We left the Corinthia in the morning and got a ride to the airport from our friend Graham, saving us a lot of hassle with luggage on the Tube and a lot of money if we had taken a taxi. When we got to the airport, we tried to be a little smarter than we had been when we left, and told Mikey we’d have a snack in the lounge before getting on the airplane. Understanding that that was the way it was done and one didn’t jump onto the airplane upon arriving at the airport, Mikey was fine with it.
We try to make new mistakes, not old ones.
Business class on British Airways is worth every penny (though, of course, we were upgraded, so that’s easy to say). Our seats reclined fully into beds, and we drank champagne for 10 hours, which are two elements which rather well go together. One poor lady in sartorial hijab, who we took to be a nanny, was in charge of five under-5s, also in business class. Every once in a while, one of them would pass by us, and strike a pose before she came through to sweep him up. By about the half way point of the flight, at least one, and usually two of them were sobbing, and the woman looked like she was about to join them. We looked at Mikey, contentedly watching Rio or Kung Fu Panda 2 on his seat’s monitor, and were very grateful.
Airline travel, no matter the class, is claustrophobic and dull. Eventually, if you’re me, you sit on a sandwich. Drinks end up in your lap. Things go in your hair, God knows what. That’s on your own. Add to that a 2-year-old, and you get a whole hell of a lot messier. 10 hours later, you’re ready to go.
I asked Mikey when we were finally getting off, “Did you have fun on the plane?”
“Yes,” He said enthusiastically. “We go again on the plane.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “We’ll go again on a plane to visit Grandpa and Grandma at Thanksgiving, okay?”
“Okay … Is that today?”
We’re not a typical family: one British (Ian’s passed his citizenship test, but hasn’t been sworn in yet), two Americans; same-sex parents, adoptive child; white parents, biracial child. We have a domestic partnership in California which is recognized in Europe, but not the United States. We have a legal birth certificate that we carry with us, which says that by some miracle, Ian and I are Mom and Dad (I’m the Mom). When we asked for our customs form, we were told one per family, but we didn’t know what that meant. We considered ourselves a family, and so did California, where we were landing, and Europe, where we were coming from.
It turns out that we needed two, but we didn’t get that information until we were in front of the customs agent, an hour after landing, after Mikey had learned that if he repeats the word “Bodato, bodato, bodato” (which we assume was a combination of “bidet” and “potato”) over and over again, he can finally make me turn all the colors of the rainbow.
Despite our aggravation, we got our luggage, and came up the ramp at Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX, where a long line of people were holding signs, waiting for their foreign relatives and friends to arrive. Mikey had already decided that he needed to push his stroller at that point, and I was next to him, trying to help keep him from pushing into walls and the folks around him.
Suddenly, Mikey noticed all the people behind the barriers on the other side of the ramp, and he began waving at them. It took a second, but soon practically everyone began waving back, and some were clapping, as if greeting a film star. Mikey kept smiling and waving to the crowd, welcoming him back to Los Angeles and home.
“That’s the future President of the United States!” someone shouted from the crowd.
I swear.
Seemed like the perfect end to our first trip abroad, this spectacular welcome home.
1 comment:
How fabulous. I swear your lives are enchanting and enchanted. I'd vote for him!~!
Sounds, altogether, like a very successful trip and you have a most unique child in your midst, a joy to you and to us and apparently the entire world~!
Post a Comment