So, to prevent any confusion - no, I'm not currently traveling. So why would I update my travel blog? While I'm not physically boarding a plane any time soon, my mind has been doing it all the time. Looking back, I find it hard to believe that at about this time last year I had just learned that I would be going to São Paulo. I had no idea what to expect and even less of an idea how incredible my times would be.
It's great being home, with long-time friends, and in a place where I can understand 100 percent of the stimuli coming my way - no confusion over what, exactly, someone means in conversation or how I should act to look the most 'local'. Nevertheless, life is in many ways much more dull without those situations, without constantly learning and growing to become more adept and aware not only of a culture and place I'm living in but also of myself.
I find that not a day passes where I don't think about being back in Sevilla or São Paulo - particularly São Paulo. People told me that once you go to Brazil, a piece of you remains there. Based on my experience, I'd say it's true. It's tough really to describe in words, because my thoughts of each place are so intertwined with so many experiences I had. Conversations with friends and my host family, learning cultural norms, new foods, smells, and sensations, waking every day to a place that increasingly felt like home. And still does. Just as an example, yesterday I was reading an article online at goal.com, and there was a link to a clip from a news station short on Ronaldo, the Brazilian soccer player. I clicked the clip, and the reporter started talking. Just hearing him speak and the sounds of Portuguese took me back in so many ways. I could close my eyes and be standing there at the counter by the table in the kitchen, trying to understand the newscast on the tiny television as my host mom cooked dinner and I talked with both parents and they bantered about their days. It's as simple as that - a tiny shred of something from my time can bring it all back in an instant. In some ways, I'm far removed from my two other lives in two other places. In other ways, I'll never be removed at all.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
So, Whoops
Well, my lies about updating more regularly were absolutely false, as we can all see now. I just completely lacked motivation (and the requisite memory) to update while in Spain; I wasn't bitten by the Write-a-blog-entry bug in quite the same way as when I was in Brazil. Nevertheless, I feel it necessary to finish up my Spain adventures and cap-off that stage of my journeys.
While my memories of various events in Spain since October are quite muddled, I do however have a good recollection of my interesting journey home. What follows is basically a word-for-word copy from what I scribbled down during my hours spent waiting in Heathrow and on the flight, the night of December 22nd...:
"This whole travel debacle began back a week or so ago, was it? Everyone in API was abuzz with the news that British Airways unioners were planning a strike and had officially declared a date - December 22. This, of course, caused much talk as people with flights then or after ripped their hair out as they frantically rescheduled. The rest of us chuckled outwardly at our good fortune (like mine, of scheduling for the day before the strike), but on the inside we were nervous too that trickle-down effects would occur or that the strike could actually commence early. We debated back and forth about our level of immunity, finally coming to the conclusion/abdication that 1) we'd hopefully be okay and 2) there was nothing to be done anyway. BA was nearly shut down with rebooking requests so no change was possible, and capitalism showed its ugly side as other airlines raised ticket prices into the thousands. So my roommate, Chris, and I in particular (as we both had flights on Dec. 21) crossed our fingers and hoped. Fast-forward a few days, nearly our last in Sevilla, I believe, to our learning that the British courts had handed BA a temporary injunction on the strike on the basis that it would hurt consumers too greatly around the holiday travel season. We gave a huge sigh of relief. It seemed our problems had been resolved. Not so. I then learned that the Northeastern US was about to be decked by a semi record-setting storm, casting snow, ice, and winds about with reckless abandon. Lady Luck was conspiring with various sources against me, it seems. This storm system was due to occupy the essential airspace - Philadelphia - from sometime Friday through early Sunday. After hearing this and reassuring myself that we in PA, unlike Spain, know how to clear snow (snow in Spain had been the main news headline in the past week), I repeated the process of chuckling at all those silly people with Saturday and Sunday flights. I proceeded to give myself another pat on the back for picking the 21st - no strike, no snow. Yet inside I was slightly concerned that my white, fluffy friend would interfere.
Friday night at the Pablo de Olavide foreign students' dinner, stories were traded over tapas and drinks about the headaches. Flights were preparing for delays; family members stateside had called with horror stories of this winter weather. Saturday, as I did my packing, more students passed along word of problems. I held on to the hope that the storm would end when originally planned.
