Popping over to Charleston for the weekend

[JohnK]

Reminds me to give capsule hotels a miss. Those rooms look very claustrophobic....

 

[thegurio]

I agree JohnK, but then again for the price they really can't be argued with...

Skyring, I'm sorry to hear about the depths that you haad sunk to but by the sounds of things you are on the way up. Please, for all of our sakes and yours, dont fall any further... Remember nothing is as bad as it seems tommorow as it is today, and sleep deprivation and other things seem huge when realistically they arent that big.

Looking forward to the next instalment!

 

[Keith009]

Skyring, I'm sorry to hear about the depths that you haad sunk to but by the sounds of things you are on the way up. Please, for all of our sakes and yours, dont fall any further... Remember nothing is as bad as it seems tommorow as it is today, and sleep deprivation and other things seem huge when realistically they arent that big.

Seconded. Emphatically.

 

[Skyring]

Big boy's toy

7 October 2008
London Gatwick to Dublin
BA8082 B737-500 G-GGFJ
Seat: 1A
Scheduled: 1035
Boarding: 1015 (Gate 55G)
Pushback: 1031
Takeoff: 1044 (to the west)
Descent: 1116 (Dublin time, as London)
Landing: 1140
Gate: 1146 (37)

The upside of an airport hotel is that there’s no time wasted in cabs or waiting. I rocked out of the lift, turned left and caught the train to the north terminal. Love these things. No driver, so I can sit or stand at the front and look down the track as we hurtle along.

Checkin a breeze with no bags. Probably could have used a self-check kiosk except that a coupon needs to be collected from my paper ticket book for each flight. Besides, this way I get a “Fast Track” sticker on my pass to speed me through security.

Still, I have to remove my belt, and I make a note to hunt down a metal-free belt at the earliest opportunity.

There’s a new wrinkle here. As I Fast Track my way through the security checkpoint, my boarding pass is read and a little gizmo takes my photograph. Odd.

Shopping airside is rich and varied, with the accent on “rich”. I can buy boxer shorts with the logos of football teams on them, I can buy hugely expensive socks ditto, but I can’t find regular vanilla socks and jocks. There’s a branch of Harrods, but they are more interested in selling souvenir black cabs and red double-deckers than anything immediately practical.

I give up after a while. Not even an Apple outlet to sell me some international adaptors. I’m hungry for breakfast and some decent coffee and I can feel the British Airways First lounge calling me loudly.

Lounge found, but the breakfast menu is pretty much toast and cereal. I squeeze out some latte from a self-serve machine, add a muffin or two and hit the wifi.

My wife has emailed me, saying that she had selected new carpet and it would be laid by the time I returned, with my office stuff spread out for me to sort through. This was encouraging news, though as she indicated that it would be stored in the cupboard under the stairs while the carpetlaying was in progress, and said cupboard was already crowded with old suitcases, boxes of decrepit Christmas decorations, broken toys from years gone by and so on, I wondered just how much it could hold to be saved.

A text from baggage services arrives. My bags are on the way and will be delivered to Dublin. I try to reply with the news that urgency is required as I’ll be heading on after a night, but there’s some network error and the text remains unsent. I leave a voice mail message, but have no confidence that I’ve got the right place.

My “Property Irregularity Report” lists a website and an email address. I pull up the website, enter my incident number, and yup, there’s all the details of my bags, pretty much limited to what was known last night.

I shoot off an email giving details of my itinerary and make a note to check the site again when I get to Dublin.

In due course my flight is called and I hustle along to Gate 55G, which is not only a fair hike from the lounge, but is a kind of peninsula terminal, with a long bridge out to gates 55A, 55B, 55C etc. As they swipe my pass, my photograph flashes up on a screen. It’s the shot they took of me at security. I’m impressed. This is actually a practical enhancement to the process, ensuring that the passenger passing through security is the same one boarding the plane. Far more useful than all that stupid rigmarole with shampoos and lotions.

Once aboard, I go through my preflight routine. Swing my backpack up into the overhead locker, stow my small Crumpler bag under the seat in front – oops, bulkhead row, bung it in the overhead bin as well – sit Ringbear on a convenient location, buckle up, read the safety folder (subtly, every aircraft is exactly the same), begin recording flight times and details in my shirt-pocket briefcase.

