Heathrow and me. A love-hate relationship. Although I like huge airports, Heathrow and I, we will never close friends. I ran a shiver down my spine when I discovered recently in the bookstore newest Alain de Botton's book . A week locked up in Heathrow. Age moths. That has ever since found out back safe from this giant maze which may be already out of the way to the boarding gate on a day trip.
And the whole thing still on English soil. I do love the English, really. The dry humor is terrific and the fact that the common Englishman retains in every situation no matter how muddled his positive attitude has let so many horrible nightmare with delays and AOGs not be as bad as expected. The Englishman is in itself as pragmatic. "Well, we're too late / to the flier broken / bad weather - what the hell Let's make the most of it more tea." For us as a cab is very pleasant, there are other cultures in which Lashing out in such situations, good manners belong.
The Englishman in itself does have one giant Macke: Everything must be protected double and triple. And alas, one that will not be tuned. A few years ago in England has been smoking in the turnaround (yes, there for ages, only Non smoking flights, but the turnaround we do anyway on board what we want) is prohibited, which has led some rebellious crews to also in the so-still short Turnaround always close all the doors - so no one could from the ground crew must come home spontaneously and blow the whistle on the crew. Or go to the run-up - never without a yellow safety vest! not even just too short, down the stairs. Is it marked the death penalty in England. (But curiously PAXs may cross and walk across without any protection over the run-up to the plane. Without yellow vest.)
Lustig it was at certain destinations in particular always when the mobile catering units docked. The caterer that is always needed extra long for the loading of the plane (actually a matter of two minutes). Not out of pure dalliance, but because he lashed until his safety harness around half the body and then had to fix it with a steel cable in the truck, about his car out of the dangerous 10 inches above the ramp to board the flight to survive inside unharmed. I should note here that if there would have been a slot through which he could have noticed it Cirque du Soleil-like Turn arts would have needed to rush through it down to the apron. As close as the good man is driven up with his truck. But: Better be safe than sorry.
to the endless and pointless security checks on crews, I would like to respond not only, but they are seen by the entertainment value of no less exhilarating than the caterer with its bungee jumping harness. He who thinks but, upon leaving the airport is doing well again at home, is mistaken: the hotel is of course also paid attention to the safety of guests. With absurd precautions and to have the British ever-present panic during normal activities of his life, has already been familiar, you might wonder if not more if you climb with dripping wet hair from the shower and go only to hunt in order to find the hair dryer. England travelers know this already: you're targeting the desktop, of course, stands in the corner farthest from the bathroom, open the drawer and tadaa: isser there, the hair dryer. Of course, only with extra-short cord. Not that a longer cable but still could entice back to face the desk with a hair dryer near the tub to take in a little water and yet still to commit suicide. Smart hotels will also make sure that on the said desk is not a mirror - so this would also apply to the Early sport à la Pam Ann taken care of: "Touch hairdryer - run back to the mirror - hairdryer touch - busy, busy - back to the mirror ..."
Let's see what Alain de Botton writes so Heathrow. I report.
