Today is my name day in Sweden! I’m sure everyone is just quaking with elation at that announcement.
In other news, I’m back from London! (Photos
here.) I made it home without getting blown up by terrorists, knifed by yobs (there were several yob knifings in London recently; apparently it’s a hot new trend), or happy-slapped by bullies.
The trip was physically exhausting and quite painful. I was careful to wear sensible socks, my walking Nikes, and arch supports, which served me well in Europe last year (I did a ton of walking and climbing in four countries and never developed any blisters, except for that one day in Russia when I stupidly went out without socks and promptly developed a crippling blister on my right foot). But despite these precautions, I inexplicably developed horrifyingly bulbous blisters on my toes, like, the second I stepped off the plane. They were so big, my toes looked malformed. Coupled with all the pulled muscles in my legs (stemming partially from the blisters-induced limping, and partially from me being hopelessly out of shape), I was in agony the whole time I was abroad. Every step felt like knives were being pushed into my feet and legs. But that didn’t stop me from traipsing all over the place! It did, however, stop me from walking like a normal 32-year-old. Instead, I had to employ a kind of stiff, lurching gait, not unlike an arthritic 95-year-old with prosthetic legs. I’m sure it was pretty comical to witness, especially during periods when I was forced to speed-walk and/or jog to get somewhere on time. (Even without the searing pain, watching me jog is a pitiable sight, because I’m so laughably out of shape.) There were times when I thought it would be a blessing for knife-wielding yobs to come along and cut off my feet.
Physical pain aside, the trip was emotionally and mentally rejuvenating, leaving my spirit buoyant when I returned. On Wednesday, after stumbling out of bed in a jetlagged stupor, I saw a menacing stack of freelancing manuscripts leering at me from my coffee table, and there were police sirens screaming down my street, per usual, and I heard crashes and stomps from my neighbors upstairs—typical things I face every day. Before my trip, when I was becoming increasingly burned out, those things would’ve had me vibrating with rage. But on Wednesday I just smiled and chirped, “Home sweet home!” I felt relaxed and wonderful. Yeah, we all know
this won’t last.
Here’s what went down:
Thursday, 28 SeptemberThe weather was beautiful and my luggage was still light, so instead of calling a cab, I opted to walk the mile between my apartment and the Metro. When I got to the American Airlines check-in desk at the airport, I was immediately told that my flight from DC to NY had been cancelled. They put me on a flight to Chicago instead. The good news is that it left DC at the same time as my cancelled flight; the bad news is that it meant going through
Chicago. As in, flying in the wrong direction, away from the Atlantic, thus tacking an extra 90 minutes onto my flight to London. Oh, and when I checked in, the woman asked me if I wanted to supply a name and number of an emergency contact. Ummm...
WHAT? I’ve never been asked that before. Maybe it’s now a routine question in this terrorism-filled world of ours, or maybe it’s unique to American Airlines (I’ve never flown them before). I don’t know. But it unnerved me.
My connection in Chicago was
very tight. As we landed, I casually looked at my ticket and realized with a jolt that my London flight was supposed to begin boarding at 4pm—which is when my DC flight was arriving. And O’Hare is a big airport, yo! I had to huff and pant and weave my way through the terminal, stopping only to hit the bathroom and buy some junk food at a newsstand (I hadn’t gotten around to calling AA to request a vegetarian meal on my flight, so I knew I’d be starving by the time I got to London; the junk food was meant to fill that growling maw inside of me). I did make it to my gate in time, but barely. I was one of the last people to board. I sat next to a semi-cute nerd who I’m assuming was German, because he was reading a book in German and he didn’t fill out a non-EU disembarkation card. His demeanor was kind of strange, and as an armchair diagnostician, I silently spun theories about what condition he may or may not have had.
I was happy to see that AA followed Virgin’s lead and installed a private screen in the back of each seat, so every traveler can watch what s/he wants on multiple channels. They also borrowed Virgin’s idea of using one of those channels as a route map, so people can watch the progress of their plane and find out where exactly they are. They can also learn the external temperature (the coldest it got outside my plane was -75F), their groundspeed, their altitude, exactly how many hours/minutes are left until landing, what time it is where they are located, what time it is in the city where they originated, and what time it is in the city where they are headed.
