Frankly my dear
Well, I did it! I finally escaped... It took nearly 2½ hours, but at last I’m out! I’m free! It’s Atlanta airport, it killed me! It’s like no other airport on the planet. It’s hard enough that you have to squeeze all your jollups into little bottles these days and carry them around in a plastic bag. It’s hard enough that the flight is a crushing 9 hours in the cheap-seats. But then you have those incomprehensible forms to fill in for Immigration, and woe-betide you if you get something wrong! Those guys at the desks are truly intimidating... And they get you when you’re at your weakest too – you’ve run, yes, literally, run to the queue, to try and get towards the front, yet somehow there are already more than 100 tired and fretful fellow passengers lined up in front of you. The endless snake-queue moves so slowly, and don’t step out of line, whatever you do, or they’ll be at you!
It’s bad enough that you end up feeling like a criminal under interrogation. I’m only here for two pitiful days... please, just let me in so I can get on with my business and get home again! I’m not even gonna alter my watch, I’m here for such a lightning-fast visit.
But then Atlanta Hartsfield International really gets its claws into you... Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure if you’re on an internal flight, you have it really easy here. It’s a light, modern airport with loads of facilities – thanks in no small measure to the Olympics a few years back, I’m sure. But if you’re arriving into the International terminal, and you managed to get through Immigration without being turned around or clapped in irons, you’re not home-and-dry – don’t even think it. You’re stress is only just beginning!
You were in the queue for an hour. They’ve kept you long enough – surely – for your luggage to be offloaded and ready for you. Ah. No. There’s just a little more waiting time before you see your possessions again. (OK, so I’m a girl, I can’t manage for two days on hand-luggage, plus I had product samples, OK?!). But that’s not it. Hartsfield is a huge airport – so big it’s got its own mini railway with, oh, maybe six stops – one for each terminal. Yes, and they’re not on top of each other either – if you’re ever there and think of walking, think again. That’s a mile or more. But..... to get on the train – to get to the exit - you have to re-check your baggage. Yes, you heard me right. But before you do, you’ve got to open that bursting suitcase (OK... so I couldn’t decide what to wear – a girl’s gotta keep her options open) and squeeze in that little plastic bag of jollups you’ve been carrying (and you better pray they don’t leak on your new suit). Then, having abandoned your luggage for a second time – and almost weeping with exhaustion by now – you have to do security again. Yes ... take your coat off. Take your shoes off. Just one more security arch in the great scheme of international airport security. So now everybody’s happy you’re not packing something dodgy in your loafers and you get to take the little train. It’s a neat arrangement, but by then, you’re way too tired to care. You climb off at the far end of the track around 12 minutes later and – wait – where’s the luggage now? As you emerge into the concourse it’s a scene of chaos. Well, it’s a busy airport, what do you expect? But there in the distance, right by the exit doors, are a couple more baggage claim belts. But these are for everybody - every international flight – so it’s anybody’s guess which one will yield your bag. So you wait and watch. And you wait and watch. And you look around, in case there’s anybody off your flight that you recognise. But since you watched the movies all the way over, you probably wouldn’t recognise them even if they were there, would you?
OK, so I’m just about holding it together. I can see it’s beginning to get dark outside already and for me of course, it’s already close to 11pm in my head. I wait a full 40 more minutes before my bag finally arrives and I can go find the courtesy bus for my hotel. There are two dozen courtesy buses outside and I’m losing the will to live, but then somebody takes pity and I get some good directions and soon the bus is away and I’m stepping off at my hotel...
I end up awake half the night (it always happens when I go to the States) but the breakfast buffet and a polite request for extra-extra-extra strong coffee seems to do the trick and I head off for my meeting. Metro Atlanta looks amazing this time of year – I know it’s the South, but it’s got the whole ‘New England in the Fall’ thing going on with trees every shade and colour you can imagine. You get maybe a light frost in the morning, then by noon the temperature is in the low 70s and the sun is blazing down. Somebody said I should try to find some time to go up to the lake whilst I’m here, but the trip is a rush, so I can’t make it. There’s not even any time to shop – and that would be a crisis if only the exchange rate were anything like it was a couple of years ago. As it is, I’ll live.
The big meeting was a big success. That’s a real benefit of networking and getting introductions through contacts - people you know, who know other people. It was friendly and positive right from the outset and I could see they were impressed that I was willing to make the trip from London, just to meet with them. So we sealed the deal on-the-spot, and I returned home clutching my very first international order – and it’s a pretty big one too! Woo hoo!!
One day later and I’m sitting on the plan home, chewing it all over and sipping a celebratory G&T. I guess people often feel like this. You get the order, and it’s great – really great. But then you start to worry about how to fulfil it. I had the supplies – I could actually fill the order, without too much difficulty. But I realised, I had no idea at all how to get such a large volume of product shipped – I didn’t know the rules and regulations (for sure there would be some) and, I confess, I didn’t know what it might cost me. I know, that was a bit of a lapse, wasn’t it? But there it is. The deal is done now, and I need to find somebody to help me get it shipped without it costing me the moon and killing my profits.
So to find a guy whose company specialises in import and export customs clearance sitting right next to me on the plane – well, you might call it fortuitous, right? I’d call it extraordinary. We chatted over our drinks, and the plastic food, before they turned the lights down to let us all sleep. But by that time, I’d learned enough. His business could help me with all the forms, and registering the export with HMRC – saving me time and money and hassle. With his contacts, he could even recommend me a good shipping agent. With more international orders to follow, I think he just became my ‘new best friend’! So I took his business card and promised to call his office the next day, to discuss my shipment in detail. And you know, for once, I actually slept soundly all the way back to London.
17th Nov 2008
