Remembering The Warmness Of The Day

Another slight change of pace today.


When I was a kid I loved going to the beach (still do actually).


Every summer, or what passed for a summer, in those days we lived very much up north, there was always great anticipation about an imminent trip to see the sea. First, however, there was the tedious part, the journey there. When you are a kid things like that seem to take forever, but the excitement kept us all going and eventually we were within sight of the beach.


Finding somewhere to park was the next problem. It seemed everybody had the same idea as us. But we always found a spot and quickly gathered up all our beach gear and headed as fast as we could towards the salty fresh air and the inviting water.


While Mom and Dad took care of all the important stuff like organizing towels, seats, even a big umbrella for a bit of shade, we stripped down to our swimwear and ran as fast as we could towards the sea. (I keep calling it the “sea”, but actually it was the Atlantic Ocean.)


Each year we did the same thing, and each year we learned nothing from the year before.


On we galloped into the water and approximately 1.25 seconds after that we remembered.


The cold.


Sooooooo cold.


The water that looked so inviting was so very, very cold.


For an old person the shock might well have been too much for the system. But when you are young you tend to shrug off these minor discomforts. We were at the beach, and we were in the sea. That’s all that mattered.


After a while it didn’t feel so cold. Our feet and legs had grown accustomed to the temperature. Actually our feet and legs were probably numb by this time and would not have felt it if we had been standing in boiling water either.


And then just as we were starting to enjoy the whole experience, in would come a big wave and it would splash all over our upper bodies which had not been in the water yet and had not been given the chance to go completely numb.


It was always a “WTF” moment, even in the days when we didn’t know what “WTF” meant!


But there was nothing else available so we were none the wiser and made the best of it. There were also a few laughs too.


A friend, George, was always good for one or two. George fancied himself as a bit of an underwater expert and he always had a face mask and snorkel with him. Trouble was when George launched himself for an underwater expedition only his head ever went under the water. Most of the rest of him was in the fresh air. He must have had great natural buoyancy.


That was funny enough, but then someone (yes, sometimes me) would push the little ball thingumy into the snorkel pipe which soon provoked a serious amount of splashing and gasping for air as George’s head resurfaced. He was never very pleased, but the rest of us cracked up.


Then there was usually some unfortunate kid whose granny had bought him (or maybe even made) his swimming trunks. On dry land and even going into the water these were fine and looked quite normal, but coming out to go back up to the beach was quite another thing. You see the material they were made of often as not was water absorbent and these poor souls lumbered their way out of the ocean with a crotch full of icy water dragging between their knees. They must have weighed a ton and it’s a miracle they stayed on at all. It was so funny and I daren’t say what names we called them. Kids can be so cruel.


That was the “refreshing dip” over. We spent the next hour or two on the beach, first getting dried and then lying in the sun thawing out. Then it was off to get something to eat and on to the amusement park to go on a few rides there and spend more pennies in the various slot machines and games.


When it was time to leave both us and our money supply were exhausted. The trip home was a lot shorter, mainly because we slept most of the way. But the day had been good. Enjoyed by all. And the memories were selective. We’d do it again, soon, but we would never remember the coldness of the water, just the warmness of the day.

Tarzan Takes A Vacation

“Fight Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

I used to be friends with a guy from Northern Ireland. We are going back thirty years here so quite a while ago. We’ve lost touch since as you tend to do with some if not most acquaintances.

This story is about his Dad.

As you may or may not know the weather in Ireland is awful. Cold, wet, windy, rains every day with a ‘y’ in it, or so the locals say. One traveler from Africa once remarked that it was like living under an elephant!

The result has been a continual decline in vacation resorts, towns and villages there. People still come for the golf, renewed interest in that with the recent success of Rory McIlroy and Darren Clark. But on the whole the locals prefer to get away for one or two weeks to a location with at least the chance of a bit of heat and sunshine.

But in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the period in which this story is set, foreign travel was a fairly new phenomenon for most people.

But my friend’s father and mother thought it would be a nice and different break for them and they booked two weeks in the south of Spain.  

They arrived without incident, booked in to their hotel and that first night just had a meal in the hotel restaurant and went to bed. Traveling is always tiring.

