Hop across the Pond
Off to the UK today. When I went through airport security at SFO, I was behind a group of teenagers—young ones, like 15 or so— heading home to Europe after an adventure with friends in the US. One boy looked very much like Frodo, with the dark curls and round, sweet eyes. His face was tear-streaked and sad, and he didn’t wave goodbye enthusiastically to his friends as the others were.
Unfamiliar with the new American nearly-strip-search security procedures, they took a long time getting through the line. I, on the other hand, efficiently took out my laptop, removed my jacket and shoes, neatly lined up the grey security bins with my belongings, and held my ticket and passport in hand.
“At last, someone who knows how to travel!” said the TSA agent with approval when I approached. I’m not sure how I feel about this.
In the waiting lounge, I had one of those moments of seeing someone I knew, but feeling unsure of the context. Then I remembered—it was a guy I used to see in my Japanese classes a few years ago. How odd that we would meet on a plane to Britain. He, like me, had lapsed in his studies, but he had a better excuse—a newborn child.
I had never taken British Airways. Of course, among first-class travelers, this is the Rolls Royce of airlines. They have 180-degree reclining bed-seats! But for us schlocks in coach, it was pretty standard, meaning a couple notches above United.
Going this way, it’s good to sleep, and I caught about 5 hours. That made the flight go fast. I also watched “Trading Places,” the 1983 film about a (black) panhandler being made to swap places with a (white) Wall Street trader to settle a bet between billionaires about nature vs nurture. The review praised the film for “not falling for the obvious racial stereotypes,” which is like praising Napolean for his equitable treatment of short people, missing the rest. The movie fell instead, and shamelessly, for class stereotypes, promulgating the very 80s view that money and the material trappings of wealth are unquestionably desirable, but those who got them by inheritance are too soft to properly defend them. Thus, there are plenty of chances for lower- and middle-class people to get The Good Life by essentially swindling the vapid rich out of it.
You’ll pardon me if I found myself uninspired by this message. (And of course it still exists today—you just have to be a smart entrepreneur or geeky programmer, employing the latest marketing fad to dupe VCs into giving you millions. Same values, different players).
When we arrived at Heathrow, I stopped in the bathroom (er, the loo), where there was a line. A woman behind me piped up cheerily to her friend, “Yup, we’re back in England! We’ve got to queue.”
I also took the opportunity to buy my favorite kind of candy bar—a Yorkie, which has printed in bold letters on the wrapper, “It’s NOT for girls!” It’s so blunt, it’s not even offensive.
Unfamiliar with the new American nearly-strip-search security procedures, they took a long time getting through the line. I, on the other hand, efficiently took out my laptop, removed my jacket and shoes, neatly lined up the grey security bins with my belongings, and held my ticket and passport in hand.
“At last, someone who knows how to travel!” said the TSA agent with approval when I approached. I’m not sure how I feel about this.
In the waiting lounge, I had one of those moments of seeing someone I knew, but feeling unsure of the context. Then I remembered—it was a guy I used to see in my Japanese classes a few years ago. How odd that we would meet on a plane to Britain. He, like me, had lapsed in his studies, but he had a better excuse—a newborn child.
I had never taken British Airways. Of course, among first-class travelers, this is the Rolls Royce of airlines. They have 180-degree reclining bed-seats! But for us schlocks in coach, it was pretty standard, meaning a couple notches above United.
Going this way, it’s good to sleep, and I caught about 5 hours. That made the flight go fast. I also watched “Trading Places,” the 1983 film about a (black) panhandler being made to swap places with a (white) Wall Street trader to settle a bet between billionaires about nature vs nurture. The review praised the film for “not falling for the obvious racial stereotypes,” which is like praising Napolean for his equitable treatment of short people, missing the rest. The movie fell instead, and shamelessly, for class stereotypes, promulgating the very 80s view that money and the material trappings of wealth are unquestionably desirable, but those who got them by inheritance are too soft to properly defend them. Thus, there are plenty of chances for lower- and middle-class people to get The Good Life by essentially swindling the vapid rich out of it.
You’ll pardon me if I found myself uninspired by this message. (And of course it still exists today—you just have to be a smart entrepreneur or geeky programmer, employing the latest marketing fad to dupe VCs into giving you millions. Same values, different players).
When we arrived at Heathrow, I stopped in the bathroom (er, the loo), where there was a line. A woman behind me piped up cheerily to her friend, “Yup, we’re back in England! We’ve got to queue.”
I also took the opportunity to buy my favorite kind of candy bar—a Yorkie, which has printed in bold letters on the wrapper, “It’s NOT for girls!” It’s so blunt, it’s not even offensive.
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