LA Airport

After eleven relatively peaceful and stress-free hours on Quantas flight F25, I am in LA, America. The flight was made all the easier by the three pocket sized bottles of red wine I consumed before, during and after my meal of braised beef, slightly soggy potatoes and assorted vegetables. Despite checking in over three hours before boarding, I was in neither an aisle nor a window seat. Instead I was sandwiched between a mild mannered American and a brash, complaining, unrelenting Aussie who moaned about the woman behind him, grumbled about the man in front of him, before letting me know in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the presence of my elbow ‘anywhere near his ribs’. Amused by his seeming inability to master the in-flight entertainment controls- he twice mistakenly exited a film half-way through much to his displeasure; what is more I take great pride in considering myself a bit of an expert with such technology-I watched him dominate bottle after bottle of the ‘Shaaardonnaaaay’ until thankfully the drink took him to a much needed sleep.
LA Airport has been exactly what I expected it to be. Big, busy and bustling, it has a real America feel to it; a feel that is hard to describe, but one that I am fully aware of. Everything is bigger, super-sized if you will, nothing is done by halves here; it is like Heathrow on speed. The security guards are tougher, the air hostess’s prettier, Fast Food more prominent and the people full of self assurance. Perhaps it’s the huge American flag that dangles freely from the high ceiling or the extensive upstairs food-court, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the place is evidently American. The place is full of uniforms, ID badges, name tags; officials everywhere. Police swarm the airport; patrolling check-in desks, restaurants and magazine kiosks. At the far end of the terminal, three burly security guards impose themselves on the public, armed with very large and very visible machine guns; they can’t help but be imposing. John Rambo would be proud of the huge weapons they carry and although they look a little plastic and dare I say it, a little fake, I am more than a little scared as I stroll nervously to the ‘restrooms’.
Although I have kept my eyes peeled, I have yet to see David Beckham or bump into Lauren Conrad from the MTV show The Hills. Surely a celebrity encounter is not too much to ask for during a six hour wait in transit, I board in a few hours, time is running out. On a serious note, LA is a town populated by celebrities and it is a shame that my stay confines me to the Departures lounge of Tom Bradley (not Tom Brady the New England Patriots quarterback, as I mistakenly said to an angry baggage attendant) International Airport.
Just to be a cliché I have decided to dine out on a proper American meal, a McDonalds. I had to do it; I’ve always wanted a proper, big, American McDonalds. I know. Big dreams!
So, off to Gate 105, via a brief encounter with Beckham I’d imagine. The next time I put pen to paper I will hopefully be back in England. I am massively hoping my Mum and Dad are waiting for me at the airport, I have missed them, I love them, and I can’t wait to give them a hug.