The Newfoundland Blues

The many years of Gatwick hell are forgotten as we drift elegantly through Terminal 4 and its soft-pink warmth. Staff smile and mouth ‘hello,’ queues seem an odd memory. We lounge in the empty Carluccios where we are the only clientele save for a well-dressed Emma Peel lookalike. She will no doubt order a fruit tea – not the Gatwick-style full English and a pint.

Oh, the toilets! I spend some time alone in a gleamingly well grouted bathroom environment; one where I am not genuinely concerned about touching surfaces, and would happily take a Christian girl on a first date.

I see people smile in an airport for the first time in a quarter of a century.

We are bound for Minneapolis, and then onward to Bemidji Minnesota; there we will start this journey, in Itasca State Park where the Mississippi River rises and begins its 2,500 odd mile journey to the Gulf of Mexico. We have 17 days to get there, and the journey has been meticulously planned by an anally retentive rover.

A Slight hiccup at 35,000 ft over Newfoundland.

Ashly is now strapped to an oxygen mask with two rather concerned flight crew leaning over her and whispering to each other. The lunch of steak salad did not sit well; and an allergic reaction, followed by obvious fear of not being able to swallow and the inevitable seizing-up of the oesophagus – a mighty shit-storm indeed at 35,996 feet – has meant hyperventilation has set in. Oxygen levels were calmly taken. The captain is informed that a diversion to an Eskimo-manned airstrip is probably not necessary, and a profoundly ominous looking tank-thing is brought out and tethered to a rather petrified looking wife.

I had undramatically (and in my neatest handwriting I could muster) filled in the next-of-kin forms. They will not now be needed. My mistake was not asking for it as a souvenir. My mind fills with Mills & Boon crap: “Now she sleeps, and the raging ocean miles below no longer mirrors her torment nor waits for the sky to deliver her to its bosom”. I don’t check our life insurance…

Post genuinely scary incident I ensure I have photographic evidence of the event and the stewardess recommends a course of downers (Ativan or Lorazepam) for the duration of the road trip. That’s the American way. I thank her for the 17th time but tell her firmly that a yoga class and some breathing exercises will do the trick…

Shit! All I need now is a gout attack to really seize the day.

At Minneapolis airport an old white lady plays “Climb Every Mountain” at one end of the departure lounge, a very pimped-up black guy who must be over 6’5″ plays high quality jazz flute at the opposite end. All are catered for at an airport that surely has more outlets selling grizzly and black bear souvenirs than many places on earth.

I photograph bear tea towels, bear fridge magnets, bear roof-rack covers, bear cookbook stands and buy a bear bottle opener for little Helen Scott. She’d better like it; and I text her to make that quite clear.

Six hours at the gate for internal flight to Bemidji. I sleep on the floor. Ashly has in depth conversation with lady who works on “Native American” reservation near Bemidji dealing with, and educating about, sexual abuse. All my “Many men on horseback come” gags fall like trail dust on the comfy carpet.

After travelling for more than a day we land at Bemidji (international) airport with a heart-stoppingly large bump. ‘Guess we’ve landed’, says the pilot over the intercom. I wonder if this will be the funniest line by an American citizen we hear all trip.