THE JOURNEY

Vancouver stopover: The journey was not kind to Jane

11.30 BST, Monday, July 26, 2010

Somewhere over

Iceland, I think.

There’ll be internet connection on the Air Canada flight, they said. But there isnt. And this is my first blog and I was hoping to post it from 37,000 feet above the Atlantic.. Now I’ll have to do it after we land at San Francisco – at the first Starbucks I see, if my darling wife will put up with the slight delay as I extract my laptop out of the rucksack and try to pick up the wi-fi.

And there’s no BBC at all on the little screens in front of us. There’s every other TV and radio channel, horror movie, Hollywood movie, kids’ movie, shopping channels – but Aunty Beeb is not among them. Poor show!

Britain is receding behind us, however, so perhaps I should forget my usual habits – The World at One, The Guardian, the walk in the park – and other familiar attachments and recognise that we come from a very small dot on the globe. But old habits die hard!

I’ve read today’s Guardian from head to tail and I do admire what Julian Assange, the Wikileaks founder and whistleblower, has done in exposing the horrors and awful chaos of the Afghan war. As a temperamental teller of tales and mischief-maker myself I salute the real thing. Mr Assange has put his head on the line.

12.30 local time,, 2010, July 26

Starbucks,

Vancouver Airport

We all have our story of the US immigration ordeal. This one happens in Canada. After “deplaning”, as it’s called, we walk into an area of the airport to be greeted by an eagle on a shield and big sign that says: “WELCOME TO THE USA”. We’re actually not in the US but never matter. A large man sitting in a glass cubicle motions Jane forward. “Raise your left hand,” he says. I notice that Jane’s cheeks are beginning to colour. I know she is thinking: “I’ve seen presidential inaugurations. I’m going to have to swear an oath or something.” But I know what’s coming. “Press your hands against the glass,” the big man says. Fingerprints. Of course,. Then it’s the other hand. Then the photograph. It is all over very quickly. I follow meekly. But when I’ve been processed I ask the man: “What happens to that information about us?” “It goes somewhere,” he says with a solemn finality. “Where?” I squeak. He looks balefully at me and offers no more information.

Tomorrow:

THE ARRIVAL