==6:59PM PST==
| Not our plane, but it’s sitting there just waiting to have its picture taken so who am I to disappoint. |
In theory our plane should start boarding in 15 minutes, but I’m not sure it’s even here yet. That’s okay; we’re still drying off.
We left my apartment just over three and a half hours ago, for the one-block walk to catch the airport express bus, only to realize as we stepped outside that the sidewalk in the correct direction is closed.
Oh, did I mention it’s raining, and has been raining all day? In sheets? This is something to keep in mind.
So we trundled up and then down the other side. No biggie really, although we are promptly soaked through.
And…oh. The bus stop is closed. The one I used just a couple of days ago.
Uh. Well, there’s another stop, two or so blocks back in the direction we came from. Back we go, fighting our wheelie-bags around the – I’d say puddles, but let me be honest and call them rivers.
OH, but the sidewalk’s closed up that way too.
What can one do, but trundle onwards? While reminding ourselves that the weather cannot possibly be worse in London than it is here.
At this point a lovely, lovely woman in a truck pulls up and asks us where we are trying to get to. We have covered barely two block’s worth of distance from my home, ending up exactly opposite the driveway once more, and already we look pathetic enough to elicit offers of help from strangers.
‘Drowned rats’ are her exact words.
Our bus is due in six minutes so we throw our bags in and our savioress Mary gives us a ride up the road, not two blocks, not three, but six blocks, to the closest stop, because the bus route revisions have been rather more extensive than I’d been aware.
Good news: we did catch the bus.
— Which then proceeded to drive down the street and stop at the stop we’d gone to in the first place. Right next to the ‘Bus Stop Closed’ sign.
‘Well, it’s closed,’ says the friendly driver, ‘they’ve moved it down there.’ And she gestures to an itty-bitty temporary bus stop sign halfway down the block, behind a telephone pole, which we would never have seen even had it not been POURING RAIN.
So. Three and a half hours later. We are still wet. And when I say ‘wet’ I don’t mean it as a synonym for ‘dampish.’
In any event, my mother’s preter-punctual paranoia has given us plenty of time to do the necessary airport stuff: by which I mean getting confused by the fact that the ‘Terminal 5’ listed on the boarding passes is in fact a ‘Gate S,’ which is in another universe from us.
Really, I would be disappointed if I ever came to SeaTac and did not tangle with their signage. They deserve an award. From Edward Tufte‘s evil twin brother.
We were easily sorted out by a security guard, however, who caused amusement when he started to write down directions and then said ‘You’d better do it, my bosses will think I’m trying to get your number.’ (‘He was cute, I should have given him your number’ said my mother later. Ah, hindsight.) After that there was only a little detour to the British Airways first-class lounge, because although my opinion is consulted frequently (‘Push the button labeled “International terminal,”‘ I say), it is only irregularly listened to (‘But that woman said we want the top floor’ she says). Still leaving time for a nice dinner:
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| Seafood salad sandwiches without the sandwichy bit, excellent McDonald’s knock-off fries, sad coleslaw and a wiggly pickle that would make a deli owner sorrow. |
And a blog post.
Now boarding…..
==10:28 PM GMT==
The flight was as easy as a bus ride, except that buses give you more leg room. Up, across, down, with barely a bump or tremble.
Of course, the fact that I was snoozing as soon as we sat down did not hurt. Earphones in as soon as dinner was done, and in a semi-comatose state I worked my way through the complete works of the Beatles, being roused at approximately the right time by the psychedelic ear-gnawing of the Magical Mystery Tour. (I dare anyone to sleep through that).
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| Why yes. I was. |
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| Unlike SeaTac, Heathrow gets an A on its signage. |
It’s been a very musical trip, this: on the tube into London a violinist and a guitarist stepped on and treated us to ‘Whiskey in the jug,’ a Johnny Cash song, and ‘Brown-eyed girl,’ accompanied by the guitarist singing in a fine Irish accent, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.
With only the expected amount of mishaps and Please-help-us-kind-strangers we made our way to the flat we’re renting. It was around 4:15pm local time when we were at last able to go wandering in search of breakfast/lunch/anything up to and including high-cal dogfood.
Not necessary, however. My goodness, we could spend a month eating our way through the streets around our flat! I had a hankering for something breakfast-like so when we discovered that a place called Balans served breakfast all day, we were sold.
The waiter was both handsome and lovely, and the food was fantastic. (Adele’s ‘Rumor has it’ played on the radio as we sucked down our tea.)
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| Steak and eggs with crisp-outside, soft-inside potatoes. You see that little red thing? DON’T STICK THAT IN YOUR MOUTH. Unlike my mother did. If only I’d been faster with my camera…. |
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| The sausages with garlic mash, shallots and Calvados sauce take 20 minutes but they’re worth it. |
We had enough leftovers to serve for breakfast tomorrow, and possibly lunch as well, but that did not stop us from going in search of a grocery store for your basic transcultural necessities like tea and cream. How did we end up in the one coffee-drinking neighborhood of London? And what’s up with the fact that you can’t get real cream? It’s wrong.
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| My mother wished she could bring one of these home. I took a picture instead. |
Then a wander up and down Charing Cross Road in the dusk, where we browsed through the used bookshops. They’re stocked exclusively with British writers I’ve never heard of, with a smattering of third- and fourth-rate Americans thrown in good measure. The tiny new shop offered the eccentric selection of 50% history and war, 20% classics at bargain price, and then a half-rack consisting almost entirely of Bukowski, Alfred Bester, Christie, Yukio Mishima, and J. K. Rowling. I can but scratch my head.
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| This one’s for my dad. He’ll know why. |
Weepingly good tiramisu gelato for dinner – and home again.
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