Strange to think of an international flight as a quick hop. We taxi out, take off, and almost immediately we are into the clouds, which last until we descend beneath them just out of Dublin.

You’d think there might be champagne for brunch, but no, orange juice was about as good as it got. And a platter of cold meat and fruit. Plus a rather dry roll and strong coffee. Only one young FA to serve the forward cabin, and she doesn't have a moment to scratch herself.

Ireland, when it showed up, was green. New Zealand and Ireland are twin souls when it comes to being emerald isles. New Zealand has the edge in mountains, but.

I was hanging out of the window. My previous visit to Dublin (another flight from Gatwick, aboard an Aer Lingus A320) was two years back, and had been little more than a quick couple in an airport pub with a mate. The immigration officer had sighed audibly when he’d heard that I was headed to Birmingham in an hour or so.

This time around, I was looking keenly out. Despite the guidebook packed into my baggage (en route from Singapore, did I mention?), I had only the sketchiest notion of Dublin’s layout. I guess I was hoping for a thrilling swoop over the city centre, the British Airways pilot jauntily flaunting his craft to the admiring crowds below, but instead the outlook was rural, though we did manage a circuit of a charming coastal village before thumping down onto good honest Irish tarmac.

One last thing before I left, and I lingered last in the plane, hoping for a bear photograph. These short flights are not much chop for photo opportunities – it’s one thing to go badger the crew in their galley on a twelve hour trip when they are staving off boredom by scoffing the left-over lunches, but quite another thing when it's one lass trying to serve the passengers a meal in the few minutes between reaching altitude and beginning descent.

Sadly, the sweet young cabin attendant didn’t want to pose with me, let alone bear, and instead took a quick shot of eccentric traveler with toy.

“There’s all sorts,” I overheard one ground staffer say to another as I exited the aircraft, stuffing Ringbear back into the mesh pocket on my pack, where he’d have a fine view of this fair new land.

With only carryon, I was soon clear. No contempt from the immigration bloke this time. He smiled back at me, teenager contemplating middle-aged man with visible bear. I’d probably fit in well here.

 

[thegurio]

Great instalment Skyring, looks like things are on the mend on the home front too!

I am almost look forward with as much anticipation as QF009's TR's....:shock:

 

[Skyring]

I can barely begin to compete with QF009! How he manages to squeeze so many flights, so much fun, and so many bottles of champagne into each day is a complete mystery to me. And then he finds time to write it up in such a charming fashion!

He inspires me, and all of us.

 

[docjames]

+1 on the "can't live up to QF009" here too, but we can only try (feet shots included!)

Loving your TR skyring - don't sell yourself short!

 

[Keith009]

Oh stop it...

 

[Skyring]

The voice of God

Dublin
7/8 October 2008

It was about noon when I found the shuttle bus into the city centre. I was very foggy on my hotel’s precise location, but O’Connell Street seemed a major thoroughfare and I shouldn’t have too much trouble, as soon as I found a map to replace the guidebook I’d planned to have in my hand.

Seven Euro for the bus trip in, and I bought my ticket from the chap on the footpath.

“The driver will let me know when we get to O’Connell Street?”

“He’ll shout it out, like the voice of God himself,” I was assured.

The bus was comfortable, my fellow passengers in good spirits, and the drive out of the airport and through old suburbs interesting. One local lady leaned over the back of her seat, telling tourists tales of history and convenience.

With my ticket, I’d been given a tourist map, main streets and attractions marked, heavy on the adverts. Not having any idea of whether the airport was north, south, east or west of the city was a minor handicap, but I was soon able to identify localities and streets.

Croke Park, a major football stadium, was a recognisable landmark on the way in. I was getting close. It turned out that I didn’t need the bus driver’s announcement, which was just as well, as the voice of God himself was more of a mumble.

One benefit of not having baggage is mobility, and I was able to walk up and down the street until I found my hotel. With my bags, I have a walking range of one city block before my arms fall off.

Cassidy’s Hotel, a reasonably grand hotel in a good location, which for some insane reason I’d been able to get for sixty-three Euro on wotif.com. For a refreshing change, this was not a chain hotel, all the rooms the same in every detail in every city, swipe your loyalty card here, sir.

For confusion, the hotel is located in the same alignment as O’Connell Street, but the name changes for a few blocks, so I’m actually looking for Cavendish Row.

