack and now it's Monday – or Day Three – in Philadelphia, a Bank Holiday in the UK and I've done something to my back, which ain't funny. I can hardly walk and it's made worse by sitting down, which I'm doing now. My walking has slowed to a snail's pace, I've keeled over to the right in postural terms and I'm reminded of 2005 when the same thing happened and I felt like shit for months, couldn't sleep at night and was generally in a bad way. I'm hoping things will improve, but it's not looking likely, which means I'll be even worse when I arrive back in the UK on Saturday morning after a long transatlantic flight, which I'm not looking forward to – and I very much doubt if I'll get an upgrade, which would help as it's a night flight and I hate night flights at the best of times, but with this back problem it's going to be very unpleasant.

Philadelphia special: a cheese steak...

I'm writing from my hotel room after lunch in the Hard Rock Café where I had salmon, mashed potatoes and green beans and a couple of very very low alcohol beers, so low, apparently, there was virtually no alcohol at all, or at least I hope that's the case. Our tattooed waitress told us she used to be homeless and a heroin addict, but had turned her life around and was getting married to somebody who was also homeless and had changed his life around too (all's well that ends well). I checked out CVS for Nurofen and they had all these weird brands of pills so I left empty-handed. I don't feel too bad, but when I get up after sitting down it does pain me a bit and I can't walk, but other than that, well, it's fine; actually it's not fine at all and I keep thinking about that flight on Friday evening. All I know is this: it ain't going to get any better. Not for a while at any rate.

The great thing about Philadelphia is that it's a proper city, it's got old-looking, established buildings that wouldn't look out of place in London and it has an established transport infrastructure taking people out to equally established suburbs and because it's not one of the USA's smaller cities, it's one of those places that never sleeps, there are people around all the time, the streets are full of people and cars on the weekends unlike, say, San Antonio where the place empties out, the roads and sidewalks are deserted and I always get the feeling that I'm not in a 'proper' city, like Chicago or New York or Philadelphia.

The 1456 Septa train from Chestnut to Jefferson

What I don't like about Philadelphia is the preponderance of homeless people; they're on every street corner asking for money or cigarettes or harassing people while they eat an evening meal – yes, folks, it's hot enough in May to eat alfresco as we did last night in Pietro's and yes a homeless person passed by on more than occasion (the same person) to ask for cigarettes. I got the feeling that the homeless here were more confrontational than in London, but I might be wrong.

In Philadelphia...day one

It's great when I visit somewhere new and Philadelphia is somewhere new. Up until this point, the only thing I knew about Philadelphia was soft cheese. Cream cheese, is that right? Cream cheese and a guy called Martin, my old pal, who lives here and I'll be seeing him later today, just as soon as I've had some breakfast and acclimatised myself to the fact that I'm five hours behind UK time.

I flew yesterday afternoon on BA0067 from Heathrow Terminal Five. The flight was delayed about three hours thanks to a fuel leak of some sort. I thought we were going to be taken off the plane and flown out on another one, but the engineers did their job and we eventually left the UK around 1530hrs, a good three hours after our scheduled departure time.

BA0067 at Philadelphia airport – three hours delayed!!!

The flight was good, very smooth, and I enjoyed (as always) the inflight meal. I have the chicken every time and it was fantastic, nice and tender, just how I like it and rounded off with a chocolate mousse dessert, the obligatory hard bread roll and some cheese crackers, not forgetting a chunk of cheese. I ate the lot, plus mineral water, plus tea, and anything they gave me basically. Eating passes the time and, as you know, boredom induces a kind of faux hunger. Later we got a chicken sandwich and a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk and one of the cabin crew secretly fed me with a couple of Mini Heros, or whatever they're called. I'm still not drinking (as you all know) but I was tempted by the free mini bottles of red wine (and managed to resist). In fact, this is the first transatlantic flight I've done without alcohol and I must say (rather smugly, perhaps) that I feel a hell of a lot fresher than I normally do. I mean, it's a quarter to six in the morning, I've been up since around 1630hrs (after about five hours' sleep) and I feel fine. I'm looking forward to breakfast and in a second or two I'll probably take a shower and go exploring (there's a pool on the fifth floor). I'm on the 17th floor so I get a good view of the city, although, oddly, it's still dark here.

On the flight over I watched Blade Runner 2049; it was good, but not a patch on the 1979 original. I just managed to finish it before we landed.

Immigration, normally a problem, was smooth and so was baggage reclaim and then it was a shortish cab right into downtown Philly, a late dinner (late on UK time) and then time to hit the sack. And now I'm awake, as you all know because I'm sitting here typing this; it's now 0550hrs and there's not a great deal to talk about right now as I haven't really done a great deal. Martin turns up at 1000hrs, which will be great, and we'll probably drive around town, have some lunch, that sort of thing, and then work kicks in around 1500hrs.

Annoyingly, the weather in the UK is really nice and guess what? I'm here in cloudy old Philadelphia and not riding a bike. I bet Andy went out. Hopefully photographic evidence will follow.