20 October 2015, 11 pm Washington time (4 am UK time)
Our plane has landed safely in Washington. This turns out to be the high point of an otherwise miserable night. It takes me over an hour to clear US customs. During this hour a kindly voice announces continually over the tannoy that my security and safety are so important to the US Government that they are pulling out all the stops to improve immigration procedures. It seems to me that they have pulled out the stops relating to tannoy announcements but not, for example, the ones relating to manning the passport-checking desks. There are about two customs officers on duty and about five hundred jet-lagged passengers for them to check. I was initially worried that my Esta was such a recent acquisition that it might cause me problems, but actually, by the time I get to the customs official, my Esta has almost expired. And it turns out he is not even remotely interested in my Esta anyway. He just wants my fingerprints. Which I last gave to the US Government when my family visited Disneyland® some years ago, and which he therefore expects to be covered in candyfloss. But the worst is yet to come. After a long and tedious wait for our taxi, and a long and tedious journey to match, the EyePeePee and I reach the hotel we are booked into. Actually, they tell us, we do not have rooms for you after all. Even though you have booked and paid and printed out your emailed receipt. Were it not 4 am according to our body clocks, we might be able to think of a witty response to this welcome. But it is 4 am according to our body clocks. We stare glumly at the person employed at the hotel reception desk. Her job is to make people feel as miserable as possible. She is clearly well trained in this. We are refurbishing some rooms, she says. We tend to overbook, she says. So if you must leave it till 11 pm to arrive, what can you expect? Some swearing goes on. The EyePeePee and I make several references to the *** transatlantic flight we have just endured and our consequent need to put our *** heads down for the night. The lady in charge of corporate misery is unimpressed. We have booked you into another hotel tonight, she says. I will get you a taxi, she says. The taxi is complimentary, she says, as though she has just offered us a free bottle of champagne and unlimited use of the spa facilities. As opposed to a manger in the stable down the road. Come back tomorrow, she says, when you have repacked your suitcases, and we will see if we can find you a room then. Although we cannot guarantee it, of course. Even though you have paid for four nights here. We are refurbishing some rooms and we tend to overbook. You are too kind, we say, but actually we would rather sleep on the *** streets than come back here. Luckily, the stable down the road is cheerful and welcoming, has plenty of mangers spare and is actually closer to the conference venue anyway. In some ways, then, this is a Good Result, although it is hard to see it that way. We sleep very well.
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