The heat was what suprised him most. It had been a traditionally chilly July morning at Heathrow, but when he stepped off the plane in Newark he was struck by how much warmer it really was.

Now, standing by the exit of Terminal A at Newark Liberty International Airport he looked out at the crazy over-sized cars and the comings and goings and realised that the movies and television really did not lie; America really does look that way.

A small group of fellow travellers were swapping airline war stories;

“And then they told me the delay was due to poor weather conditions! Do you see any goddamn bad weather?”

“Oh I know. The last time I flew [deleted] they lost my bags. I was travelling for work and I could not change my clothes for thirty-six hours! I mean that’s not service, right?”

He smiled. It was good to be on holiday, to not have a care in the world. So his connecting flight was delayed; it did not really matter.

He wandered back into the terminal, into the bar and sat down.

“Sam Adams, please.”

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