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Coming to America

Bob is in America for a SQL 2008 preview

On Sunday I flew to America.

Twenty-two hours in one sentence.  Too brief? Let me elaborate.

Microsoft is training trainers from all over the world to get ready to train the new SQL Server 2008 prior to its release.  There’s an awful lot of trains in that sentence.  Mark, my boss, friend and colleague, and myself are the only two trainers from the UK that have been nominated, vetted and approved.  We are the Chosen Ones.

I have never been to the States before, though I have mocked, condemned and had my stereotypical prejudices pleasantly challenged in my E-verse contact with Americans.  Microsoft Certified Trainers, on the whole, are pleasant, intelligent, generous souls with a passion for passing on their knowledge and skills that verges on evangelical, yet carry with them the whole gamut of human tastes and prejudices.  I count myself privileged to be numbered amongst them.

So when I was told I was off to the Holy Land, the Mecca of Microsoft, Redmond, Washington, I was excited beyond words.  My brother, Mike, was equally excited.  Mike works for the company that does the check-in for Delta Airlines, amongst others.  “Book with Delta,“ he said.  “I’ll get you an upgrade.”

I arrived at Gatwick North shortly before eight.  Mark had overestimated his journey, and had been waiting there forty-five minutes.  We went to the check-in desk, strangely Mikeless.

“I’ve a bit of a cheeky request,“ I told the check-in guy.

“Oh yes?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I’m Michael Simms’ brother, and he said he might be able to wangle an upgrade.”

“Oh my God!  Mike’s brother?  Really?  You’re Mike’s brother?”

Did he mishear me?  Did he think I said Mick Jagger?

“Mike’s a legend around here,“ he said, reaching for the phone.  I wondered if he was going to announce it over the public address system.  Ladies and Gentlemen, Mike’s brother is at the check-in desk.  I had visions of the London Cabbie’s standard spiel.  ‘Ere.  You’ll never guess who I ‘ad in the back of me cab the other day.  Only Mike Simms’ bruvver!

“Mike, I’ve got your brother here.”  He handed me the phone.  Mike was being kept away from the public today.  It did not surprise me.  Two things unite all the Simms brothers, wildly different in looks and temperament.  We all have a gift to do with talking, and we share the unique Simms humour.  Mike’s gift of the gab reveals itself in charm.  He can endear himself to old grannies and little kids, and everyone in-between.  His bosses, though, only hear the insults and jokes he has at the customers’ expense.  Never mind that the customer laughs along with him, and on occasion even tips him for the privilege.  So today he had been cast into the oubliette in the bowels of Gatwick North, but he wished me bon voyage and a luxurious trip.

By the time I handed the phone back, the young man on the desk had completed the paperwork.

“Thank you very much,“ I said.  “You’re very kind.  I don’t know why Mike says all those terrible things about you.”

“That’s just the sort of joke Mike would say,“ he said, grinning.

See?  The Simms sense of humour.

We passed through the security beep-beep machines, and waited until our gate was called: gate fifty-three.

We walked there.  And walked.  And walked.  Gate fifty-three, it appeared, was in the next county.  As we neared it I joked, “Oh, wait.  They’ve changed it to gate two.”  The couple in front laughed.  I must have my audience.

As we waited at the gate, I recognised one of the women checking the passes.  She was one of the many Peruvians that seem to orbit Mike’s social sun.

“Ola,“ I said, during a lull.

She grinned.  “Ola.”

“Como estad?”

“Bueno.  Y tu?”

I had reached my limits of Spanish conversation.

“All the better for seeing you, thank you.”

Her grin was welcoming, but her eyes were saying, ‘Who the hell are you?’

“I’m Bob, Mike’s brother.”

“Mike?”

“Mike Simms.  We’ve met a couple of times at his barbecues.”

“Oh, hello.”

I still didn’t think she recognised me, but I decided to push my luck.  “Mike said he might be able to get us an upgrade.”

She checked.  No, it was not possible.  We had even, somehow, lost the bulkhead seats with extra leg room.  I had boasted to everyone I was travelling first class.  What comes after pride?

The flight to Cincinnati was uneventful, unless you count me crying at the end of one of the in-flight movies.  Mark thought it funny, but I cry at the end of most films.  Never sit with me during Green Mile.  This one annoyed me, because I knew what the ending was going to be half-way through, and I still blubbed like a girly.

At Cincinnati we passed through customs.  Mark was first.  I was waved on after him.

“Your colleague tells me you’re flying together on business?”

“I might be, unless you don’t like him, in which case I’m nothing to do with him.”

“Is this your first time in America?”

“Yes, and I’m so excited I’ve been packed for a month.”

I did a little tap-dance, to show how excited I was.