Even with taking a melatonin tablet, I didn’t sleep during the flight. I never sleep on transatlantic flights, no matter how desperately I try to do so. And believe me, I
did try. However, there was a baby periodically wailing on the plane; a man sitting near me had a loud, ugly, watery cough (Patient Zero for avian flu, anyone?); and in the middle of the night, the people sitting directly behind me suddenly became Chatty McChattersons. They didn’t do this at, like, 7pm, of course. No—they had to wait until 4am when I was trying to sleep. I shot daggers at them but apparently they were immune.
Friday, 29 SeptemberFor the first time in history, my suitcase was one of the first bags to appear on the luggage carousel. Hallelujah! It will never happen again. And Customs was a breeze, too, astoundingly. I poked my head into a newsstand and sighed blissfully at the rows of garishly-colored trashy British celebrity gossip and women’s lifestyle magazines (I have an unholy addiction to those magazines; seeing a newsstand full of them is like a crack addict seeing shelves brimming with crack). I marveled over the casino right near the newsstand, and laughed when I saw that there was a prayer room near it. Perhaps people go there to pray for good luck at the airport slots? I was in no particular rush, since it was still quite early, and I knew my room wouldn’t be ready at the hotel yet, so I grabbed a leisurely bite to eat. God bless London and its wealth of vegetarian food. I had so many veggie selections to choose from in that one little airport sandwich shop, and this is indicative of the food culture in general in London. I love it.
After eating, I followed the signs to the tube station. When the station finally came into view, and, for the first time in seven years, I saw that red circle with “Underground” written across it on a blue banner, I broke into the
biggest grin. I thought,
Oh, London! I missed you so much, you glorious, vibrant, salty old bitch!!! I was so effing thrilled to be back. I had to stand the whole way to King’s Cross, because the train was so full, but I didn’t even care! I smiled the whole way.
My
lovely little B&B was only a block from King’s Cross station. And it was right near a McDonald’s, too, which was quite handy, because I am H-O-O-K-E-D on the old-school apple pies still being sold at McDonald’s in Europe (the pies which disappeared from the States like 15 years ago).
It was too early for my room to be ready at the B&B, so I checked in, left my suitcase in reception area (which they later took to my room for me, the dear saints), and took off for a day of sightseeing. My first purchase, at the Boots in Liverpool Street Station, was a box of band-aids (sorry…plasters!), because the blisters were appearing and my cuticles were ripped to bloody shreds from repeatedly reaching into my carry-on and money belt. Then I browsed through Spitalfields Market, which was just getting started for the day (thus many of the booths were not yet set up). From there I went to Brick Lane. I was expecting market stalls to be there but didn’t see any. On Brick Lane I hit an exhibit affiliated with the London Design Festival (it was called 100% Norway and honored Norwegian design), and it was a bitch to find!
I ate lunch outside Liverpool Street Station (a gorgeous cheese and onion pasty; I have been craving them
so badly in recent years), then purchased a whopping £18 of deliciously trashy British magazines at W.H. Smith. I bought so many magazines, I embarrassed even
myself. Coupled with the hearty stack I bought at Heathrow before leaving, I was vaguely concerned that my plane wouldn’t be able to get off the ground from the sheer weight of my trashy magazines. I pictured the mechanical groaning strain of the plane as it scraped heavily along the runway, sparks flying.
I returned to my room to shower and collapse for a while in a sweaty pile. In the evening I headed to the Barbican for a walking tour (
The Blood and Tears Walk: London’s Horrible Past). I was quite early, so I ended up meandering over to St. Paul’s Cathedral, down to the Thames, and then back to the Barbican, where I lolled around for a while, reading a freebie newspaper, watching the traffic roll by beneath me, and just generally savoring the fact that I was finally back in London.
The walking tour was fabulous. Our guide, an actor named Declan, was as funny and engaging as the guy who conducted the Haunted Edinburgh walking tour I took in 2003. Apparently 85% of the people who take his tour are women—a fact which surprised me, even though our group only had two guys in it, and they were both dragged there by their womenfolk. We learned loads of interesting, morbid facts about London’s history!
When I got back to King’s Cross I went straight to McDonald’s to start my pie-eating tour. They obviously knew I was coming, because they were running a poundsaver special—two apple pies for 99p.
Sign! Me! Up! Back in my room, I gorged myself while watching Charlotte Church’s new chat show. She and Alan Cumming were ripping apart Americans, but did it in a really funny, spot-on way.