The next day they partook of the buffet breakfast that most of the touristy hotels in Spain provide and after that went back to their room, got their towels and creams and so forth, and headed for the beach, which was only about 100 yards or so from the hotel.

My friend’s mother lay down on a towel to take some rays, as they say, and his father who wasn’t really the type of guy who liked to lay about all day, got a beach chair from which he had a better vantage point to survey the beach and sea activities.

We’ll never know whether it was the heat, or just the sight of bare heaving glistening continental bosoms, (they're not a bit bashful in parts of Europe), but after about half an hour on the beach it all became too much for my friend’s Dad. All of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, he jumped out of his beach chair, started to yell like Tarzan, beating his chest at the same time, and ran towards the Mediterranean Sea.

There was a slight slope in the beach and by the time he had reached the water he had built up a considerable head of steam. His momentum took him quite a bit into the water, not quite waist deep but getting there.

Now, I should say that the Med is no Pacific Ocean, but there are nevertheless waves and as everyone knows the seventh is usually bigger than those preceding it.  

And just when my friend’s father reached about as deep as he could on his feet he decided to dive through the next wave, which was a relatively big one. According to his wife, who was looking as this spectacle with more than a little bemusement, he was still doing his version of a Tarzan yell and beating his chest. And so into the sea he dived still yelling and open mouthed.

I forgot to tell you he wore dentures, which is rather crucial to the rest of the story.

Yes, when the wave passed and he resurfaced not a tooth of any kind had he in his mouth.

Of course he frantically searched for both sets of gnashers.

I love watching when people who don’t know how to dive underwater try it. Their ass goes way up in the air, their head maybe six inches or a foot under, and then after maybe two or three seconds they re-emerge gasping and spluttering as if they’ve just been down to the bottom of sea. I imagine that’s what he did.  

But you know what the sea is like. Both sets of false teeth were long gone, never to be found again.

I have heard tell of people packing extra underwear, or shoes (hey ladies), or even glasses as emergency back-ups. But I have never heard of anyone packing an extra set of teeth.

My friend’s father wasn’t to be the first one to do it and so he had to spend the next twelve and a half days of his vacation completely toothless, only able to eat soft mushy stuff and soup, but having to avoid the juicy steaks completely.

And he looked like a prat too. The photo below isn't him, but you get the idea.

Drained Of Life - Almost

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

The last couple of blog post have concerned people featured in the Darwin Awards, “Never Hitch Your Wagon” about someone who wasn’t eligible because he survived his and his wife’s stupidity, and “Little Dumb And Large Dumber” because their dumbness did make them successful Darwin Award winners.

I had a friend who almost featured in the Darwin Awards too. The only reason he didn’t was because they didn’t exist in those days and probably none of us would have had the presence of mind to nominate him anyway.

I won’t tell you his real name, have to expose the innocent and protect the guilty and all that, but his nickname was “Goners” pronounced “Gone-ers”. It was a nickname he gained after the incident I am now going to tell you about, and for most of his friends he’s still stuck with it to this day.

It happened when we were all young guys, in our teens and spending a leisurely summer messing around and generally enjoying life the way you can before you get older and wiser and burden yourself with responsibilities and debt and so forth. Then the Dads were paying the mortgage and bringing home the bacon (sometimes literally) and we were carefree and happy.

This day we decided to go for a walk along a nearby river. None of us were keen fishermen but we liked the river and walks along the riverbanks and the little stony beaches that the river’s meanders had left here and there. That particular summer was hot and a bit of bathing in the cool clear unpolluted water was also on the agenda.

It wasn’t a big river, no Amazon that’s for sure. Just about 50 feet across, or thereabouts, and maybe four or five feet deep towards the middle. There were a few deeper holes that serious fishermen tended to use, but we were always content messing around in the shallower water. It was fun and safe. In fact thinking and writing about it, I wish I was back there right now.

But I’m not, so on with the story.

Part of the river bank was relatively flat with only a slightly sloping bank down to the water. Other parts were a straight drop. And yet others consisted of a fairly steep slope down to the water’s edge.  

Local farmers had dug drains at intervals to let rainwater run off their fields into the river, and between where the man-made drains ended and the river began, the water flow had over the years dug its own ‘V’ and then ‘U’ type trenches by eroding the top soil.