I find it, three Georgian terrace houses knocked together. Bar and bistro downstairs, freebie internet terminal in the comfortable lobby, and a breakfast room off to one side.

Checkin is quick and I ask about my luggage. Not delivered yet, but when it arrives we’ll send it up to your room, sir.

The room is on the fourth floor, down a corridor that winds back and forth as it follows the contours of the old house. It’s pretty standard stuff, but the emphasis is on the “pretty”. If it hadn’t been for the obvious past presence of a heavy smoker, I’d be quite taken.

There’s free wifi – always a selling point for me – and I’m taken by the fact that the bathroom has a phone within reaching distance of the throne, and little proprietary seals on the toilet rolls.

No bar fridge, but tea and coffee makings. I make a note to get a small container of milk when I go out. I'd spotted a nearby convenience store earlier.

In fact, the location is excellent. Not quite in the city centre, but Dublin looks to be reasonably compact and I’m sure I can walk anywhere I want, which is a good counter to all the hours sitting in planes and terminals.

Free wifi. Yeah. I hunt up the baggage site, log onto “my” incident, and find no change. Oh well. I’m here for a little while, and there’s time yet.

Just an afternoon and night, but that’s all I’d need to see my friends here. Friends who had met, fallen in love, and gotten together on the Internet, and now had a freshly hatched baby girl.

All going well, I’d see them tonight, but for the moment, once I’d unpacked, my first priority was to draw the curtains and fall asleep. Heaven knows what time zone my night cabbie body clock was in, but it wasn’t in sync with Dublin’s.

 

[simongr]

Nice update again - looks like total depression has been avoided and beloved possessions potentially saved!

 

[Skyring]

Irish friends

I slept soundly through the early afternoon. The rest of the world could roll along without me for a while, but I needed a nap. Three hours of my precious time later, I was on the streets, taking a good gander at Dublin. First thing I noticed was that every second building was a pub. In some streets, it was every building. Well-patronised, busy, upmarket pubs, too.

The buildings that weren’t pubs looked to be grand establishments with Greek temple columns and famous names. Memorials and statues abounded. I was impressed, but I had a childhood ambition to fulfill.

Down the hill to the Liffey, spanned by countless bridges. I’ve wanted to spit in the Liffey since I was a schoolboy.

But first, a picture of the bear on a bridge with a Dublin skyline in the background.

This wasn’t as easy as I imagined, and the picture above is my best shot. I’d either cranked the aperture the wrong way, or just plain forgotten, because out of a half-dozen shots, I couldn’t get both bear and background in focus.

Ah well. Time for shopping. It was Tuesday afternoon, and I was still wearing the same clothes I started out in on Saturday morning. The light cotton short sleeve shirt made me stand out amongst the locals, all of whom were rugged up in black coats, some with fur hoods. I didn’t mind playing the tough Australian, impervious to cold, but when it came onto rain, enough was enough.

And I’d forgotten to spit.

Really, there was an embarrassment of choices along Henry and Abbey Streets, but I finally found a Marks and Spencers where I judged I could find plain vanilla socks, jocks and jacket.

Socks and jocks were easily secured, but the jackets on offer weren’t quite what I wanted, and eventually after agonizing in a nearby sportswear emporium, I bought a Columbia jacket that should see me safely through the Arctic for a hundred Euro. I like Columbia. Solid construction, beautifully designed, and just a touch of class. Your padded North Face jacket doesn’t compete for cool.

Happy and warm, I wandered back to my hotel, pausing for a very late lunch of cod and chips. Ten Euro for the real deal from Beshoff’s fish and chip shop with salad and a soft drink.

The cod was soft, and the chips were golden. Good local cuisine. I’d ask about Irish stew elsewhere. Maybe for dinner.

My phone rang. My mate and his missus, on the way in from their farm on the outskirts. They’d meet me in the lobby of my hotel and we’d have dinner there.

I usually don’t have two major meals within an hour, but there’s that body clock thing I’ve got going for me. My stomach can pretend I had one of them the previous day.

I couldn’t speak for smiling when the happy family rolled through the hotel door. Audrey might have been glowing when I saw her mid-pregnancy in April in London, but now she was sparkling, sweet little bundle in her arms.

Roy, who waylaid me in an airport bar on my last fleeting visit to Dublin, was proud and pleased. And the young lady I’d come all this way to see was alert and well-behaved, especially when I got a chance to cuddle her.