Saturday, 30 SeptemberFirst thing was a tour of Parliament. It’s only open for tours to foreigners during a limited period of time each summer, and I caught the tail end of the current period. I got there early, so to kill some time, I decided to pop across the street to Westminster Abbey. Then I meandered over to Buckingham Palace, because hey, it’s just down the road, right? Well, yes, but before too long I realized,
oh shit, my tour’s about to begin,
and I don’t have enough time to get back there. I gasped and staggered my through Westminster on screaming feet, prepared to let loose with a litany of ridiculous excuses as to why I was late, so the tour guide wouldn’t yell “Piss off!” at me. Miraculously, I was only five minutes late for my tour, and they let me in without demanding any excuses. I wasn’t allowed to take any photos inside Parliament, which is probably for the best, because the palace—particularly the House of Lords—is staggeringly beautiful, and my photos could not have done it justice. Every time I take photos inside an opulent cathedral or a palace, I think about how futile it is. It’s like taking a picture of a sunset with black and white film. However, futile or not, you can look at some official interior photos of Parliament
here.
Among other things, I saw: the spot that gets rubbed by conservative House of Commons MPs for luck (the spot is on a foot on a Winston Churchill statue; it has been rubbed bare and there is now a sign on the statue asking MPs to please not rub it anymore), the room where Queen Elizabeth changes into her gown prior to the state opening of Parliament every November, the seat where Tony Blair sits during parliamentary sessions, etc. My guide Isobel was great and really worked hard at engaging the imagination and brainpower of the cute little 7-year-old boy in my tour group. (Little British kids are so cute! Except when they’re yobs and bullies, of course!)
My next stop was the London Eye, which didn’t exist the last time I was in London. It was overpriced, of course, and had a
very long line, but it was still worth doing, especially since the line moved surprisingly quickly. Stats: The Eye is 442 feet tall and, on a clear day, allows passengers to see up to 24 miles away. It can carry 800 passengers per revolution and is the fourth tallest structure in London.
Security is pretty tight for boarding, and one guard asked me what I had in my shopping bag. I said, “A teddy bear, some books, and jam” (it was all stuff I’d just bought in the Parliament gift shop; note that I was careful to use British English and say
jam instead of
jelly). When I got to the
jam part, he asked me to repeat myself. Twice. Finally I exclaimed, “You know—jam! Jelly!” and he was like, “Oh, jam!” I scratched my head and was like,
WTF! Then I realized that I had said
jam like an American, so he couldn’t understand me! It kind of made sense, but on the other hand, when an British person says
jam, I still know what he means, despite the accent, so I don’t know why the guard couldn’t grasp my meaning.
Despite the presence of two shrill, nerve-jangling American kids in my capsule (they were constantly shrieking things like “DADDY TAKE A PICTURE OF THAT SEAGULL OVER THERE WHAT’S THAT BUILDING DOWN THERE I’M HUNGRY MOVE OVER!!!!”
[Parents! Curb your progeny! Please!]), the ride was enjoyable.
The next stop was the Tower of London, so I could walk across Tower Bridge to the
Design Museum, which was tricky to find, as it is nestled in a complex warren of crooked Docklands streets (thank god for signposts leading the way). I had lunch there and skipped the Formula 1 exhibit in favor of the Designing for Modern Britain exhibit. The best part was the Design Mart, an annual exhibit of new designers in the UK. I saw such fantastically cool things there.
I set off in search of Bermondsey tube station, and wasn’t sure if I was going the right way because this station hadn’t existed when my old Goldsmiths-era
London A-Z was published, and therefore it didn’t appear on the map. Halfway there, as I limped along, some foreign chick (Swedish, I think) appeared and asked me if I could direct her to Bermondsey station. I told her that I was headed there myself, and I thought I was going the right way, but who knows. It turns out I
was on the right road, and soon I was on an East London Line train to New Cross.
I went straight to Goldsmiths, and it was so surreal, so wonderful. I knew the odds of the student union shop being open were slender to nonexistent, but I went there anyway, because there’s a shirt I saw in the alumni magazine that I really want to buy. Inside the Main Building things were pretty much the same, and yet there were so many new touches. Lovely artwork was hanging on the corridor walls, the student union shop moved to new digs, there was a new gourmet snack bar in the lounge area and a new upscale-looking café nearby. Waterstones was replaced with Blackwell. The campus also has some new buildings and a new gym. (Annida, when I passed the Goldsmiths Centre for Russian Music, I gave it a wave for you.)