These had to be negotiated when one was walking along the riverbank, but it wasn’t a problem. That was how things were and everybody just accepted it and got on with it. I’m sure nowadays there would be a bureaucratic do-gooding group wanting all sorts of rules and regulations both to disrupt the farmer’s lives and to spoil the nature walk for the rest of us. In those days some interfering busybody was more likely to end up in the river and they knew it so they stayed away.

Of course, when I said the drains weren’t a problem, what I meant was they weren’t a problem for most of the people most of the time. But there’s always one idiot who will find a way to mess up even a nice summer’s day stroll along the riverbank.

Enter “Goners” into the story.

Although the day I am recounting was idyllic weather wise, during the previous night there had been a thunderstorm and some furious rain for a little while. The result of that was that the following morning there was considerable run-off of rainwater from the fields, via the farmer’s drains into the river. This made the areas close to the drains a little wet and slippery, not to mention mucky.

We had been walking for a few miles, successfully crossing all the open drains we had encountered. And then it happened!

“Goners” tripped or lost is concentration or something, but his balance went and he headed over the side of the riverbank.

At first this caused unbridled hilarity amongst the rest of us. We were laughing and pointing and cheering. If we had had pens and paper with us, no doubt we would have held up makeshift score cards critiquing the ‘dive’. But we hadn’t so we just laughed and laughed, not only at the dive but at the frantic wriggling and gurgling of “Goners” in the trench.   

Then somebody twigged on what was happening and said, “OMG I think he’s drowning!”

“How can you drown in three inches of water?”, came a chorus of incredulous replies.  

But he was.

“Goners” was in BIG trouble.

He WAS actually drowning in probably less then three inches of water.

“Goners” had fallen into the drain nature had made with the water erosion. Obviously he didn’t intend to, and, unprepared, he fell head first, with his arms by his sides, as opposed to being in a normal diving position with his arms outstretched in front of him and slightly raised.

As he had slid down the riverbank towards the water he had embedded himself farther and farther into the drain, trapping his arms by his side.

And when he reached the water, which was indeed barely three inches deep at the edge, his face including his nose and mouth were submerged under the level of the water.

The frantic wriggling wasn’t just to try to free his arms, but to try to get his mouth and nose out of the water to grab some much needed air. And he clearly wasn’t having much success.  

Once we realized that he was in real trouble, of course it was all hands on deck so to speak and everyone rushed to his assistance. Two of us each grabbed one of his feet and pulled him back up the bank a little so that his head came out of the water. Much to his relief, and ours, “Goners” made a few huge grabs for air and the crisis seemed to be over.

Now I don’t know to this day whether what happened next was a deliberate act, something sub-conscious, or just another minor accident, but with his movement and gasping for air his feet, which like the rest of him were slippery with the muck from the drain, managed to slip out of our hands and he slid back into the water again. Gurgle, gurgle, wriggle, splutter, gurgle….

We knew he was in no danger this time and yes, we did laugh again. It was funny for everyone but “Goners”. Some of us – not me you understand, no definitely not me, of course not, don’t be silly, how could you think such a thing – could have played that game all day, pulling him out of the river and then letting him slide back in. Thinking about it now, we probably invented a new water-boarding technique, to us at the time it was just fun.

But we must have thought better of it after a couple of ‘dunks’ because the we pulled “Goners” out of the drain completely and back up on to dry land.

When he got his wits about him once again he said, “Thanks guys. I was nearly a goner.”

And that was his nickname for ever more, “Goners”.

It shows you just how easily and innocently things can happen that under different circumstances would have had a lot more tragic results.

Postscript:

Strangely enough, many years later, in the very same river as it happens, a guy called Willy (the same as featured in my blog post “Willy And Woof”) did the very same thing while walking back home from a bar, very, very drunk. That time however there was no one around to help.

Now he could have been a Darwin Award winner!

  

Travel Agents Get Asked Some Funny Things

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

Only very occasionally these days do I use a travel agent. I prefer to organize things myself online. But then I am a fairly experienced traveler. For many other people, particularly the intellectually challenged it seems, the travel agent is their first and last port of call when organizing a vacation. 

The following are actual stories provided by travel agents. Since I read these I’m wondering if there should be some kind of proficiency test before one is allowed out of the house let alone venture into another county or country. 