Having a hotel room meant that I had was able to offer Audrey a place to “freshen up” with the baby, while Roy and I had a couple of quiet drinks in the lobby.

Dublin is one of those places with a colourful history and lively local culture. Statues and monuments are given whimsical names. I asked Roy about one prominent monument I’d seen, a slender spire towering 120 metres over O’Connell Street, called by the locals, The Spike, The Binge Syringe, The Stiletto in the Ghetto, The Nail in the Pale, The Pin in the Bin, The Stiffy at the Liffey, and The Erection in the Intersection.

“Ah yes, the world’s tallest sculpture. You know, when it was being built, they thought about putting a sphere on the top, but then they thought, ‘where’s the point?’”

Audrey returned with baby Lilly, and we asked about dinner.

Bless their hearts, the hotel staff allowed us to eat in the lobby, rather than the noisy restaurant, and served us our steaks and things on the coffee table. I had a couple of drinks with dinner, enjoying the rare company of these warm and wonderful friends, before it was time for them to go.

Roy suggested that the night was still young, and I check out some of those pubs, but although the notion was attractive, I had a morning flight and two days worth of sleep to catch up on before I checked out.

 

[Tortuga]

Cute baby !! Good to see you smiling

 

[QF WP]

Thank you for giving me a reminder of a city close to my heart - Dublin (where my father was born) and where my family hails.

 

[Skyring]

Terminal taxi

Early morning in Dublin. My sleep times, as a night cabbie, have always been off-beat, but now, after multiple time zone changes, I’m a bundle of chaos. It’s well before dawn when I wake, and first thing is to check the luggage website to see if there’s any update. Nope.

No emails from the baggage folk.

However, a text message has come in, telling me that my baggage has arrived in Dublin. I’m checking out in a couple of hours, what are my chances of hooking up with it?

I have a quick shower and shave, get into my fresh new undies, put the same old shirt and trousers on, and my new coat on top of all. Slip a camera into my pocket and go off for a quick photography trip. Dawn and dusk are always the best time for photographs. Especially dawn, when honest folk are abed and you can get a clear shot of otherwise crowded streets.

The night man on the desk knew naught of baggage. He opened up the luggage room for me, but my bright yellow bags were not in the collection.

Oh well. Out into the cold, for some time exposure shots of buildings within a few blocks. I’ve got to come back to spend a week here one day. Dublin has some lovely old buildings. And a lot of pubs. Gotta sample that nightlife. Drink myself silly on Guinness while the locals strum the harp and the lassies dance their legs away.

As usual, I’ve forgotten my little folding tripod. Or perhaps it’s in my missing bags. I have to balance the camera on walls or rubbish bins to get a good exposure, or in a couple of cases, hold it braced against a street tree. For timed exposures I set the camera to a two second delay to eliminate the movement of me pressing the button, and the little red lamp flashes out into the Dublin dark.

I made my way around the block. It was mainly a hospital and theatre in one complex. Probably too many people have made the obvious comment for me to repeat it here, but what a combination! Only in Dublin. As it happened, the hospital was the same one where Audrey had given birth a few weeks earlier.

Back to the hotel. Time was getting on and I had a lot to do before checkout. I had my luggage to worry about. I had no doubt that it would catch me up eventually, but maybe not until I got home to Canberra. It was entirely likely that I’d leave to catch my onward flight to Chicago about the same time as my bags were delivered. A few minutes each way could make the difference between triumph and tragedy.

I wrote out notes for the hotel staff just in case, giving my next address in Washington, where I was staying for a couple of nights. If my bags missed me in Dublin, they’d catch up to me in Washington. Or Charleston, or Seattle, or New York... I had visions of my luggage chasing me around the world while the few clothes I was wearing became ragged and rotted away.

But, as it happened, I received a phone call from Dublin airport a few minutes before I was due to check out. My baggage had made it, and what to do, sir?

Just hold them there, I replied, I’m coming to get them!

The airport bus stop was across the road and down a bit. Seven Euro to the airport, or twenty five for a cab, the hotel staff informed me.

I had enough for the cab, but I aimed for the bus as the cheaper and possibly quicker option.

Time passed and the other passengers waiting with their luggage became anxious and fretful. As did I. There would be a delay while I collected my bags, plus the usual security checks for inwards flights to the USA. Even if the bus came immediately, I’d be cutting it very fine for my flight.