I wandered around for a bit, taking note of the trendy-looking restaurants now sprinkled across New Cross. (Damn, where were they when
I was studying there? Not that I had any disposable income, mind you!) Some British chicks asked me for directions to the tube and I felt proud that I could still help them after all these years.
I followed my old route to my dorm, Rac Mac. I didn’t have to consult my
A to Z at all; every step—even knowing which side of the street to walk on—was ingrained in my cells. Aside from a few eyebrow-raising new things on Deptford High Street, like a gourmet coffee shop and a shiny new Iceland branch, everything looked the same. I had just missed the Saturday market; everyone was dismantling their stalls. But when I approached Creek Road, I staggered in horror. A massive sherbert-orange and white monstrosity had sprung up in Rac Mac’s stead!! I knew the dorm had been sold a few years ago to the University of Greenwich, but I naively thought they’d keep it intact, even though it was an ugly, impractical building. It was gone, though. Not just Rac Mac, but the entire block. Everything was swallowed up by this McMillan Student Village. I was appalled, reeling. And that wasn’t the only change.
All the addresses in that area were listed (on their signs) as being in Greenwich, not Deptford. What, has that part of Deptford been annexed to Greenwich?? Behind New Rac Mac and along Creek Road were more new buildings, instead of brick walls, decaying buildings, and debris. There was a big new development (luxury flats, presumably), and Deptford Creek was the cleanest I’d ever seen it. There is now a nice walking trail along the Thames between Deptford and Greenwich, running parallel to Creek Road. The good ol’ petrol station (where Annida once crossed into an alternate dimension to buy Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for me) is still there, though, as are The Duke and The Hoy.
My shock intensified when I hit Greenwich proper. Holy shit. A massive complex was on Creek Road, about one block short of hitting Greenwich Church Street. Where did all of this come from??? Part of the complex looked like it was filled with upscale restaurants and perhaps that indie cinema Richard told me about. Next to it was a new road brimming with new shops: McDonald’s, Ben & Jerry’s, Waterstones, Subway, a Clinton Cards, and others, along with the entrance to the new Cutty Sark DLR station. On Greenwich Church Street I saw lots of new shops (including Boots, Starbucks, and Marks and Spencer Food) and tasty-looking new ethnic restaurants. Richard had warned me that I wouldn’t even recognize Greenwich anymore, but I still wasn’t expecting it to look so different. Part of me was heartbroken by all these changes, because I felt all that familiarity slipping away from me. Another part of me was jealous, like, where the hell was all of this when
I was there?! I could’ve benefited from these things—especially the Boots! It was just a really bittersweet journey.
After loading up on more painkillers and band-aids at Boots, I wandered over to the new Cutty Sark Gardens, then hit Greenwich Market, which was closing for the day. It was getting too dim to saunter through Greenwich Park, so I retreated to the DLR station. Then I saw that Pier Restaurant—my all-time favorite chippie—was still in business! Elated, I dove in there and promptly ordered my standard fare: a veggie roll and chips, doused with a healthy spray of salt and malt vinegar. I ate it along the river in Cutty Sark Gardens, trying to ignore the manic, badly-in-need-of-Adderall kid who was shrieking and racing around, disrupting my pensive mood. Then more kids came along with their mom and one of them kept singing the Barney theme song.
Hell. On. Earth. But oh man, I was in Greenwich, you know? So how could I
really be upset? Priorities!
On the DLR train, the driver got into a fight with some Italian dude who I guess pushed past her without saying “excuse me.” She was yelling at him and asking him if he wanted to “take it outside,” and I seriously thought they were going to come to blows. Which would have been awesome. Sadly, the drama simply ended with her stalking off into the bowels of a DLR station, her muttered threats still trailing behind her, while some other driver took over the reins. Yawn.