That’s one for the bureaucrats to ponder over, but it probably won’t happen, after all most of them couldn’t pass it and they all like their little trips at our expense.

As usual, I hope you enjoy.

What the travel agents said:

I had someone ask for an aisle seat so that their hair wouldn't get messed up by being near the window.

 - - - - - - - - - -

A client called in inquiring about a package to Hawaii.

After going over all the cost info, she asked, "Would it be cheaper to fly to California and then take the train to Hawaii?"

 - - - - - - - - - -

I got a call from a woman who wanted to go to Capetown.

I started to explain the length of the flight and the passport information when she interrupted me with "I'm not trying to make you look stupid, but Cape Town is in Massachusetts."

Without trying to make her look like the stupid one, I calmly explained, "Cape Cod is in Massachusetts, Capetown is in Africa."

Her response... click.

 - - - - - - - - - -

A man called, furious about a Florida package we did.

I asked what was wrong with the vacation in Orlando.

He said he was expecting an ocean-view room.

I tried to explain that is not possible, since Orlando is in the middle of the state.

He replied, "Don't lie to me. I looked on the map and Florida is a very thin state."

 - - - - - - - - - -

I got a call from a man who asked, "Is it possible to see England from Canada?"

I said, "No."

He said, "But they look so close on the map."

 - - - - - - - - - -

Another man called and asked if he could rent a car in Dallas.

When I pulled up the reservation, I noticed he had a 1-hour lay-over in Dallas.

When I asked him why he wanted to rent a car, he said, "I heard Dallas was a big airport, and I need a car to drive between the gates to save time."

 - - - - - - - - - -

A nice lady just called.

She needed to know how it was possible that her flight from Detroit left at 8:20am and got into Chicago at 8:33am.

I tried to explain that Michigan was an hour ahead of Illinois, but she could not understand the concept of time zones.

Finally I told her the plane went very fast, and she bought that!

 - - - - - - - - - -

A woman called and asked, "Do airlines put your physical description on your bag so they know whose luggage belongs to who?"

I said, "No, why do you ask?"

She replied, "Well, when I checked in with the airline, they put a tag on my luggage that said FAT, and I'm overweight, is there any connection?"

After putting her on hold for a minute while "I looked into it," ( I was actually laughing) I came back and explained that the city code for Fresno is FAT, and that the airline was just putting a destination tag on her luggage.

 - - - - - - - - - -

I just got off the phone with a man who asked, "How do I know which plane to get on?"

I asked him what exactly he meant, to which he replied, "I was told my flight number is 823, but none of these darn planes have numbers on them."

 - - - - - - - - - -

A woman called and said, "I need to fly to Pepsi-Cola on one of those computer planes."

I asked if she meant to fly to Pensacola on a commuter plane.

She said, "Yeah, whatever."

 - - - - - - - - - -

A business man called and had a question about the documents he needed in order to fly to China.

After a lengthy discussion about passports, I reminded him he needed a visa.

"Oh no I don't, I've been to China many times and never had to have one of those."

I double checked and sure enough, his stay required a visa.

When I told him this he said, "Look, I've been to China four times and every time they have accepted my American Express."

 - - - - - - - - - -

A secretary called in looking for hotel in Los Angles.


She gave me various names off a list, none of which I could find I finally had her fax me the list.


To my surprise, it was a list of hotels in New Orleans, Louisiana.


She thought the LA stood for Los Angles, and that New Orleans was a suburb of of L.A.


Worst of all, when I called her back, she was not even embarrassed.

 - - - - - - - - - -

A woman called to make reservations, "I want to go from Chicago to Hippopotamus, New York."

The agent was at a loss for words.

Finally, the agent asked, "Are you sure that's the name of the town?"

"Yes, what flights do you have?" replied the customer.

After some searching, the agent came back with, "I'm sorry, ma'am, I've looked up every airport code in the country and can't find a Hippopotamus anywhere."

The customer retorted, "Oh don't be silly. Everyone knows where it is. Check your map!"

The agent scoured a map of the state of New York and finally offered, "You don't mean Buffalo, do you?"

She replied, "That's it! I knew it was a big animal!"

