Anne and I are just back
from three weeks in
England. That’s a trip
I never expected to make
again.
But my other companion
Parkinson, as whimsical as he
is relentless, took a vacation
himself a couple of months
ago. (I’ll explain the likely
causes in another column.) I
was left free, at least temporarily,
from some of the worst
symptoms. And so my bride
and I decided, quite suddenly,
that we’d run under the silent
guns and make the trip.
It was wonderful, especially
since friends conspired to
pass us along, one to another,
making travel easy for me. We
drove to Boston, left the car
with good friends, and were
driven to Logan Airport. Since
I’m poorly equipped now to
stand in lines, we’d phoned
ahead for disabled assistance,
and a wheelchair driver met
us at the door. This man
whisked us around the lines,
right up to luggage check-in.
Then, with our carry-ons piled
on top of me, he steered right
up to the security gate, put
our chattel onto the scanner
for us, and braced the chair
and me as I stood to walk
through the metal detector.
Then we zoomed on to a
waiting area.
We needed to wait because,
following the airline’s
standard directions, we’d
arrived three hours early _ for
a process that had taken only
about twenty minutes. But,
no complaints. That disabled
assistance was a tremendous
blessing, going and coming
back, and despite an unplanned
adventure when we
got to London Heathrow.
As we left the plane, the
stewardess told us to climb
the ramp and be seated;
another wheelchair would
soon arrive. And indeed, one
did, this time pushed by a big
smiling Caribbean with not
much command of English.
I got loaded up, again piled
with the two backpacks and
my sleep-apnea gear in its
own box, and we wheeled off
toward passport control. I had
only to ride and, of course,
hold the load in place with
both hands and my chin.
It was a long run, and
halfway Anne got to step
onto a moving walkway as
we wheeled along beside her.
That’s where the adventure
began. From far down the
long corridor, highballing
along towards me, came an
empty wheelchair pushed by
a short, rather broad woman.
She was calling out in what
may have been Turkish,
and she had fire in her eye.
I thought for a moment she
was going to ram us. My own
wheeler stopped short, and
my Anne was carried away by
the moving walkway.
The squarish woman didn’t
ram but squealed to a stop,
blocking our way. Then she
went at it, hammer and tongs,
at the Caribbean twice her
height. Hers, it turned out,
was our assigned wheelchair,
and the amiable Caribbean
was a gypsy driver who’d
pirated her passenger, and
hence her tip.
She won. I was bustled out
of his chair and into hers, the
carry-ons were re-piled on
top of me, and we speeded
off, the woman still muttering
imprecations at the gypsy.
We caught up with Anne and
hustled on toward passport
check. But, almost there, I
heard a loud clank. The right
footrest had fallen off the
chair.
``Bad equipment!’’ she
shouted in English. ``Bad
equipment’’ It sounded like
a phrase she’d had many
occasions to use. Suddenly
she was squatting next to the
chair, pounding the footrest
on the terrazzo floor. ``Quiet!’’
Anne pleaded. ``My husband
has trouble with startle reflex!’’
(And, like many Parkies,
I do _ if I donÆt foresee the
cause of a loud noise. This
time, I did: a squarish woman
squatting, slamming a shaft
of metal on the floor.) But she
got it fixed, reinstalled it, and
soon was rushing us along
again, up to and through the
passport check.
Customs and luggage
were down a floor, and Anne
stepped onto a very long
escalator while the squarish
woman and I headed for the
top of a pair of long ramps.
She was still muttering, ``Bad
equipment!’’ as we got to
the first ramp, but then she
switched her complaint. ``No
brakes!’’
Well. Since we’ve been
home, I’ve watched a lot of
Olympic ski-jumping. Every
time skiers throw themselves
down that awful first drop, I
relive my Heathrow ramp experience.
Indeed, there were
no brakes on the chair, and I
plunged down that thirty degree
slope with only the
woman’s sheer strength holding
us both back. I couldn’t
look back, but I’m sure she
left a parallel trail of smoking
rubber from her shoe heels.
``Bad equipment!’’ she
shouted as we made a sharp
turn and were briefly on a
level stretch. ``No brakes!’’ and
we hurtled down the second
ramp.
Anne, on the escalator,
missed the whole adventure;
and you can see that I lived
through it. Shaken but laughing
in spite of my self, I was
wheeled to luggage-pick-up
and then through a perfunctory
customs check. Breathless,
we found ourselves in
the crowded airport lobby.
The squarish lady seemed
to have bonded with us. She
was suddenly maternal and
reluctant to leave. But we
insisted we were fine, and we
sent her off with a hefty tip
that was partly a bribe. When
she wheeled away, we felt
relieved and released.
I’ve since had leisure to
wonder: Had she played out
that whole scenario repeatedly
and found it always
worked? Did she end up
splitting the tip with the Caribbean?
Anyway, our friend
Michael Thrower soon arrived
to greet us and inquire after
our travels. We had a great
story to tell him on the ride
down to Chichester.
READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From
Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in
Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.
com
