New York: Runway Runaways (Thursday 06/07/2017)
When I was 11 I lived in Israel and went to school in England.
Sooner or later, most children drag their feet on the walk to school but as my Dunlop Green Flash were regularly at 35,000 feet and travelling at 600mph, this wasn't a problem for my parents.
What was a problem was the bomb.
In the scheme of things, the emergency landing at Zagreb on a snowbound runway and the 8 hours during which my waiting parents could only assume the worst, seemed preferable by comparison to the awful alternative.
However, barring the abrupt meeting of fuselage and rock face, I like to think that I would have been alright. Private school has many drawbacks but in the 1980's it did equip you to achieve almost anything with a pen knife, a magnifying glass and a Walter Mitty world view. After all, Indiana Jones seemed largely unscathed after bailing out at altitude with nothing but an attractive blonde and an inflatable life raft to break his fall and as a result, he has been my yard stick in most things for nearly four decades.
The Frenchman sitting next to me had a big coat and an almost limitless supply of Cointreau so wrapping up warm and setting things on fire on a chilly debris strewn mountain side seemed pretty much in the bag. We were in first class which anecdotally increases your odds of crash survival by about 34%. Most importantly, there was a nun across the aisle (I know - in first class) so the machine gun stutter of her rosary was bound to protect me.
In the end it was all fine but it was an experience that will never leave me; at least not until I stop flying but I have taken a perverse and uncharitable pleasure in discussing it loudly on every flight since.
Which brings me to New York.
I went once, long ago, but at three years old I confess that the cultural significance was largely lost on me. Clare, on the other hand, has been to the Big Apple more times than Fed Ex and still she has not tired of it; so it was pretty easy to persuade me that it was time for a re-match.
As everybody knows, New York is a dangerous place. The plucky citizens repulse alien invasion fleets at least twice a week; zombies bag all the decent theatre tickets; sky-scraping monsters are always on the rampage and most pertinently, the weather is a tad unpredictable. If the waterfront real estate isn't being toppled by tidal waves then there is always the incessant deluge of asteroids and lava to contend with.
Take your pick.
I couldn't choose so I packed for the apocalypse.
What I did not pack for was the entirely predictable heat followed by rain, fog, blistering sunshine, more rain, cosmic rays...
....not forgetting the meatballs.
Sooner or later, most children drag their feet on the walk to school but as my Dunlop Green Flash were regularly at 35,000 feet and travelling at 600mph, this wasn't a problem for my parents.
What was a problem was the bomb.
In the scheme of things, the emergency landing at Zagreb on a snowbound runway and the 8 hours during which my waiting parents could only assume the worst, seemed preferable by comparison to the awful alternative.
However, barring the abrupt meeting of fuselage and rock face, I like to think that I would have been alright. Private school has many drawbacks but in the 1980's it did equip you to achieve almost anything with a pen knife, a magnifying glass and a Walter Mitty world view. After all, Indiana Jones seemed largely unscathed after bailing out at altitude with nothing but an attractive blonde and an inflatable life raft to break his fall and as a result, he has been my yard stick in most things for nearly four decades.
The Frenchman sitting next to me had a big coat and an almost limitless supply of Cointreau so wrapping up warm and setting things on fire on a chilly debris strewn mountain side seemed pretty much in the bag. We were in first class which anecdotally increases your odds of crash survival by about 34%. Most importantly, there was a nun across the aisle (I know - in first class) so the machine gun stutter of her rosary was bound to protect me.
In the end it was all fine but it was an experience that will never leave me; at least not until I stop flying but I have taken a perverse and uncharitable pleasure in discussing it loudly on every flight since.
Which brings me to New York.
I went once, long ago, but at three years old I confess that the cultural significance was largely lost on me. Clare, on the other hand, has been to the Big Apple more times than Fed Ex and still she has not tired of it; so it was pretty easy to persuade me that it was time for a re-match.
As everybody knows, New York is a dangerous place. The plucky citizens repulse alien invasion fleets at least twice a week; zombies bag all the decent theatre tickets; sky-scraping monsters are always on the rampage and most pertinently, the weather is a tad unpredictable. If the waterfront real estate isn't being toppled by tidal waves then there is always the incessant deluge of asteroids and lava to contend with.
Take your pick.
I couldn't choose so I packed for the apocalypse.
What I did not pack for was the entirely predictable heat followed by rain, fog, blistering sunshine, more rain, cosmic rays...
....not forgetting the meatballs.
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| First there was The Fog.... |
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| ....then the rain.... |
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...and the whirlpool..
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....and the spaceships...
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...and the giant inflatable women...
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Thankfully this is just a fountain...but it looks dangerous.
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Stuff gets wrecked so often, everything is Lego!
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