 

The Worst Airport Greeting In The World

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”

This is a sort of follow on from yesterday’s blog about Mr Nicholas Scotti, the worst tourist in the world.

Today’s is about Mrs Josephine Williams and her family, who in 1975 went to meet a long-lost brother at Heathrow Airport (London).

Eventually the traveller wandered into the airport lounge, greatly relaxed by the in-flight drinking facilities, and was immediately smothered with the kisses of Mrs Williams and her sisters.

“Gee, this is great,” he kept saying, all the while cuddling Mrs Williams in a manner which she later described as “not like a brother.”

His enthusiasm for British hospitality was modified, however, when Mr Williams shook his hand firmly and ushered him to a parked car.

They first suspected that something might be amiss when their long-lost relative tried to jump out of the car while travelling at speed up the motorway.

When told that he was being taken to a family reunion in Coventry, he replied, “Take my money. Here’s my wallet. Take it and let me go.”

Slumped miserably in the front seat, he added, “This is the first time I have been to England and I am being kidnapped.”

“I thought from the beginning he wasn’t my brother,” Mrs Williams said later, “but my sisters wouldn’t listen. They said I was only twelve when he left for America and wouldn’t remember.”

They had taken home a complete stranger!  I don’t know if they ever met up with their brother or not.

 

The Worst Tourist In The World

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”


 I don’t know whether any of you have heard of Mr Nicholas Scotti?

I hadn’t until I read about him on the internet.

But his story is one that fits well into the ‘stupidity’ category that is one of the underlying themes of this blog.

Mr Scotti holds the title of being ‘The Worst Tourist In The World’, or certainly one of the least successful ones.

 Nicholas Scotti is of Italian descent and is from San Francisco, USA.

In 1977 he decided he would like to visit his relatives in his native Italy.

 An inexperienced traveller, Mr Scotti booked his vacation trip using a travel agent and on the appointed day made his way to the airport for the flight. Getting on a plane was a relatively easy and quick process back in 1977 (oh, those were the days!!), and Mr Scotti made it on to the plane without incident. He settled down for the long flight.

 En route the plane made a one-hour fuel stop at Kennedy Airport and the passengers disembarked.

 But Nicholas Scotti didn’t know about the re-fuelling stop. He thought that he had arrived in Rome, Italy.

He duly left the airport and spent two days in New York believing he was in Rome.

 When his nephews were not there to meet him, Mr Scotti just assumed they had been delayed in the heavy Rome traffic they had mentioned often in their letters.

 While tracking down their address, the great traveler could not help noticing that modernization and new construction had brushed aside most, if not all, of the ancient city’s famous landmarks, but that didn’t deter him.

 He also noticed that many people spoke English with a distinct American accent. However, he just assumed that Americans got everywhere. Furthermore, he assumed it was for their benefit that so many of the street signs were written in English.

 Mr Scotti spoke very little English himself and next asked a policeman (in Italian) the way to the bus depot. As chance would have it, the policeman came from Naples and replied fluently in Italian, which only helped to reinforce his belief that he was in Rome, not New York.

 After twelve hours travelling round on a bus, the driver got fed up with him and handed him over to a second policeman. This one was not Italian and a brief argument ensued during which Mr Scotti expressed amazement at the Rome police force employing someone who did not speak their own language.

 Scotti’s brilliance is seen in the fact that even when told he was in New York, he refused to believe it.

The man was a veritable genius!

 To get Mr Scotti on a plane back to San Francisco, he was raced to the airport in a police car with sirens screaming. Even then he remained unconvinced. “See,” he said to his interpreter, “I know I’m in Italy. That’s how they drive.”

El Caminito del Rey

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy”



Occasionally you get something really stupid that you just have to admire. The guy doing the video linked below is one of them.

First, here’s what it’s all about….



El Caminito del Rey (English: The King’s little pathway) is a walkway, now fallen into disrepair, pinned along the steep walls of a narrow gorge in El Chorro, near Álora in the province of Málaga, Spain. The name is often shortened to Camino del Rey (English: King’s pathway).

In was originally constructed in 1901 for workers who needed to cross between the hydroelectric power plants at Chorro Falls and Gaitanejo Falls, to transport materials, and for inspection and maintenance. Construction of the walkway took four years and it was finished in 1905.

