The
Gilded Serpent presents...
Getting Shagged
on
Virgin Atlantic
by Kayla
Summers
We have
been reading about Kayla's adventures in the Middle East
for some time now. She had decided to return to Turkey (by
way of England) after a sojourn in California, her other
home. This is what happened.
This
is about a trip that took two days but never went anywhere.
Due to strange
fortune, I live in two places: California and Istanbul. Having
performed maintenance (chopping countless cords of wood, terracing
land and painting ) on my parents' estate in California, I made
plans to return to Istanbul. A girlfriend, Nagela, with whom I
had gone camping on the Mediterranean coast the previous year,
had just finished her dissertation in Brussels, had met an Englishman
and was living with in him in Portsmouth (pronounced "Portsmith" -
I don't know why).
She
wrote to me, "Hey, gurlfriend, on your way back to Istanbul,
why not stop by here?"
The
reason that I've never been to the United Kingdom is simple: I
have no interest in it. I have traveled for long periods from Bali
to the Yucatan peninsula, but the U.K. simply does not attract
me.
"Oh c'mon,
you'll love it! We can go camping in Wales! Check out London, see
Portsmouth! Rex {her fiancee} will drive us to Stonehenge!"
My mother, who
adores London, encouraged me. She pulled out her plethora of London
guide books, and I read about the museums, walking tours, galleries,
pubs and bridges. Nothing caught my interest, but I was returning
to Istanbul and the trip is long. A break, anywhere, would be welcome.
As a travel writer, I could explore a different route to Turkey:
perhaps a ferry from Portsmouth to France? Maybe from France to
Italy on some vessel or on the trains? As an experienced traveler,
I know that I have to "be there" to find out what is
actually available or feasible.
I wrote back
to Najela in the affirmative. My mother was so delighted that she
lent her credit card number to hold reservations at the Indian
YMCA in Bloomsbury, chosen for its proximity to the "sights" and
its affordability for my frugal accounts. I had hoped that mom
would float the whole London tour, but the "Y" wanted
to settle up on arrival.
The plan was
that I would meet Najela in London at the Indian YMCA, "do
London", take a coach to Portsmouth, tour Portsmouth. Possible
camping in Wales. Definitely Stonehenge. Then review the ways to
get to Istanbul - back to my apartment, my own kitchen, my rose
bushes . . .
I
bought a one-way ticket on Virgin Atlantic, SFO to Heathrow,
in cash. SFO security was the usual mad affair. When they
found I was traveling alone, I was pulled aside to be thoroughly
checked to make sure my underwire bra would not blow them
up.
Somewhere
along the line a small triangular sticker had been placed on my
passport, referring to Virgin Atlantic security. I bore the ten-hour
flight fairly well, despite stereo baby screams, small, hard seats
and saccharine-sweet and unhelpful flight attendants. Well, it
was economy. I arrived at Heathrow, where the nightmare began.
Bear in mind, gentle readers, that for me it was really four a.m.,
contrary to the clock in the airport that stated ten a.m.
The immigration
officer perused my passport and wanted to see my ticket. I explained
the reason for the one-way ticket. "Do you have any money?" I
whipped out five hundred in cash. I had access to more but felt
this was enough to get started. She began counting it. Usually
five one-hundred dollar bills get counted pretty quickly . . .
the officer was not only counting them, but checking their authenticity.
She
asked me what was I going to do in London? I went blank.
I knew I had an itinerary of every hour in London in my suitcase,
and although I wrote it myself . . . I guess I mentioned
museums, bridges, uhhhh.
The officer
wanted a "second interview" and the name and number of
the person I was meeting. I began balking. Really, I have travelled
all sorts of countries for the last twenty years, and never have
I spoken with an officer for more than five minutes.
The supervisor
arrived. Now I knew something was wrong! "What is wrong?" The
two officers were smug. "Have you traveled to the U.K. before?" "No." "Well,
we always do this to everyone." "All the people that
I came in with are now collecting their bags and on their way. "
So
what’s really going on?" "Well, you may be
a . . . flight risk." My jaw dropped "Fly from
what? Where? Here?"
Of late, life
has been sweet, albeit strange. The idea of "flying away" from
any of it left me incredulous; even more ludicrous was that I would
choose the U.K.. I mean . . . Refugees whose lives are in danger
in their homeland go to the U.K.. They go to the U.K . because
they have no other options, not because they like the place.
"Here?" I
repeat. The supervisor nodded, "Yes, here.” "You
gotta be kidding! I live in two of the finest places in the world,
California and Istanbul. Why on earth would I give all that up
for cold weather, warm beer and pigeon pie?"
We
meandered toward the secondary interview. I sat for an hour, then
the officer called me over to begin the interview with a few questions,
like "Do you have children? Are you single? How much money
do you make? What are you going to do in Istanbul?" I replied
yes to having a grown daughter. Yes to being single. As a retired
trauma nurse, a stipend takes care of my income. It’s not
much, but it keeps me honest. The real question was what do I do?