Train time, Saturday evening. After our host mother's teary-eyed goodbye and killing two hours in the station, I dragged my luggage onto Spain's one apparent tech advantage over the US - the high-speed Ave trains, which would carry me to Madrid in two and a half hours versus the eight on a bus. While economy class is no first, it certainly beats Amtrak, and that's before you factor in the coolness of traveling well over one hundred miles per hour. We arrived at the Madrid train station a little before Midnight. The three of us on the train looked for cabs, but were unsure how cab-sharing would go with three people. Some Madrid-based American students said it'd be far too pricey and we were better off catching the metro. One member of our group, being in a tag-a-long position and worried about not fitting in a cab (and declaring that she wasn't willing to pony up the dough) made the decision to take the other students' advice. So we dragged our bags back through and across to the other end of the station. A good 15 or so minutes were spent stressfully trying to figure out our subway route and how to get to the hotel after disembarking. Finally, I determined that we needed to ride the green line all the way to the end and then either luckily encounter a taxi or wander aimlessly in search of our lodging. The subway ride was a good 40 plus minutes. Thankfully, I guess it was after midnight and sitting room was obtained for the journey. This didn't do much to alleviate my extreme heat problem resulting from dragging about 100 pounds total of stuff up and down staircases during our subway line transfer. Unlike you might think in a very progressive country, elevators to aid the handicapped do not exist in many of the metro stations in Spain's capital.
When we finally arrived at the end of the line, a place I've never before had the privilege of reaching on a subway, we were fortunate to encounter a jolly metro help desk clerk who instructed us how to reach the hotel. This involved lugging that luggage around on a tiny sidewalk that zig-zagged to accommodate car parking. I was lucky it was only 30 or degrees outside. Upon arriving at our hotel, Tryp Diana, I had to wait about 45 minutes at the check-in desk. The place was flooded with travelers. Most, I'm guessing by the quantity and the fact that it was one in the morning, were stranded by various flights-canceled. After that process, we collapsed to sleep, but not before paying a brief visit to haggard friend Mark, who was stuck in Madrid since his flight from Sevilla was delayed and cost him his connection. He was now due to leave Monday, too.
The next, and not last, travel casualty we'd meet in Madrid called Mark from Barajas airport at 5am after his flight to Philadelphia on Sunday morning was canceled. Mark went to the airport to bring Matt in.
Sunday was spent visiting Madrid, particularly the Reina Sofia museum, but there is nothing too noteworthy. Post-lunch, we learned that a third API-er had been caught in Madrid and would be joining us for the night. John was on the same Philly flight as Matt, but unlike Matt he probably wouldn't be able to get back home until Christmas Eve. So Matt, Mark, and I traveled back to the hotel to find John. That night, we all shared our collective miseries over pizza and a movie and enjoyed our last moments of our abroad experience. The night wore on rather late, given that I had to rise at about 4am in order to catch the airport shuttle. I debated not sleeping, and the three of us staying in my room talked 'til nearly 3:30. I then fell asleep until my alarm rang, but I shut it off and failed to wake until Emily asked me what time I had to get my shuttle. It was 4:35, and the shuttle I needed departed at 4:45. I am lucky my bags were packed and I only needed to put on the same clothes I wore the day before. I gave hurried goodbyes to Chris and Emily and bolted downstairs. I was almost the last one on the shuttle. But there was no time to be embarrassed, as one of my fears was confirmed: the weather reports had been right, and it had snowed over two inches. Crap. I quickly learned both the depth of the snow and Spain's inability to handle it, as the roads had not seen any plowing nor salt. After being delayed from leaving because an old couple came out of the hotel at the last minute, we set about at a snail's pace to the terminals. I am thankful for the minibus shuttle, because in the airport I heard many complain that the taxis could barely handle the driving conditions.
Check-in was smooth enough in the airport, because no one is there at 5:30. My time was spent sitting around the gate watching as the snow fell and as the flight info screen refused to provide any information on the flight status even 25 minutes before our scheduled departure time of 7:10am. We finally did board, and were mostly ready by 7:10. But then the problems began. Our captain told us that there would be a delay because none of the runways was suitable enough for takeoff. Fair enough, if this had been a real snow. Three inches probably wouldn't cause too many headaches to a JFK or Philly or O'Hare. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Over an our ticked by as my fears increased that I would miss my connection. Still the runways were too bad. Still we sat. I was temporarily reassured by the remembrance that London is an hour behind Madrid, but those good endorphins stopped flowing while we remained docked. The captain allowed people to leave the aircraft to pursue other flights. After over two hours of waiting, we were cleared to reach the recently de-iced runway. But no takeoff could occur until we were de-iced ourselves, a ten to fifteen minute process that came after waiting about 45 minutes for three other planes to undergo it ahead of us. When we were done and as we prepared for liftoff, it was slightly past 10am, 9am in the UK, and the realization that this two-and-a-half hour flight would not get me to Heathrow in time for my 11:20 connection slowly sank in. Ironic that the snow and cold I had long dremt of since arriving in Sevilla would be the thing that does me in.
