Just been recovering from the journey of yesterday, I was exhausted when Charlie, my driver, met me in the baggage hall at OKC, and I was very grateful to him for being so kind, firstly for getting my very heavy suitcase off the carousel, and then into the house when we got there.
When I left here at the end of April I was able to check my baggage right through to Heathrow, but coming back I had to go through Immigration Control at Dallas so the rules are different, the baggage had to be collected at Dallas and then put on the Oklahoma City flight.
This was the point, while waiting for my flight at Heathrow, that I officially entered my old age. I had bought a laptop backpack to carry on the plane - BIG MISTAKE, even as a backpack it was too heavy for me, and I think it was walking with something so heavy that made me feel so tired - next time I will get one of those little carry on bags on wheels that everyone has.
In the meantime....feeling old and tired, I decided to ask for wheelchair assistance. As I was wheeled past the waiting queues at the gate, to the door of the aircraft I thought "this is wonderful", so when I was on the plane I asked for wheelchair assistance when I got off. I was told I should have booked it in advance, but I must have looked like I needed it because they'd arranged it by the time the plane landed at Dallas.
It showed me a side of the airport I didn't know about. There were about 5 or 6 of us in wheelchairs, catching different flights, so someone had to find out which gates we were all going through and organise us. Those assisting us were all migrant workers with a definite pecking order. There was the main boss (the organiser) an underling boss (who directed the wheelchair pushers and got the luggage) and all the little workers pushing the wheelchairs.
As I was wheeled to Immigration I looked at the hundreds of people queuing up to go through, while our little group were taken to the front of the queue, and I decided that old age has a lot going for it and I settled into it quite happily. I didn't mind being called "grandma" and "mama" by the workers.
Since I've had a residence permit I don't get the interrogation I used to have. A guy looks at my permit, my passport, photographs all my fingers and thumbs and irises, and goodness knows what else. He makes sure the prints and irises match up with those that are supposed to be mine on the database, chatting all the time with his colleague at the next desk. Hands back passport and permit, says, "welcome home", and off we go.
The flight from Dallas to OK City was just over half an hour, there must have been a wind behind the plane. It took less time than crossing the terminals in my wheelchair.
And now I am back at the beginning of this saga, with Charlie meeting me in the baggage hall. And have spent the day recovering (at least that's my excuse for not doing much) from my jet lag.
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