I was mindful of the passing time and was determined to get home before
X Factor started. I thought it started at 7:30 and I was a twitchy mess on every train and platform standing between me and my hotel. I tore into my hotel at 7:35, skidded up to my room, and found…nothing. It wasn’t on. My heart sank, because I assumed I had missed it. Then I consulted the TV schedule in one of my magazines and found that it only started at 8:10pm. Hallelujah! So my evening consisted of a glorious repast of
X Factor,
Parkinson (his bewildering assemblage of guests included Lionel Richie, Liza Minelli, and Sharon Osbourne), and
Ant & Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway (on which some dude from York was slated to win a bumper crop of prizes, if only he could answer one question correctly, and because the question pertained to a recent nugget of British entertainment news, I could answer it! I was yelling “LEEDS! IT’S LEEEEEDS!” at the screen, and he must’ve heard me, because he answered correctly!).
Oh, such a sizzling Saturday night in London!
1 October, SundayMy first stop after breakfast (and let me add that my B&B served my favorite Goldsmiths-era cereal, which is unavailable in the States, so I ate it every single morning during this trip) was McDonald’s, so I could quickly check my email accounts on one of their internet terminals. The terminal I used was initially difficult to figure out, causing the McDonald’s theme song to blast repeatedly at eardrum-shaking decibels, much to my chagrin. Some sad-looking bum sat down at the terminal beside me and began chatting with me. Being a lifelong freak magnet, this did not surprise me in the least. He told me that he’d been ASBO’d in Camden the night before, even though he’d done nothing wrong, and I was glad that I was up on my British lingo, because it meant that I knew what the hell he was talking about. He basically said that he couldn’t give up the booze, then pointed to the can of lager in a paper bag on his lap to illustrate the fact. He said he just needed someone to talk to. Confident that my possessions were safe (my camera bag was on a hook beneath the table, and wedged between my legs; my money was in my money belt under my pants), I talked to him, rather than running away. He asked if it was my first time in London and I explained that I had studied there for a year and had been there a few other times as well, and he said that he’d studied abroad, too. I asked him where. “In my mind,” he smiled. Hot! I joked that I’d done that too, but preferred London. More chatting, blah blah blah, and then he left.
I went to Hyde Park and managed to track down the Animals in War memorial, which wasn’t the easiest thing to find. It began pouring to a degree where I had to spend a few minutes huddled with my umbrella under a tree, waiting for the rain to subside a bit. Then it was off to the Princess Diana memorial, which, despite being listed on the park’s signage, was rather difficult to locate. I had a small accident at her memorial, which I won’t mention here, because y’all don’t need to know the gory details. I hit the Serpentine Gallery and then walked to Notting Hill and Bayswater via the Prince Albert memorial and Royal Albert Hall.
In Bayswater I was disappointed that, for the first time ever, no sleazy Pakistani shopkeepers hit on me. I guess I’ve lost my golden touch. I did some shopping (buying, among other things, some embarrassingly trashy British books; I could barely look the cashier in the eye, I was so ashamed), and decided to ditch my plans to go to the Whitechapel Gallery (I vow to go there during my next London trip). Instead, I headed to the Institute of Contemporary Arts, via Piccadilly Circus. Talk about wasting money on something that sucks! I was so pissed. There was
nothing there. If I’d paid extra for access to their cinema, it would’ve been okay, but I paid for the galleries, expecting to see some art, and there was nothing in them except a movie projector that played static and a sentence written on the wall in neon. WTF! I’ve got a very liberal definition of art, but this was ridiculous. Was the newest exhibit just not set up yet? And if so, why didn’t the ticket guy tell me that? Even the freaking gift shop was closed! I think the gallery is probably great on most occasions, but last Sunday wasn’t one of them!
I stomped off to Trafalgar Square, ate a sandwich and danish while sitting on the floor of Charing Cross station (don’t ask), then went to Covent Garden. This wasn’t initially on my agenda, because I’ve been there numerous times before, but I’m glad I went anyway, because it gave me a chance to blow a wad at the London Transport Museum gift shop, as well as buy cool things in other shops. Some classical musicians were performing in a very funny, entertaining way, and the crowd in Covent Garden was going nuts with glee. It was fun to watch.
I walked to Leicester Square and hit the Photographer’s Gallery, which was very cool. But I also seethed because some guy was letting his little kid run wild in the gallery. Contrary to how I may sound, I’m not a kid-hater, but I
do expect people to try to control their kids in public, and I expect them to keep their children away from places that aren’t kid-friendly, so the kids don’t get bored and race around, shrieking. Call a freaking babysitter if you want to go to the Photographer’s Gallery
that badly!
