Q: When is the shortest distance between two points not a straight line?
A: When you are at Terminal 5.
——-
I love Terminal 5 at Heathrow.
I love Gordon Ramsey’s Plane Food.
I love being able to get Wagamama at 7 a.m.
I love the entertainment value of a terminal that was designed by people who have never traveled through an airport, have no conception of how signage might help a traveler, and who think that the shortest distance between two points is a line that goes from a bus to an escalator, to an elevator, down a corridor, through a visa checkpoint, down an escalator, up another escalator, through security, down a hallway and down either one or two more flights. My average clocked time to pass through Terminal 5 (arriving at Terminal 5 and leaving at Terminal 5) is 45 minutes of continuous movement.
I recently got a great dose of the Heathrow follies when I arrived from Geneva on my way to Seattle. My flight arrived on time, but somehow the bus to take us to the terminal wasn’t there. ”Oh well,” said the flight attendant at the top of the stairs, “at least it is a sunny day.”
You have to love the Brits–they made it through the Blitz and they’ll never complain about having to wait. Which is why they think nothing of Terminal 5. Cranky Americans, however, are likely to say “that’s great, but I’d rather be spending my day on my flight to Seattle…” Actually, cranky Americans do say that, regardless of how perky the flight attendants are.
The bus finally arrives, the chipper flight attendants get on, and we begin our journey through Terminal 5. One of the fascinating things about the terminal is that there are no screens to tell you where you should go in the terminal, other than a fixed sign that tells you your terminal by length of flight and airline. Problem there–BA flights go out of two terminals, one for “long haul” and one for “short haul.” Can anyone define these for me? Is the Ukraine long or short haul? What about Moscow? Murmansk?
Never mind. I know I’m to leave from Terminal 5. So, I go up and down and around and through, and then up the very very long escalator that takes you three stories up to departures. The escalator is pretty full. About 75 feet from the ending, the escalator starts to sound like screeching brakes in a 70′s Burt Reynolds movie, augmented by a KaThump, KaThump, KaThump of “STOMP” every ascending pitch. Hmmm. Are escalators supposed to sound like that?
Well, don’t have time to think about it, as we’re approaching the top of the escalator and the line into security is so backed up that people are beginning to walk backwards down the up escalator. No emergency stop button in sight. As I’m beginning to hit the wave of people who can’t get off, I struggle through the crowd, reach the top, and begin a kink in the line that lets us have at least 30 more feet of line (see above re: shortest distance between two points). Still can’t spot the emergency stop button.
Snake my way to the doorway, and there is a Russian woman (judging by her accent), back turned to the escalator, sitting on a folding chair tonelessly saying “any liquids, give me your bottles.” Beside her is not a garbage bin but simply a rapidly multiplying pile of water bottles.
Patiently walk further along the line and find another snafu–the main entrance to Terminal 5 from outside joins this line, and no one wants to merge. The Brits are rather particular about their queuing (see the incredibly enjoyable anthropology book called “Watching the English” for the best article on queues that I’ve ever read), and they really grumble if you break the invisible rules. Well, too bad, I have a flight to catch, and while I’m not about to be aggressive, I don’t have time to figure out the passive aggressive barbs that they’re throwing at each other. Sorry, don’t speak British.
Just behind me is a woman with her daughter in tow. She has 5 minutes to catch her flight. Extremely politely, she calls over a huge guy who apparently has some authority granted by virtue of the yellow neon reflective vest he wears (these are ubiquitous in the UK–I swear everyone carries one in his pocket). That, and the fact that he is about 6 foot 6 with a belly the size of 8 months of carrying twins which, given his size, he uses as a rounded wedge to knock people on the side of the head if they’re not paying attention. ”Excuse me,” she says, trying to get his attention. ”Excuse me!”
He rams a few people in the heads and shoulders casually sauntering his way over to her.
“I’m very sorry, but I have only 5 minutes to catch my flight. Can you help?”
“No,” he says, in an accent that an American has no business trying to imitate. Not BBC.
“No?” she says.
“No. You have to stand in this queue.”
“But I have only five minutes to my flight.”
“Listen, if I let you into this queue, I’ll be butting you in front of all of these people.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks. “Anyone I can talk to?”
“You can talk to the managers.”
“Great. Where are the managers?”
He gestures behind him. ”Through this queue on the other side. Sitting on their arses. As usual.”
Well, a little class warfare at Heathrow.
By then I’ve snaked my way through three turns. When I get up to security I have lost track of the woman and her daughter. All my stuff goes on the tray and I get through.
On the other side of security, redressed in shoes and coat, I walk toward the first electronic, updatable sign I’ve seen since I started this process 30 minutes ago. Go through Heathrow on faith along, my beloved.
My gate is posted, flashing “GO TO GATE.”
I hasten to obey. And yet…
To my left, there is a foldup card table with a sign saying “Heathrow traffic flow study”. Around the table are standing three guys in, of course, yellow neon vests, all holding clipboards. They stand there, generally looking at the mayhem that I’ve just been through. They are nodding sagely. They are talking about “flow rates.”
I have a plane to catch, but I can’t resist a look at what they’re seeing and nodding at so contentedly. A sea of people, random movement from one line to another, and, best of all, no view at all of the backed up escalator.
Not my business. Plane to catch. I walk past.
I can’t leave it.
I go back. ”Excuse me,” I say, in my best American accent.
They look at me, take my measure. Middle aged woman, nothing to attract or threaten. ”Yes, ducks?” says the 60-year old one, alpha by British standards.
“Um, do you have any authority to influence the flow here?”
All three take a deep breath. What, am I stupid? They’re wearing yellow vests!
“Of course, love. Is there a problem?”
“Well, around that corner you can’t see, there’s a three story escalator and people are backing up on that escalator because the security line is backing out of the security area.”
Suddenly I don’t exist.
“I’ll go!” says the elder alpha.
“No, I’ll go,” says the younger omega.
The last I see is a yellow neon vest, striding purposefully past the managers, sitting, on a raised dais, on their arses, presumably, while I practice my high-heel sprinting down to my flight that is about to close.
Can’t wait for my next episode of Heathrow Follies. Think it would be a great radio drama.
