​I’d seen enough movies to know that getting your Passport stamped was all part of the overseas experience. No shortcutting this step. If you made it through the entire process and did not have a stamp representing your entry, you messed up somewhere along the line. And badly. I had seen enough movie spy thrillers to know, if not stamped you had entered the country illegally. 
“Let me see your papers.”
I maneuvered through the stanchions, inserting my passport into a series of scanners and having my digital picture snapped several times and still had nothing to show for it. Besides a measly hand stamp from a strip or dance club, I’d never been stamped in as officially entering foreign soil and was really looking forward to it. Maybe, I had screwed up, and without my even knowing it, had entered England unofficially. Maybe I was now already on the run. 
 
They were probably already looking for me. Hordes of custom officials staring at bank upon bank of monitors and following my every move on their sophisticated and state-of-the-art CCTV system. Like it or not, I was now an idiot without a country. 
 
It’s not like this has not happened before. Once, in the eighties, I had visited Canada with the purpose of working as a stand-up comedian. One problem, I did not have the money to pay for my work permit. So, being an idiot (you see how this keeps turning up? Sort of like a theme), I decided to enter the country through the truck stop. The ensuing manhunt lasted 24 hours utilizing untold Canadian manpower and resources. Actually, my appearance at the Edmonton Yuks-Yuks was pretty well documented, so I was apprehended by a couple of good-natured Mounties the following night an hour before showtime. Needless to say, my appearance at the club was postponed. I did, however, was offered to spend the night in an Edmonton jail, where the immortal instructions by the burly guard during the strip search still ring in my ears, “lift your sack, funny man.” The comment  will continue to haunt me for the remainder of my days. Eventually, I was eventually released with a promise that I would never do anything like that again and soon after was back working in Canada.
 
But what had I done almost forty-plus years later, I had somehow not managed to get my passport stamped. Maybe I should have not ambled through that door that proclaimed I had nothing to declare. Maybe that was just for Brits. Well, it was too late now. No doubt, in a very short while, I would be exposing my sack for ridicule from some stern-faced constable. I needed to pause and gather my thoughts. Should I just turn myself in, throw myself upon the mercy of their judicial system. One question though: Would I need to buy one of those wigs in order to plead on my own behalf? Questions. So many damn questions.  
 
Maybe there will possibly be something on the traveler’s most trusted companion, the Internet. Wasting no time but risking my already fragile overseas data plan,  I googled “On the Run in Great Britian” and discovered to my chagrin, that jolly old England is moving away from the old stamp your passport deal. What? What kind of deal is that? I have only just arrived, and I am already being ripped off. No stamp!
 
Oh well, I have bigger fish to fry, I have the National Express shuttle bus to Westminster to catch. And Heathrow being one of the biggest airports in the world, offers plenty of places to hide out from the local  constabulary. And my 71-year-old direction skills being what they may, I best be shaking a leg. But not quite yet. That breakfast sausage (the one from last week’s entry) is attempting to enter Great Britain illegally as well. I guess we’re both on the run, as it were.

These are the four official airfare designations shared by all airlines offering International travel. Some airlines give them different titles, but they are basically the same.
 
Skinny Economy. Perfect for children under six, waifs (see kids under six, yogis, starving soothsayers, holy men (all denominations), college students, and adults who wish to pass what little inheritance they do have to their families).
Obese Economy. All adults under 155 pounds (11.0714 stones). The only advantage is that the curtain separates you from the class lower than you. And you get a hot towel. 
Look at me, I’m in a Cubicle. For those who require an option for a little more space and a reminder of what it’s like to work on the third floor of any accounting office, this is the choice for you. From what I could see when I was herded past, they also have a little rest that folds up for your feet. I can only imagine what the hot washcloths are like.
 
And finally…
 
Start the Revolution. AKA Let Them Eat Cake AKA I Did Not Have the Time to Cross the Atlantic on the Queen Mary. To give you a small idea of how luxurious this might be, they did not even herd us past these last accommodations. I can only imagine that stairs are involved, a fully functioning bar, a temporary seat of airborne government, and hot wash clothes made from the fur of domestic minks.  
 
I chose Obese economy, thinking my 200-pound-plus weight (14.285+ stones) would be more comfortable with a slightly bigger seat and more legroom. My seat companions, in both directions, having been elbowed upon countless occasions, would most suggest that I consider the cubicle option, where a wall would separate my closest neighbor from a broken nose. 
 
The Plane Itself

A380 Airbus
The Airbus A380 is a double-deck, wide-body, four-engine jet manufactured by Airbus Industrie, the European consortium.
It is the world's largest commercial passenger aircraft, and the upper deck extends along the entire fuselage length. It is also one of the greenest, with lower community noise and emissions per passenger than the Boeing 747-400, despite having almost 50% more floor space and 60% more headroom.  British Airways.
 
We can’t say this enough: Boeing had nothing to do with it.
 
