LH Franz My last day in Iceland was a little more exciting that antcipated.
After breakfast and (with Betsy’s help) getting down the stairs, I headed off to Bus Stop #14, which would take me to the main bus terminal to get the airport bus. Bus Stop #14 was right at the bottom of the hill from the apartment. I somehow managed to walk right by it. Couldn’t say how that happened, but there you are. After a couple of blocks I joined a crowd of people waiting for buses. This was a stop used by lots of different bus services – airport buses, buses for city tours, buses for countryside tours, buses for horseback riding tours. The bus schedules specify 20-30 minutes of leeway for arrival times, but everyone felt they were waiting longer. The soft hum of the crowd’s agitated conversations grew louder every time a bus pulled in. People swarmed around it to see if it was the one they were waiting for, most of them turning away disappointed.
My bus got to the main terminal around 8:45 a.m. The airport bus would leave at 9:30, arriving at the airport around 10:15 a.m. With a scheduled take-off of 11:30, there was plenty of time to get through security and to the departure gate.
Airport display boards at this airport don’t post gate information until about forty minutes before departure time. Without knowing what gate to go to, there was no way to know which part of the airport to be in. So I whiled away the time over a cup of coffee at Joe and the Juice. As the forty minute mark approached, the departure display changed and showed a delay, with the boarding time similarly pushed out. More coffee, a trip to the bathroom, and finally a gate assignment.
Security didn’t have full body scanners. Because of my artificial hip, they ran a metal detector wand over me. My last experience with the wand was in Canada, where it made that obnoxious detector-wand-screaming noise every time the security agent waved it over my underwire bra. It was embarrassing. This time all my clothing was wireless, underwear included. A much better experience.
At the gate, an Asian American gentleman sat next to me in the waiting area and struck up a conversation. Or rather, he talked to me and I responded with nods and monosyllables. He said he had a connecting flight from Newark to his home in Los Angeles and he was afraid he wouldn’t make the connection. He paused at this point in the “conversation.” It was my turn to respond. I agreed this was, in fact, a legitimate concern. He’d left himself three hours to get through customs, retrieve his luggage, possibly (probably!) go to another terminal, then go through security again to board his plane. And this leg of his journey was already running late. His best chance to make it would be if his flight to L.A. was also delayed enough for him to catch it.
A security lady saved me from the need to share these depressing thoughts with him. She motioned for me to come with her to the side of the waiting area for “random additional screening.” She did this for a number of people, seeming to pick every fifth person who was sitting down. There, a second agent asked me a number of questions. My name? My nationality? How long was I in Iceland? What had I done there? Is this all my luggage? Had it been out of my sight at all? Was I carrying anything given to me by someone else? All okay, he put a little sticker on the corner of my passport cover and initialed it. I returned to my seat. Mr. Los Angeles was still there, but quieter. I considered our previously interrupted conversation over and therefore sat quietly as well.
The announcement for Boarding Group 2 gave me a polite reason to get up and join the line, just in time to escape Mr. Los Angeles, who seemed to be getting his second wind.
We lined up along a plexiglass wall where we could see an escalator up to the gangway and watch first class passengers and passengers in Boarding Group 1 ascend to the airplane. At a long table to the side of the escalator, visible to all of us, security staff selected passengers for luggage inspections. We watched as one poor guy emptied the contents of his entire suitcase onto the table. It wasn’t clear how they decided which folks got this extra attention. While this drama play out, the same security agent who had asked me questions before came over to ask me the same questions again. Odd, but I’ve given up trying to fathom the mindset of the security world. He initialed the little sticker on my passport a second time. By then, our line started to move.
The guy scanning boarding passes mumbled some recognition of the TSA Pre-check indicator on my boarding pass, so I guess it counts for something in some places. I had this thought while walking by the guy now repacking his suitcase.
The bulkhead seat had lots of legroom but no seat in front under which to put the CPAP machine. The flight attendant said there was no special place for me to store the medical device, and, with a sincerely sympathetic look on her face, said I would have to store it in an overhead bin. Sigh… I found an overhead bin nearby where it seemed to be pretty safe from getting smashed around in flight. (Note to self: Avoid bulkhead seats.)
Five episodes of “I, Claudius” got me to Newark.
A very smooth landing, always greatly appreciated.
Strolling past the long lines of people waiting to be interviewed by Border Control agents (was that Mr. Los Angeles I spied?) I took out my passport and went to the Global Entry kiosks, which resemble ATM machines. I stood in front of one, looked into the screen, and watched it do its little dance of dots and lines as it ran through facial recognition programming, and ended by displaying “Welcome to the United States.” A Border Control agent screening people coming out of the kiosk line let me through and, with no checked luggage, I sailed past the baggage carousels to the main concourse to meet Husband. He wasn’t there. (Note to self: In future, always arrange to meet at baggage claim, even with no baggage. It’s an airport landmark that’s easy to locate.)
After the always thrilling ride through the airport and the highways of NJ, I was home. My CPAP was unharmed.
In Iceland, I saw many interesting and fun things, but, because of my reluctance to engage in activities involving uneven terrain, I think I missed a lot of the immense natural beauty of the country. Would I go back again? Absolutely. But before going, I would make a point of working to building some strength and stamina to handle irregular hiking trails. I would also bring my trekker poles.
This was a great trip. Daughter is a great travel companion.
Where to go next? Who knows? First I have to take stock of my frequent flyer situation.