Part of me was OK, given the circumstances. After all, Heathrow is infinitely better to be stuck in than Barajas - more international flights, and they speak English. Yet I also had an acute fear that there would be no other flight for me, given the East Coast's recent storm backup, BA's halted strike, and the resulting re-booking backup those two caused. I landed in Heathrow at 11:30 - ten minutes after my Philly flight was supposed to have taken off (I later learned it was delayed for a little while). As soon as I was off the plane, I bolted for the BA desks in the connections terminal, knowing most other passengers would be there, too.
It was packed. Not just the Madrid flight had been delayed, but flights all over. I entered the huge customer service desk queue and waited for about 30 minutes before being approached by one of the roving BA help clerks brought in to aid re-booking. After he made some phone calls, he told me that the soonest I could leave would be the next day on the 7:45pm flight to JFK. But, he assured me, I'd get all my luggage tonight and an airport hotel stay courtesy of British Airways. So not all seemed lost. I felt alright - annoyed of Madrid's airport but somewhat comforted. I got directions from another attendant on where to head in the terminal to get things sorted out. I got to the luggage reclamation zone, but had to wait at another customer service desk to get them to call up my baggage to a certain belt. After waiting at the desk, I then waited half an hour by the belt and was nearly ready to give up and return to the desk when I saw my first suitcase coming around, soon after followed by my larger bag. Sometimes, small victories bring such relief.
The next task was to receive my complimentary hotel stay. For that I had to trudge from arrivals to departures and wait at the main BA ticketing/customer service desk. There, the wait was an hour or an hour and a half, as there were hundreds of people needing to re-book their delayed/missed/canceled flights. The man at the desk, like other BA staff I've dealt with, was kind and helpful. He set me up with the hotel and sent me on my merry way.
The hotel that BA used was the Marriott Renaissance Hall, a pretty nice joint. Rooms normally run about £210 a night, whatever that is in dollars. Around $350, I guess. The bed was a queen and had a super soft mattress and six down pillows. My anger/sadness was mitigated in part by that and the included breakfast/lunch/dinner buffet. Slightly annoying was paying £15 for a day's internet, but they had instant coffee and tea in the room (which I drank all of), so at least I "got" something in return.
Next day, I left the hotel around 3pm to catch a shuttle back to terminal five. I had some fears about my booking, because I had tried to use the BA online check-in that morning and my flight was listed as being on the 21st - apparently, a flight that shared the same number with my flight on the 22nd. When I got to terminal five, I tried the rapid check-in kiosk to print my boarding pass. It promptly denied me, saying my flight's check-in time had passed. Now I was really worried.
I thus returned to the same huge queue line, today composed of many canceled flights to other destinations in Europe rather than the eastern US. I am glad I arrived to the terminal four hours early, because the wait in line took nearly two hours. When I got to the desk attendant, she began to look up my details. Yeah, somehow I was put on an overflow flight the day before, which shared the same number and destination, rather than today's flight at 7:50pm as I was told. "What a nightmare," she said to me. Tell me about it... Apparently my situation was confusing, because she flip-flopped about me being on the flight I wanted until finally deciding that I was only put on it in some sort of "option/want" purgatory, whatever that was. No idea how I was to be on yesterday's flight, either. She proceeded to find me an American Airlines, with nearly the same departure time, at 8pm. I was super happy. A potential second night in Heathrow was averted. But, since the flight departed at 8:00 and it was already slightly past 6:00, I had to hurry. "Terminal four," she told me.