Across the road was a taxi rank. I’d been watching it move fairly briskly, no cab waiting more than a few minutes. One last look down O’Connell Street and I hoisted my pack, crossed the road, and slipped in beside the driver of the lead cab.

“Airport!”

Every cabbie knows the way. In his sleep.

I burst out laughing a moment later, and the cabbie looked at me, surprised. I pointed to a toy car velcroed on his dashboard. It was a little yellow New York City cab.

“I’m a cabbie too,” I said, “and I’ve got one of those at home.”

In fact I’ve thought several times about putting it on my dashboard. The cabs and cabbies of London and New York are rightly famous, and having a bit of reflected glory in my own workplace might inspire me. Or my passengers.

From then on we got along famously. I love riding with fellow cabbies, whether as driver or passenger. Find a chatty one, as so many are, and we swap cabbie yarns: “This bloke hops in, an ‘e sez...”

Each tale sparks a memory, a nodding of agreement, a smile of recollection.

Paul, because that’s his name, has been driving about two years, when I looked at his licence. Just two days longer than me. Given the time zone difference, just a matter of hours.

Like me, a very happy cabbie. Very taken with the job and the romance, hence the little yellow cab on the dashboard. I assured him that I’d be visiting New York in a few days, and I’d make sure I had a taxi adventure.

We chatted on, leaving the city for a motorway, airport signs beginning to appear. Paul began an anecdote, hands happily on the wheel as we sped past the airport exit. I looked at him, amused. Maybe he knew a cabbie shortcut, maybe he was cruising on autopilot and we’d come to a halt short of the cliffs of Moher.

But, pleasant though the ride was, I had a plane to catch, and I gently reminded him about the airport exit.

His face fell. “I’ve missed it!”

“No matter,” he went on, “there’s another way in. I use it when traffic’s bad.”

I beamed. I have my own little taxi shortcuts for the airport.

We took the next exit and made our way through empty roads, rejoining the airport traffic just before the terminal. I was sorry to lose a friend, but there were people waiting for me in Chicago, and I had to recover my baggage, check in, go through pre-USA security and hustle to catch my plane.

Even with the unplanned detour, the fare was well short of the twenty-five Euro I’d been told, so I gave Paul the balance as a tip, accepting his business card and promising to get in touch.

The baggage lady had given me instructions, using an airport bar as a reference. What is it about Dublin and pubs?

There was a phone on the wall and I rang her number. “Be right down to get you, sir!”

A staff entrance opened up and she ushered me through security, laptop out, belt off, need to see your passport, please.

And there we were in the arrivals hall, baggage carousels rumbling glumly around, grey-faced passengers holding hopeful trolleys.

“If I could just see your baggage stickers, right, and you’ll be needing a trolley.”

Never was there a more hopeful trolley than mine. Nor a wider smile when she emerged dragging my yellow bags behind her. I signed for them and refrained from embracing her and smuggling her onto my plane to Chicago for a weekend we’d never remember, instead contenting myself with a photograph.

“Just hold this little bear for me, please?”

It takes all sorts.

Back out through customs. Again. Then I shifted my shirt and transferred kit from my bulging carryon to my not quite so bulging checkin and hunted up the departures level with my happy yellow bags.

No premium lane for American Airlines. In fact, it's all but deserted. Not a good sign. I'm quizzed by an airline security guy, who gives me a far easier time than the Gestapo in Frankfurt airport, the lady behind the counter gives me a window seat and an instruction to hurry along, sir.

Through security. I'm told to go through the priority lane because my flight's about to leave. Will my baggage make it onto the plane, I wonder? Maybe I should have taken more time to pull out clothes and documents for the next stage of my trip.

Now, where's that gate? Oh. It's not in this terminal. There's no airtrain. I've got to walk. Look at my watch, showing Dublin time, for a wonder. I don't need to walk. I need to run!

Bloody long way down endless corridors. Now I know why they call it longhall flying. I didn't think I'd have to go all the way to Chicago...

But, of course, I pause for a photograph of the plane, which is parked on the ramp, with the last few passengers just walking across the tarmac.

 

[QF WP]

The suspense about the bags is finally over in Dublin, only to be replaced about you almost missing the plane to ORD.

