 |
| The beautiful London Luton Vale Hotel ... in a weirdly abandoned business park north of Luton |
So. 10 am on Friday morning, May 23rd. Watching an episode of Magnum P.I. on English TV in my hotel room, waiting another hour until it's time to check out, take an über to the airport, and get ready to fly back to Prague!
 |
| Special assistance for the hearing disabled, of course. What kind of country wouldn't provide that?? |
Speaking of American detectives, I've been both reading a Jack Reacher novel and watching a Jack Reacher TV series this past week, which does put one in a certain mood. Yesterday morning, on the train from Chichester up to my Luton hotel, I was in the middle of the novel when an announcement came on the train's P.A. system asking, if there were a policeman on the train, for that person to come to car 3. No more information was given.
My inner Walter Mitty kicked in (actually, more like "The Lady on 142"), and I found myself wondering what Jack Reacher would do — and thus, by implication, what I should do. Should I wander over to Car 3, explain that I'm not a policeman, but am available to help? Even more, in casting my eyes around the car, would I notice a bag of carrots under a seat, which would of course reveal the existence of a significant plot? Would I be forced to pull the emergency break and scream at everyone, "get out of the car and off the train now!"
I guess we'll never know. But I kinda wish I had.
---------------
 |
| Jay Raj, in Luton |
I had, during my time in England, had fish & chips (in Chichester), and a steak & ale pie (in London). Last night, in my last mean in the country, I felt obliged to complete the triumvirate of traditional English cuisine — well, my personal triumvirate, at least — by getting a curry. The Romanian receptionist at the hotel recommended a visit to the Indian restaurant about a 20-minute walk away, which she said guests at the hotel had spoken highly of (though she herself, she said, "hated" Indian food). So I walked down there yesterday evening, sat alone at a table, and ordered the most English of all curries — a chicken tikka masala, complete with rice and naan.
 |
| Should have gone with the Butter Chicken? |
It was ... average. Actually, "average" tikka masala is amazing, so this was probably below average. Nothing seriously wrong with it, and all quite edible, but bland, the consistency of the gravy was ... a little bit watery and maybe even granular(?), and the naan was undercooked in the center. But mainly just fairly tasteless. C'est la vie, as they don't say in India.
Still, when the waiter came by to ask, I was polite: "It was delicious," I said. Minutes later he returned with two small plastic tags, inviting me to tap my phone on them to automatically open up review sites, where I could then leave my (presumably glowing) recommendation. When I hesitated, he reassured me I needn't even write anything, just leave stars.
 |
| How ... thoughtful |
I was nonplussed. For one thing, I hadn't enjoyed the food all that much, and while I was more than willing to be polite in person, actually being on the record recommending to others that it was delicious was something I'd rather not do. In addition, for all I knew they were monitoring those sites in another room (or had notifications of some kind set up when a new review of their restaurant appeared), and would know immediately if I gave them a bad review. I felt pressured, and trapped.
Still, reluctantly, I opened one, and tried to give it four out of five stars. When I clicked "done," though, it wouldn't close, but only noted that I hadn't yet filled out the text part of the review — meaning that, in fact, I did have to express my thoughts verbally.
This I couldn't do, so, after paying, I murmured my gratitude to the waiter and slipped out the door, hoping I could get far enough down the block before someone came after me to note I had failed to review them.
Jack Reacher, it occurs to me now, would not have acted thus.
---------------
Well, that's about it. In the madness that is the Luton Departures hall, having survived the maelstrom of madness that is security here. Fortunately I got here really early, and there were no particular hiccups, so no worries. Five hours from now I should be in my apartment.
Probably. Because there is one more potential roadblock to clear. About six weeks ago, en route from Kansas City to Podgorica, I had a layover in the Brussels airport. Having read online that the Business Class lounge — where free food, perhaps a shower, and quiet beckoned — was in a different terminal than the one I landed in, I decided to seek it out ... which necessitated going through passport control. "We'll have to stamp you," the woman said, and I shrugged, and said "sure."
I wan only in that other terminal for an hour — if that — before going back through passport control into my own. But that stamp I got does, I suppose, mean that technically I entered the EU — for one hour — before I was supposed to.
So I'm not quite sure what the fallout of that will be. There are, it seems, five possibilities:
- They don't notice it and don't care, and I'm allowed back into the EU no problem
- They notice it but it turns out it doesn't somehow count as enough to throw my return into doubt, so I'm allowed back no problem.
- They notice it, it's a problem, but ... having spent 90 out of the previous 180 days in the EU before leaving, it was the Brussels passport control people who screwed up by letting me in when they shouldn't have, which doesn't really effect me personally.
- They notice it, it matters, it effects the number of days until I can return ... by requiring me to wait one more day before returning, but they let me simply wait in that hall outside passport control for another 7 hours, until midnight, when I can be allowed back in.
- They notice it, it matters, it effects the number of days until I can return ... and they force me to fly back to England for one day until I can return.
 |
| The problematic stamps — Damn you, Brussels airport! |
We'll see. Fingers crossed I can sleep in my own bed tonight!
No comments:
Post a Comment