In 1921 King Alfonso XIII crossed the walkway for the inauguration of the dam Conde del Guadalhorce and it became known by its present name.

The walkway is one metre (3 feet and 3 inches) in width, and rises over 100 metres (350 feet) above the river below. Constructed of concrete resting on steel rails supported by stanchions at around 45 degrees into the rock face.

It is currently in a highly deteriorated state and there are numerous sections where part or all of the concrete top has collapsed. The result is large open air gaps that are bridged only by narrow steel beams or other support fixtures.

Very few of the original handrails exist but a safety-wire runs the length of the path. Several people have lost their lives on the walkway in recent years and after two fatal accidents in 1999 and 2000, the local government closed both entrances, but not the gift shop.

In June 2011, the regional government of Andalusia and the local government of Málaga agreed to share costs of restoration (including car parking and a museum) of €9 million. The project will take approximately three years to complete. Many of the original features will remain in place and the new materials that are used will be in keeping with the old design

I think I’ll wait until it’s fixed before I start thinking about having a go. In the meantime if you want to see something daringly stupid watch the video. They guy who took it is a lot surer footed (and braver) than I am, I can tell you that!

Airline Announcements And George Carlin

“Fight Against Stupidity And Bureaucracy” 


Today we seem to be back on the subject of travel again. It has a way of cropping up quite a bit.

 This time it’s another video presentation, part of a routine by comedian and life observer George Carlin.

 I was always a big fan of George Carlin. I didn’t agree with a lot of the things that he said, and he never refrained from using strong language when he wanted to, but he had a great gift for seeing the funny side of life, and for that I was grateful. Too often we get too frustrated and angry at the idiots we have to deal with and miss the ridiculous absurdity of what is happening around us. Not George.

 Sadly George is no longer with us, but his work lives on.

 *** WARNING: As usual if you are likely to be offended by strong language, then perhaps you should give this one a miss, otherwise, enjoy!

Finally, I Made it! (The Journey, Part 8)

The following day I checked out of the hotel, again!

Told them I had had to leave a suitcase behind in the room because of the rigmarole at the airport. I said they could let the housekeeping girls take and sell it or keep it or whatever, it was no more use to me.

I got my receipt, again.

Left the hotel, again, in the same shuttle bus, again, with the same driver, again. We’re now good friends, we spent so much time together.

Arrived at Miami International again.

Got a trolley, again, don’t start me on that!

Went to the AA check-in desk, again.

Did the swipey bit at the stand alone screen, again, and joined the queue, again.

When it was my turn, this time it was a man, not the girl from yesterday. I handed over my flight details and passport and explained that I had been rescheduled from yesterday’s flight. He checked that and it was okay.

Then I off-loaded my bags from the $5 trolley and placed the first one on the scales to be weighed and tagged. It was okay for weight, just about and no more. (I had spent a good part of yesterday evening regulating my luggage, trying to put all the heavy gear into one and the lighter stuff into the other. No sense in paying an overweight surcharge for both when one would do.)

Then I set the other one on and sure enough it was well over, $100 worth in fact. He tagged it and sent it on its way, wherever it is that they go.

I was standing there waiting for him to hand me my boarding pass with the luggage tags, but instead he looked towards my trolley and said,

“Is that it?”

“Is that it??”  I didn’t understand.

“IS THAT IT???”

What did he mean, “Is that it?”

I asked him.

“What do you mean, is that it?” I said.

“Is that all your cases, sir? Do you have any more or are you done?” he replied.

W T F???

“That’s all I could bring with me,” I told him. Then followed up quickly with, “There’s an embargo.”

Oh no! Crap and double crap!! Now I was doing it, instead of the AA girl!

“Is there?” he replied.

It’s a really good job they don’t let you bring guns into airports these days, because at that point I could have cheerfully shot somebody.

I started to explain about the embargo, but quickly caught myself on. “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Yes, that’s all my check-in luggage.”

Now, I still don’t know what had happened. Whether they had changed the regulations overnight, whether the embargo had been in effect only up to midnight on December 23^rd, whether he just didn’t know about it, or whether they’d realized what a stupid bloody rule it was and scrapped it. All I know is that the day before it had caused me no end of problems, and expense, and today it was as if it had never existed.