After dropping off my bulging shopping bags in my room, I went for a long stroll along Victoria Embankment, from Parliament to St. Paul’s.
Beautiful. But St. Paul’s station was unfortunately closed, and I didn’t see any buses around, so I had to force my screeching feet to walk over to Barbican station in order to catch a train home. Before retiring for the evening I bought a slew of those damn McDonald’s pies, and threw a milkshake into the mix as well. At first I ordered a medium shake, then upgraded to a large, and the cashier gave me a look, like, “Of
course you want a large shake, you corpulent American pig.” I ate my junk back in my room and watched TV.
2 October, MondayI was kicking myself when I woke up, because I suddenly realized that by re-jiggling my sightseeing schedule, I’d caused myself to miss one of the reasons why I went to London in the first place: the Kandinsky exhibit at the
Tate Modern. Its last day was Sunday, 1 October, and I fully intended to see it on that day. But then I forgot about the cut-off date and, in massaging my schedule to squeeze in everything I wanted to see, I decided to go to the Tate Modern on Monday intead of Sunday.
Stooooopid! I missed the exhibit by one effing day!!!
Well, even with this snafu, the museum, which only opened since the last time I was in London, was divine. Having a big honking love of modern art, this place was my cathedral. And it’s
free!
From there I went to Highgate Cemetery. Richard and I had been to the east cemetery in 1996, and I wanted to see the west cemetery this time around. However, it is by tour only, and the only tour being offered was at 2pm. Had I not gotten lost while trying to find my way to the cemetery from Archway station, I probably would’ve made the tour. But I missed my turnoff and walked roughly two miles out of my way before finally throwing up my hands in surrender. I hopped on a double-decker bus to go back to the station, and as we chugged along, we passed the road I initially missed. So I got off the bus and resumed walking in the right direction, but still had trouble finding the entrance to the cemetery. By the time I arrived, the west cemetery tour had long since departed. Rather than waste the trip, I went back into the east cemetery, stayed for maybe 45 minutes, taking photos and admiring the beautiful, tangled graves, and then walked to the nearest bus stop and took a bus back to the tube station.
Near the station was a restaurant that supposedly sells vegetarian fish n’ chips, and that was my next destination. But I inadvertently strolled right past it and, once again, ended up walking roughly two miles out of my way. In my defense, the building numbers were all screwed up and misleading, which certainly didn’t help my ability to find this place. When I backtracked and finally found the restaurant, it was closed, even though it shouldn’t have been (according to the schedule on its door). Grrr.
On the spur of the moment I went to Camden Market, which I normally try to avoid because I always see lots of things there that I want, and I didn’t have much money left to spend. I miraculously managed to restrain myself and buy only one skirt this time around. I’m sure it helped that I only hit the tip of the market, deliberately avoiding its temptation-laced bowels.
I headed to Harrods, because I wanted to buy something for Dad and Jill to thank them for catsitting Plath and Freyja while I was gone. On the way there, I read in the freebie
Metro paper that Charles and Camilla were going to be at a premier in Leicester Square at 6pm. It was like 5pm at this point, and I was on the Piccadilly line, which meant that I would be passing through Leicester Square on my way to Harrods. Should I stop? Should I try to see them and snap a quickie photo? I debated this for a while and my exhaustion finally won out. I just didn’t have the energy to go anywhere but Harrods and home. Sorry Chaz and Cazza. I’m sure your lives would’ve been that much richer if you could’ve seen a sallow-faced, frizzy-haired American hopping up and down in a crowd, craning her neck, desperately trying to snap a blurry digital photo of you.
I did buy something for Dad and Jill at Harrods, and I also hit the pet department, the holiday department, and the Diana and Dodi memorial. Then I tromped through the Sainsbury’s across the road, buying tabloids and Yorkie and Cadbury bars for me and crumpets for my department. In the evening I ate my last supper (a cheese and onion pasty, a bag of Walkers crisps, and a Yorkie bar) while watching
EastEnders, the cringe-inducing Celebrity Wife Swap, Banged Up Abroad, and a lurid plastic surgery exposé called Knifemares. I also packed my heavy suitcase with a heavy heart.
3 October, Tuesday
It was a crazy day: London in the morning, New York in the afternoon/evening, and DC at night.