Wedged into my obese seat utilizing very much the same equipment that comedian Dick Gregory used to get that huge person out of their house, I was immediately struck by the claustrophobic coziness of myself and the young adult English Male occupying the window seat. I celebrated this new relationship with a quick elbow jab to his chin while searching for the insert holes for my headphone jack. Mimicking the younger, more patient, and seasoned traveler like a young ape first learning to use tools, I eventually found the correct input and attempted to settle in for a very lengthy flight.  
 
It took roughly the entire 13-hour flight to figure out the seat controls buried under my fat's layers, and the all-important entertainment screen.  I still have no idea what the purpose of several of the more colorful buttons was.  I know that one alerted the stewardess that I needed help, as she stopped by countless times during the crossing.
 
Helpful hints that will assist you throughout your flight:
 Hope for a seatmate who is more travelled than you. This will undoubtedly help with the whole seat button scenario.
Find compression socks that are functional and possess a bit of flair. 
Sleep will undoubtedly prove elusive as a newbie, so pick a random passenger somewhere in your section and stare at them. 
Study the flight status map on your personal monitor and guess the number of mid-air collisions that were narrowly missed while over the U.S. airspace.
Remember to get up as often as possible to stretch your legs. This advice applies to anyone seated in a middle or window seat.
 
Meals
Not counting the vegetarian and vegan options, there are basically three ways your meal will be prepared.
Boiled.
Microwaved.
A combination of the above.
​
For dinner I had the beef, boiled to a pale gray perfection and served alongside two baby potatoes and three green beans. It was served with side comprised of a wilted bowl of lettuce, a dessert, a roll, a slab of butter and to keep the meal at least appearing somewhat continental, a cracker and a slice of Tillamook Cheese.  Of course, being an idiot, I ate all of it.
 
Whether it was the excitement of my adventure or the relatively small size of my bladder, I did not sleep and chose instead to pry myself out of my seat on the hour, amble up and down the aisle like some restless spirit. I usually ended up in one of the bathrooms to enjoy a thorough hand cleaning. At this point of the journey, the cabin was dark, the lights from the small personal monitors providing the only light, the aircraft’s only sound, the hum of the powerful jet engines accompanied by the crack of my bony elbow against several of the passengers’ sleeping skulls.
       “Sorry.”
 
Breakfast was a halfhearted attempt at English style, complete with baked beans, eggs, bacon, and a plump sausage, coincidentally boiled to the same pale gray perfection as the boiled slab of beef. 
I was about to try my first attempt at digesting this second meal as the captain announced we would land shortly. The oversized mechanical bird was about to drop out of the sky at the same rate of speed that dreary gray sausage attempted to jettison my digestive system. A fitting reminder that my stay in Great Britain would be brief. 

At the age of 71, I decided to take my first trip overseas. I made this journey alone, without the benefit of wife, daughter, friends, elves or dwarves. That I chose to take this trip so late in life is what officially qualifies me as  an idiot. I travelled with only one hundred pounds, just as many Euros, a credit card, a suitcase, backpack, notebook, reliable pen, passport and a heaping plastic bag filled with prescription medications. In case of emergency, I had a note pinned to the inside of my wool coat that read. “If I am lost and wandering aimlessly an unfamiliar neighborhood, please contact my wife.”
 
Instructions sent to all United States Embassies
 
If I am abducted by extremists and beheaded on local cable access as an act of defiance against the recent actions of United States of America, hey, I fully understand. I get it.
 
If I am sold into white slavery and human trafficking…this is really a tough one. On one hand…  While on the other, the human trafficking deal might just require another prescription from my physician. 
(Note: This crack is in no way condoning the real heinous crime of sex trafficking. I was only suggesting that if they intended on utilizing me as a Turkish Top, I may require further medical assistance.)
 
If I should suddenly disappear unexpectedly without a trace, the act most likely happened on purpose and of my own free will. I will notify my government, my wife and family in my own good time.

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness".        Mark Twain.
 
As stated earlier, I fully realize I am an  idiot for waiting so long to finally decide to travel to Europe. Further proof was in the back of my mind, I mistakenly thought the collected James Bond 007 movie library would be enough to quell any sense of adult wanderlust. That turned out not to be  the case. There were far too many other examples that proved my qualifications for the title and special designation of Coddiwompling Nincompoop. All of these actions all took place during my journey and will certainly verify that the continuing self-depreciation is warranted. 
 
Among them:
 
*A basic failure of the understanding of the Economy Plus seat instructions on a British Airways Air Bus A380. 
*Fumbling and dropping my “Rick Steves Travel Wallet at least three times in highly visited tourist destinations. 
*The losing of one pair of prescription sunglasses.
*The loss of a watch.
*Ordering hamburger medium-rare in France.
*A nearly depilating case of Norovirus that the maids in a small boutique hotel in Paris have most likely still not forgotten me for.
 
Already sounds too damn exciting, doesn’t it? If you are lucky, and I remember, you may hear more grueling details of these escapades later!  
 
For the next several weeks, these excerpts of thoughts and observations from my travel journal will document my misadventures in Europe. These entries are intended for solely for entertainment purposes only and is in no way any form of  legitimate travel journalism or guide. 

​Next Week: Getting There