I took my passport and papers and staggered away, just looking back briefly to make sure I had really been at the American Airlines desk. What had just happened to me was the equivalent of a mugging. It had left me with a lot less dollars in my wallet, but there were no black eyes or other wounds to show that it had happened. They’d messed with my head and there was nothing I could do.

Nothing except get the hell away from there as fast as I could. I headed for security and then the boarding gate.

I still don't like those new scanner things, never will. I’m sure, despite what the experts say, that they’re not good for you. But if you want to travel these days, there is very little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it.

In fact, all you have to do is grit your teeth, you don't have to bear it, the machine apparently does all that for you!

At least they know how to work them now. When I was in Miami airport the year before they were just getting the first of them installed and everybody was terribly new-fangled with them. As they tried to figure out what to do, I spied the two footprints on the floor and said, “I think I’ll stand here.” 

They thought that was a good idea too, and they tried the machine.

“Have you any paper in your pockets?” the guy asked. “This thing doesn’t work if you have paper in your pockets.”

I shook my head incredulously. Here was the US government, and many other governments, spending $billions installing these machines at airports all over the world that could see through your clothes but not through a bit of paper! Wow!!!

In answer to his question, I told him “Yes, I have a lot of paper in my pockets.”

And so I had. I had a real drippy head cold and before I left the hotel I had raided the tissue box in the bathroom and stuffed them into my pockets. ALL my pockets!

“Bear with me,” I said to the security guy. “This is going to take a minute or two.” 

And I proceeded to first of all take out my passport and boarding pass and then started pulling tissues out of everywhere like some demented magician. They came out of my left trouser pocket, my right trouser pocket, the pocket in the back of my trousers, the left breast pocket of my shirt, and the right one too, even a few from the pocket in the front of a teeshirt I was wearing under my shirt.

I looked over. The security guy was smiling. I think he half expected me to produce a rabbit, or at least a couple of white doves, and was getting ready to applaud. How embarrassing! 

When I had finished I looked over at him and said, “Well, I did warn you.” He smiled a bit more, grinned in fact. Then they whizzed the machine around me and I gathered up all my gear, redistributed the paper hankies and was on my way to the departure gate.  

Just like this time. Departure gate. Flight called. On the plane. Aisle seat. Nobody sitting beside me. Happiness and joy. My luck had changed. It had to eventually.

In less than two hours, (although it was three hours later - funny thing time??) I arrived at my island retreat in the Caribbean. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Richard Branson, when I say “my” island retreat, I don’t own the island, only a small house on it. I just call it mine because I live there for the most of the year, trips here and there permitting.  

Got off the plane, went to immigration, which is a painless process, but I can never get to grips with the logic of it. There are forms, of course there are. Where aren't there forms to fill out these days? But they are usually taken care of during the flight. At arrivals at the airport, first I join the inevitable queue. Then when it comes my turn, one fellow or girl takes $10 from me and gives me my tourist card. Then I walk about ten yards further and another bloke or girl takes my tourist card off me scans it and throws it into a bin. It's always that way, but they do it quite efficiently and pleasantly. Then yet another bloke takes my passport, looks at it, hands it to yet another one who stamps it, and off I go in search of my luggage.

This time no problems, everything has arrived safely. Another trolley - they're free here as they should be at all airports, and I head for Customs.

I have always so much gear with me on these trips at holiday times that I usually get at least one of my bags searched. They're looking for drugs and I usually have quite a few in my bags. The legal kind, I hasten to add. So one customs guy hauls one of my bags off the trolley and the other opens it, pokes about a bit not recognizing half the stuff in there. He brings his hand out clutching a big jar of Calcium capsules, a prezzie for a lady acquaintance who is affected by osteoporosis. I do my best to explain that it is just vitamins and, although he doesn't look at all convinced, he gives me the benefit of the doubt, and the other guy zips up the case, puts it back on the trolley and off we go out the door and into the sunshine.

That first blast of heat is always something of a shock to the system, even after you’ve been in Miami for a while, but nice all the same. As is the welcome. Lots of hugs and kisses and smiling faces.

The journey is over - for now.

It’s nice to be home for Christmas.

Have you had similar experiences? Send them along. Let the world know what is happening before it is too late.