My wife had given me dire warnings.  “Don’t try to be funny over there.  You know no-one understands your jokes, and they have guns.  Don’t try to be funny at immigration, or they’ll send you right back home again”  But, necessary and important as it is, checking passports and visas must be a boring job, and I was determined to make him smile.  I felt I almost succeeded.

“Welcome to America,“ he said, stamping my passport.  “Have a nice day.”  It sounded like an order.

At the Seattle gate, Mark and I played Spot The Nerd.  Some just had the air of someone who has reached third Paladin in an Internet Role-Playing game by dint of a forty-hour-a-week habit.  Others had IT logos plastered all over their laptop bags.

The flight to Seattle was on a smaller plane, and the service felt cheaper, but Mike had made good his promise to book us emergency exit seats.  Mark and I are both well over six feet, and the extra legroom was appreciated.  But with privilege comes responsibility.  I read the card on how to open the exit door in an emergency.

The stewardess (are they still called that?) leant over.  “You’re sitting by an exit.  Are you aware of your duties in an emergency, sir?”

“Oh, yes.  When the plane crashes, I’ll be first out of the plane, don’t worry.”

A passenger in the row in front turned.  He looked decidedly worried.

“If  … I meant if we crash.”

“Yes, sir.  Please don’t try to open the door at any other time.”  She smiled nervously, as if she was pretty sure I was joking, but not one hundred percent.

 At Seattle we found the carousel and waited for our luggage.  Mark’s appeared almost instantly, but mine was nowhere to be seen.  My black bag seemed the same as fifty others.

 “Is that it?” asked Mark.

 “No, too big.”

 “That one?”

 “No, that’s wet from the rain.  Mine was dry”

 “That one?”

 “No, that’s got a hanky tied to it.”

 After its fourth circuit, enough rain had evaporated from the wet bag for me to recognise it.  Mark shook his head in disbelief.

 We caught a cab to the Homestead Hotel.  Mark read out the address to the driver from his instructions.  When we got there, Mark had a room, but my name was nowhere on the list.  I trembled my lower lip and tried my puppy-dog look, but they were fully booked.  I showed her my confirmation.

 “Oh no, sir.  That’s the Homestead at Redmond.  This is Factoria.”  Microsoft had booked us into two separate hotels in the same chain.  As Mark laughed his way to his room, I caught another cab.

 The Redmond Homestead was identical to its namesake, but within walking distance of the campus.  As I walked into the reception, there were two Germans, SQL nerds stamped all over them in invisible letters.  One of them was trying to sort out his room.  They worked together, and had assumed Microsoft had booked them into the same Homestead.  One of them should have been in Factoria.  It was déjà vu, all over again.

 I was hungry by the time I dumped my gear in my motel-like suite.  My watch said it was half-past eight, but my body knew it was half-past three the following morning.  I asked at the desk if there was somewhere I could grab a quick bite to eat.

 “Do you have a car?”

 “Lord, no.”  (They drive on the wrong side of the road over here)

 “Well, there’s a taco place, but it’s a block and a half away.  We have the numbers of folks who’ll deliver.”

 At last, a stereotype confirmed.  This is truly the land of the car.  A block and a half walk?  Was I mad?

 “That’s fine, I’ve been cramped up for eighteen hours.  I’ll walk.”

 I was struck by the space, as I made my way though the freezing rain, glad I had brought my hat with me.  The roads were wide, and the commercial buildings set way back from the road.  After ten minutes I found the retail park, with three restaurants:  A Chinese restaurant that was closed, and Indian restaurant, and a taco fast-food outlet.  Curry is the national dish of the UK, and I was in America.  What could be more American than Mexican food?  I looked in the window.  It was open, but empty.  I hate being the only diner in a restaurant, and what did the locals know, if they shunned the place?  A Ruby Murray it was, then.

 You’d think Indian restaurants would be the same the world over, wouldn’t you?  But the curry houses in England are different from those in France, in Portugal and, yes, in America.  I went for the safe option, a passable lamb korai, and an ESB that was almost up to English ale.

 I got home, emailed the wife that I missed her, unpacked and went to bed, exhausted at what the clock insisted was ten-thirty.

 I woke in the dark, my nose blocked, my mouth dry and covered in sweat.  The curry lay heavily on my stomach.  My seven-thirty alarm had not yet rung, but it would surely do so soon.  I looked at the clock.  Two-thirty.

 I went to the bathroom, tried to find the thermostat, but ended up just pulling the plug on the heater, and opened the laptop.  If I wasn’t in sleep mode, I failed to see why Windows should be.  I read my email, pottered for a few minutes, then went back to bed.

 At four-thirty I gave up.  I could never sleep at mid-day, and my body refused to believe it was still the wee hours.  Look out, Microsoft.  I’m coming.