Friday 16th November 2007

It could have been any weekday morning. The alarm goes off and it’s 5am. It’s dark and cold. Oh so cold. Out of bed and into the car. But this morning is different – I have an appointment with American Airlines. I turn right out of the close instead of left and head off towards Heathrow. I’m going off on my travels once more but, for some reason, it just doesn’t feel right. It’s not that I’m not looking forward to it – I am – but, erm, I dunno. It just didn’t feel right somehow. The usual nervous excitement isn’t there this morning. Maybe it’s that the much anticipated fight for the Nextel Cup title - which had spurred me into booking the trip - is all but decided? Maybe it’s a hangover from my previous trip which didn’t go exactly to plan? Maybe it’s just an increased familiarity which comes the more you visit a country? Maybe all those horror stories of death and terror on the streets of Miami that my workmates insisted on telling me were actually weighing on my mind? Who knows? Whatever, I certainly wasn’t planning on turning round and going back to my nice warm bed – no matter how appealing that seemed at the time!

Having deposited the car in the dodgiest ‘secure parking’ that I have ever encountered – and having been ranted at in Polish by the hired help – I was ‘whisked’ to the terminal in what must be the oldest shuttle bus in existence. As I stepped onboard I could swear I could see that the words ‘Sunshine Coach’ had been written down its side in a previous life. No matter, it got us there and, having battled through all the construction work and the lines of Police at the front door, made my way to check in. Three hours later I was onboard and hurtling down the Heathrow runway. It still didn’t feel right – something was missing.

The flight itself was a pleasure – the cabin crew friendly and professional, the food excellent and the legroom the best that I have experienced whilst flying transatlantic. I even worked some more on my plan to perfect the art of sleeping onboard a plane – I managed somewhere in the region of two hour which I congratulated myself on.

I have a thing about wine. No, not drinking it; seeing open bottles of it standing around waiting to be spilt everywhere. It a very strange phobia, I know, but when the girl sitting next to me ordered a bottle of red wine from the drinks trolley my heart rate shot up. For twenty slow and painful minutes it sat there waiting for the first glass to be poured and then, almost immediately, it happened. For some reason, unknown to anyone within 500 meters – including herself I am sure – she suddenly decided to stand up. It was mere milliseconds before the contents of the huge glass landed in the lap of my new (previously lightly coloured) trousers. Of course she was very apologetic but that didn’t really help all that much, nor did her attempts to mop up the mess with napkins (much as I enjoyed it at the time!) and I made a hasty retreat to the bathroom to try and clean myself up. It proved to be a futile effort – people would constantly stare at me and the apparent blood stain all over my trousers right up until I arrived at the hotel – but at least it gave me valuable minutes away from the silly bint in which I could calm down to the point that I didn’t feel the need to throttle her on my return to my seat.

Arrival at a US airport is a painful affair, there is no getting away from it, and there’s nothing that you can do bar grind and bear it. Arrival at Miami was no different but it was a strange experience to be greeted with much of the signage around the airport in Spanish with an English translation provided beneath, almost as an afterthought, for the benefit of the minority ethnic group.

After an hour or so I arrived at the front of the queue and was pleasantly surprised to find the immigration officer to be warm, friendly and welcoming. He took a look at my passport and noted the fact I was a regular visitor to his shores and stamped it without asking any questions at all. He asked my plane and, when I explained I was in town for the race, he excitedly told me how he lived across from the track and offer advice on a couple of his favourite restaurants. I wonder if he worked part time for the local tourist board but, whatever the reason for his chirpiness, I am grateful. Welcome back!

I picked up the car and made my way to the hotel that I had booked on Collins Avenue in the South Beach area. It took quite some finding but, when I did, I couldn’t for the life of me work out how I’d missed it. Being the tight arse that I am I didn’t want to pay 35 bucks for valet parking so found a parking lot a couple of blocks away near the Lincoln Road Mall for ten bucks a day. As I walked back through the dark streets those stories from my workmates were coming back to me and I was pleased to arrive at the hotel in one piece.

The Contiental Oceanfront Hotel wasn’t the fanciest hotel in the area, nor did I have the best room in the hotel, but I’d have found it very hard to complain as I’d got such a bargain price online and I was made to feel very much at home by the friendly and welcoming staff. I unpacked and grabbed a well earned shower before heading out to get a bite to eat.