AMERICANS ARE not normally given to understatement, I think it's fair to say. But having finally witnessed it in person, I fear they may be selling one of their top tourist attractions short by calling it the "Grand Canyon", writes Frank McNally.
Yes, according to dictionaries, “grand” means “great”, “splendid”, “most important”, “of highest rank”, etc; and the canyon is all of these things. Even so, at least to Irish ears, “grand” sounds like an unduly modest description for something so extraordinary.
The problem, I suppose, is that “grand” is Ireland’s national adjective, used to describe everything from the weather to the state of one’s mind.
As such it is a word that, more than anything, evokes stoicism and restraint. Insofar as the phrase “I’m grand, thanks” expresses any true contentment, it is often in the sense of gratitude for small mercies. It certainly does not imply high self-esteem or possession of a title, never mind happiness.
Frequently, the phrase is used to avoid real communication. In restaurants, as a response to a waiter, saying everything was “grand” may mean that the service was lousy and the food even worse, but that you can’t bring yourself to complain other than by vowing silently never to come here again.
That’s all beside the point, however. Getting back to which, I can confirm that the aforementioned canyon is everything the dictionary means by “grand”, and more. It is awe-inspiring. Not only is it worth seeing. I think even Dr Johnson would have to agree that, unlike the Giant’s Causeway (which is grand in the Irish sense), it is worth going to see as well.
That said, being somewhat squeamish about heights, I was happy to avoid seeing it from its newest vantage point, the “Skywalk”.
Notwithstanding claims that this is bolted firmly into the rock, that the glass underfoot is four inches thick, and that the platform has been designed to carry the weight of 71 fully-loaded jumbo jets, I suspect that if I had ventured on to it at all, I would have been one of those people clinging to the rail all the way round and trying to ignore the unobstructed view of the canyon floor 4,000 feet below.
So no; call me a coward, but instead – in a reckless moment – I allowed myself to be taken on a tour of the canyon by helicopter.
This was not bolted to anything, it turned out, and featured a cockpit of wraparound glass, none of which was four inches thick. Also, whereas the Skywalk at least allows to you feel queasy in an upright position, helicopters have a habit of banking steeply on occasion: which means that not only may be there be nothing but glass between you and the bottom of the canyon (or the Hoover Dam, which we also flew over), but you have the added pleasure of pondering this fact while sideways.
Luckily, at such moments, there were always other things to distract you: for example the name of the helicopter company: “Maverick”. No doubt this word too has more positive connotations in the US. But when I suggested to the pilot at one point that “Maverick” was perhaps not the most suitable name to inspire trust among passengers, he just shrugged and said the owner liked it: “He’s kind-of of a cowboy.”
Clearly, it was the owner’s same sense of wild-west romance that also inspired the names given to the different tours offered by the company. Our tour was called the “Wind-dancer” (I swear); although I only found this out after we returned to base.
If they’d told me beforehand, I would definitely have taken the Skywalk.
A SHORT postscript to my experience (Diary, Wednesday) of flying into New York the day after the “Miracle on the Hudson”: if our plane too had had its engines knocked out by Canada geese, forcing the pilot to make an emergency landing, then as well as experiencing the drama in person, we might have been able to watch it on television.
This is because, on the otherwise frill-free Jet Blue Airlines, small screens with live satellite TV are standard on the back of every seat.
An unintended consequence is that, if a Jet Blue flight ever gets into difficulty long enough to attract live media coverage, passengers can simultaneously reflect on their mortality while tuning into the pictures as the local equivalent of Charlie Bird reports on the crisis from the ground.
In fact, just such an event happened in Los Angeles two years ago when the front wheels of a Jet-Blue plane became damaged, forcing the pilot to circle the airport long enough to burn off most of his fuel before attempting a risky landing. By then, TV crews were on the scene below and nervous passengers were able to watch the breaking story while also taking part in it.
Like the Miracle on the Hudson, that landing ended well; and perhaps admirably, the airline said afterwards that it never considered censoring what the passengers saw.
On our flight into New York, as it happens, some screens – including mine – were out of order. All they transmitted was an annoying flicker, which the staff offered help in covering up. Several passengers helped themselves, folding sick bags in such a way that they fitted neatly over the screen. And I suppose we could have done the same thing in an emergency, if the bags weren’t being used for something else.
fmcnally@irishtimes.com