I made good time to Heathrow, but after I left the tube everything went pear-shaped. The check-in line was ridiculously long—quite possibly the longest line I’ve ever endured in my life. By the time I finally got through it and checked my suitcase, I only had an hour until departure. I bought some more magazines and tabloids, hit the bathroom, and exchanged what little British money I had left. At the Security checkpoint, some guard told me that I could only go through with one bag. But downstairs the signs had said that passengers could have one bag
and one shopping bag. When I asked her about it, she said that this was only the case after you go through Security, which is ridiculous. So I had to leave the line, frantically squash my carry-on into my already-bulging shopping bag, and then get back into the line. It took a while to get through Security, and by the time I skidded up to my gate, flustered and sweaty, everyone else had already boarded. I lurched through the plane with stuff flying everywhere: my passport landed at some dude’s feet, my tube poster hit the ground, and my boarding pass went god knows where. I couldn’t remember what seat I was in, so a flight attendant just told me to pick an empty seat, since the flight wasn’t sold out. It was nice; no one was in front of me or on either side of me. The only other person in my four-seat row was a cute British guy who didn’t speak a word.
In New York I was impatient as people slowly shuffled off the plane. I was nervous that I would miss my connection to DC, because I knew the connection was going to be tight. Once free of the plane, I raced to Customs. It didn’t take long to get through, but when I went to gather my luggage, my bag was nowhere to be seen. I was edgy and tense, with sweat pouring off me (partly from the exertion of racing there, and partly because the room was hot). Then the luggage carousel stopped, and stayed still for a good 15 minutes. I was squirmy and jittery and kept looking at my watch. The carousel finally coughed to life and my bag came lumbering along after a few minutes. I snatched it, ran through Passport Control, and headed straight to the transfer desk. The chick told me right off the bat that she didn’t think I’d make my flight. My heart sank. “You can try it, but your gate is like a 15-minute walk from here,” she shrugged. She gave me a boarding ticket for the next flight—one leaving at 8:40pm (my original flight was supposed to leave at 4:05pm, so missing that meant sitting at JFK for an additional 4 ½ hours)—and pushed my bag through security screening. I took off like a shot.
JFK is a big airport, y’all! Getting from one end of a terminal to another is no small feat. Weaving through the frustratingly slow hordes, I jogged and race-walked and even climbed an up escalator (!). My hands were full with my shopping bag (it was heavy and bulky and the straps broke, so I had to carry it in my arms), making me gasp and wheeze and tremble from the exertion (have I mentioned how out of shape I am?). Sweat dripped across every inch of my skin. I pushed through Security as quickly as possible. I got to the gate aaaaand…found that it was closed. The flight wasn’t going to leave for five more minutes, but the gate was closed.
So, I ended up sitting at JFK for a few hours anyway. I bought something to eat, wrote in my journal, read magazines, called Mom, let the sweat dry.
At National Airport, when I was slumped on the floor waiting for my suitcase to appear on the luggage carousel, these screeching little girls were running around, harassing a poor dog who looked partially crippled. The dog’s owner was trying to get the girls to calm down so the dog wouldn’t be so frightened, but it didn’t work. The girls’ parents just stood there, chatting, letting their kids run around like pillaging marauders. One of the girls repeatedly ran up to me, yelling something I couldn’t understand (all I could make out was glasses), and poking my glasses, as if trying to poke my eye out, leaving greasy smears on the lens. And several times she tried to snatch my glasses off my face, too. And again, her parents didn’t do anything about it! I was livid.
It was 10:15 by the time my bag appeared, and I was too tired to deal with the Metro. Plus the handle had ripped off my suitcase, so lifting my bag on and off the train would’ve been problematic. I asked some shuttle dudes how much it would cost for them to take me home, and they said it would cost $26. So I shoved my bags in their van and hopped on board. Gradually it filled up with other folks—all of who were in town for business and were thus staying in hotels across DC. One of the guys was this adorably nerdy foreign boy…Latin American, I think. Totally swoon-worthy. And there I was, a frazzled, disheveled mess, sour waves of stink undulating off me. I was horrified and just sank down into my seat, trying to be invisible. He was so cute and friendly; I wanted to disappear. The driver took forever to leave, and then he took forever to get me home. I finally crashed through my front door at midnight.
Thus ends my latest travel saga!
song heard most recently before posting: Cold Water—Damien Rice
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