Now the new conundrum - will your bags make the flights or will you have multiple "lost bag" syndrome. Ah, the joys of travelling.

Just love it, Skyring.

 

[drron]

If my bags can make it onto a plane in 25 minutes at MAD then surely in Dublin......?
Oh!Thats were Murphy's law comes from isnt it?Heres hoping they make it.About time things went right.

 

[Skyring]

Did I say "smuggle"? I meant "snuggle".

 

[drron]

I think smuggle would be quite appropriate.However if Mrs skyring reads AFF then that is another matter.You are in too much trouble already!

 

[Skyring]

Flying from Ireland

8 October 2008
Dublin to Chicago
AA93 B767
Seat: 6J
Bags:25.8kg and 11.5kg
Scheduled: 1030
Boarding: 0945 (Gate D65)
Pushback: 1026
Takeoff: 1039
Descent: 1200 (Chicago time)
Landing: 1229
Gate: 1235 (Gate M4)

No wonder we’re always hearing desperate announcements for flights being held; the passengers are sprinting along endless corridors, or stuck behind Grandad Grossman taking up both lanes of the travelator. Why can’t they just wheel the plane up to the lounge five minutes before takeoff and let me brush the muffin crumbs from my shirt, stroll aboard and take my seat?

Not that I had any lounge time in Dublin. I was flat out from the time I got out of the taxi until I settled down in my window seat. It was time for a relax on the flight to Chicago, a nice long sector with a meal and a half, movie and sleep time included. Maybe I’d catch up a bit on my trip report, given that I had some in-seat power.

Push back and taxi out. I noticed a misty vortex being sucked up from the wet concrete into the jet intake. Not sure about the physics of it – I’d always imagined the air inflow pattern as being somewhat less right-angled than this. It lasted long enough for a photograph.

A colourful plane in the distance caught my eye. Emergency vehicles in close attendance, rescue geeks doing stuff. I zoomed in for a look at the wreck, which seemed to have lost its engines in the disaster. Ah, just the training hulk, adorned with Irish exuberance.

Take off, and we skirted the Irish and Scottish coasts, the landscape ever bleaker. But spectacular.

And then nothing more until Iceland, where I snapped a glacier coming down from the icecap. I usually fly this route (or similar) in April, when the winter snows are unmelted, and it is a very different sight. When the clouds part, anyway.

Two-class Boeing 767, using the First class seats I’d discovered last year during one actual and two inadvertent upgrades (equipment changes where my preallocated seat mapped into a different cabin). A bit fussy and fiddly, but you can arrange the seat to form a useful bed or a workstation with a sizable workspace. Quite possible to have a laptop in use whilst enjoying a meal, for example.

 

[Skyring]

Flying to America

Lunch began with champagne. Pommery.

Followed by “Grilled shrimp, hot-smoked salmon and poached white fish mousseline, served with a chervil cream sauce and fresh lemon” and “fresh seasonal greens and an assortment of fresh vegetables offered with blue cheese dressing or Sapori d’Arte olive oil and balsamic vinegar”

And for the main: “Parsley cheese crusted salmon featured with riesling sauce, served with onion, bell pepper and risotto timbale.” Beef fillet, chicken roulade and cheese tortelloni were alternative choices.

With a decadant sundae to finish, based on Ben&Jerry’s vanilla ice cream under a choice of sauces, whipped cream and pecans.

The cabin crew were full of smiles for this enthusiastic champagne drinker, helped me with my inseat power, and even posed with Ringbear on demand. Top marks, American Airlines! A very comfortable flight.

Prior to landing there was a light meal. Call it a second lunch. I had “Uno’s traditional deep-dish pizza with a mozzarella, Muenster, Romano and feta cheese blend, basil pesto and plum tomatoes accompanied by a green salad”, though a deliciously described turkey sandwich was also available. Freshly baked on board cookies were served as a mini-dessert. By this time I'd asked my usual question about Mr and Mrs T and been assured that yes indeed, they were flying with us and would I like to meet them? Mmmmm!

Once Iceland was past and Greenland invisible under cloud, there was nothing much to look at. The bazillions of tiny lakes that pock the Canadian tundra gradually give way to rolling farmlands, less bleak until we’re flying over the Great Lakes and past vast expanses of industry into O’Hare, the city centre a distant glimpse as we taxi into the terminal.