I write travel articles for The Gilded Serpent. I teach
conversational English to "covered women". I "do" a
lot of things I was left to wait. At this point my sciatica was
kicking up, and the idea of sitting for another hour, after an
already long flight, was unbearable. I was allowed to lie on the
floor, and I used one of the travel books to roll under my back
for support. This actually proved to be a good idea, because it
took the officer two hours to make the call and to try to confirm
with a complete stranger my eligibility for entry.
Returning, the
accusatorial officer said, "Your friend says you are a yoga
instructor."
"Yeah, so?"
"You said
you were a writer."
"How does
one exclude the other?”
Officer: "Your
friend says your mother is financing the trip."
Me "Really?
God, that would be great!”. But I didn't want to get in trouble
for lying, so I explained the credit card reservation hold, which
was extremely nice of Mom, but hardly full financing.
There were more
bizarre questions. The theme was: who was really financing this
trip? My responses grew more tentative. I mean, what did she want?
The officer was not happy with my answers and I was becoming less
responsive. She left. I returned to the floor. Two more hours passed.
Round three began She scribed her queries and my responses on a
legal pad. I thought this was strange. After all, in the age of
accountability, shouldn’t they have tape recorders?
Our
interview was turning into an interrogation. Each page was
to be signed. I asked to read what she wrote before I signed.
She sighed, "Fine," and allowed me to read. I pointed
out that not only was she not writing verbatim what was said,
but the interrogation seemed rather slanted; also, words
were not spelled correctly, which could cause even more confusion.
She replied in
a dry voice, "You're not being very cooperative." She
continued with her mantra, "Who's really financing this vacation?" I
resisted all temptation to say, "You caught me! I'm an Al
Qaida!" Instead I said, "Mom?"
"When did
you leave India?"
.“It’s
in the passport."
"I want
you to tell me."
I am horrible
with dates, and had not studied my passport in awhile. I didn't
know that there would be a test, and apparently I did not get the
answers right. It occurred to me that after six hours of interrogation,
they were not going to let me go. I mean six hours of this bullshit
and then they would dare to let me loose on the city to vent? Even
though I wouldn't do that! The mantra continued: "Who is really
financing this trip?"
The officer left
again and I returned to the floor. The clock now read four in the
afternoon, and I had not a clue what my internal one was saying,
other than "Lie down and sleep!"
I
began screaming, "If you're not going to let me in,
then let me out! This is enough!"
Then
a woman about 5'9" and three hundred plus pounds arrived.
She was sporting big hair and Maybelline blue eye shadow. She looked
like Divine in "Hairspray", and had a skinny plainclothes
policeman in tow. She tossed me a pamphlet and said, "There's
your complaint form; we will hold onto your passport and send you
home. " I screamed that she could certainly send me home but
I was leaving with the passport She
said she'd have it given back to me on my arrival on U.S. soil. "Just
because you're an American, it doesn’t mean we have to let
you in."
"Yeah, .
. . I guess what with the revolution and all. . . "
She sneered, "We
can't let just anyone in." Well, I've never been referred
to as "just anyone". It was kind of a compliment for
me. As I gazed at this Divine look-alike, I had to wonder why they
were trying to make me feel bad. Wasn’t deporting me enough?
Despite giving them more information than I give my accountant,
I was denied entry for not giving enough information and for having
a bad attitude about interrogations. I was then warehoused until
my flight back to the states. Mug shots were taken.
The deportation
papers read "V90 -SFO via NY." A supervisor from Virgin
Atlantic met me in New York. I asked her where I would get the
connecting flight to SFO. Curtly she replied, "We are not
responsible for getting you all the way back."
I said, "What
about the deportation order? . Anyway, you picked me up at SFO. "
"We
are only responsible for getting you back to America." She
hissed, "You were deported!"
She took me
to a police officer and made the exchange, handed me back my passport
and disappeared. The officer was very nice, suggesting alternative
routes home and where I might spend the night, encouraging me not
to cry. I spent the night in Terminal Four, on a very clean floor,
along with two Polish lads who were awaiting their flight. I bought
a ticket on Jet Blue to Oakland. Jet Blue is a fine airline - I
recommend it. There are individual tv’s that one can change
at will, and a calm, courteous staff. If it was great under those
awful conditions, imagine how nice it would be for a regular trip.
The next day
another friend and I traveled to the Congresswoman's office in
Oakland, to see if I was perhaps on a" bad person's list",
or to just learn what was the cause of this event - a trip which
proved fruitless.
My friend asked, "What
day did you leave?" I said the first of September. She said, “Gosh,
now it’s the fourth!"
And that’s
how I spent two days in transit and never went anywhere.
[Ed- While
researching for this piece we found this site- www.virginaircrewlies.com]
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Ready
for More?
Kayla's
Travel Journal Continues--Hamam III by Kayla Summers
At
that point the steward says "now" and you jump off.
How
I came to Turkey by Kayla Summers
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