Now my concern partly returned. After all, airlines recommend being at check-in at least two hours early. Now, with slightly less that time, I'd have to get to the terminal in the first place. So I lugged my crap down, down, down to the Heathrow Express subway system. Time: probably about 6:10pm. After waiting and riding, I got out of the car at the central hub station to await a terminal four-specific train. Next train to terminal four? Nine minutes. After boarding and more riding, I took the elevator up to departures. I began walking around, looking desperately for the American Airlines desks. I checked each corner, and was becoming confused at the high percentage of Middle Eastern/Asian airlines. Finally, I spotted what looked like the AA desk in the back. Pulling my suitcases as fast as I could, I came closer to the desk. Then I reread the TV screen signs above. Singapore Airlines or something. Really? I was in a rush - it was nearly 6:30 and I needed to check in. I moved back to the center of the terminal and asked a help desk guy. "American Airlines? Yeah, you're in the wrong terminal." WHAT?! Apparently, terminal three was what I wanted. How had the lady told me wrong? I chuckled at the man's answer, and threw in a 'whoops' or two. This showed my exhaustion - I couldn't respond in a serious, distressed manner. I was in shock. It was 6:30, I had been granted an 8pm flight after all the previous mishaps, and here I was possibly about to miss it. Not on my watch. I yanked my bags and strained to move faster, heading back towards the trains to the terminals. The disbelief at the situation - being told the wrong terminal, having been at the correct connect station at Heathrow Central earlier, and the possibility of missing my flight and those implications combined in my head. Perfect storm, eh? I turned some heads running back to the metro. Next train back to the main station? 25 minutes. This is bad. 25 minutes would put me at 7pm before transportation even began.Who knows when I'd reached the terminal after then walking from Heathrow Central. I hemmed and hawed: to wait, take the London Underground and try and figure out that system, or take a cab? Cab it is. I grabbed everything and went to arrivals and got a cab. I'm sure British cabs are more enchanting when one isn't sweating like a waterfall and facing the prospect of another day in Heathrow and the headaches of a missed flight due to one's own fault. Every yield the cabbie did, every turn in the road, every time I saw a terminal three sign and it wasn't just right around the bend, I died a little. Finally, around 7:00 we pulled up to departures, I flew in the door and to the AA desks, which were line-free. Probably panting and looking like I'd run a marathon, the super unenthusiastic AA employee told me, "Sir, are you aware that the flight is delayed until 1:00am?" 'THAT'S GREAT!' I said, more or less. Life went from uncertainty to guaranteed in a matter of seconds. I was so happy. After the clerk asked some more questions and in general acted like he'd rather die than work at that time, I made my way up to security. The "highlight" was going through the x-ray machine and having to take off my coat, thus exposing my drenched shirt. Thank God I didn't set off the metal detector and require a pat-down.
From here, my travel story becomes markedly less interesting. Normal, in fact. Besides the nearly six hour wait 'til take off, nothing happened. I bought some magazines, sat alone in a pub, and missed a little of Spain already when the servers told me they were closing at 10:00! Way too early. At 10:00, you've just finished dinner a few minutes ago.
Now I sit, somewhere south of Iceland, heading for a 3:30am New York landing. My parents might grumble, but I couldn't care less. After everything, I'm finally coming home."
-Dan
While my memories of various events in Spain since October are quite muddled, I do however have a good recollection of my interesting journey home. What follows is basically a word-for-word copy from what I scribbled down during my hours spent waiting in Heathrow and on the flight, the night of December 22nd...:
"This whole travel debacle began back a week or so ago, was it? Everyone in API was abuzz with the news that British Airways unioners were planning a strike and had officially declared a date - December 22. This, of course, caused much talk as people with flights then or after ripped their hair out as they frantically rescheduled. The rest of us chuckled outwardly at our good fortune (like mine, of scheduling for the day before the strike), but on the inside we were nervous too that trickle-down effects would occur or that the strike could actually commence early. We debated back and forth about our level of immunity, finally coming to the conclusion/abdication that 1) we'd hopefully be okay and 2) there was nothing to be done anyway. BA was nearly shut down with rebooking requests so no change was possible, and capitalism showed its ugly side as other airlines raised ticket prices into the thousands. So my roommate, Chris, and I in particular (as we both had flights on Dec. 21) crossed our fingers and hoped. Fast-forward a few days, nearly our last in Sevilla, I believe, to our learning that the British courts had handed BA a temporary injunction on the strike on the basis that it would hurt consumers too greatly around the holiday travel season. We gave a huge sigh of relief. It seemed our problems had been resolved. Not so. I then learned that the Northeastern US was about to be decked by a semi record-setting storm, casting snow, ice, and winds about with reckless abandon. Lady Luck was conspiring with various sources against me, it seems. This storm system was due to occupy the essential airspace - Philadelphia - from sometime Friday through early Sunday. After hearing this and reassuring myself that we in PA, unlike Spain, know how to clear snow (snow in Spain had been the main news headline in the past week), I repeated the process of chuckling at all those silly people with Saturday and Sunday flights. I proceeded to give myself another pat on the back for picking the 21st - no strike, no snow. Yet inside I was slightly concerned that my white, fluffy friend would interfere.
Friday night at the Pablo de Olavide foreign students' dinner, stories were traded over tapas and drinks about the headaches. Flights were preparing for delays; family members stateside had called with horror stories of this winter weather. Saturday, as I did my packing, more students passed along word of problems. I held on to the hope that the storm would end when originally planned.
Train time, Saturday evening. After our host mother's teary-eyed goodbye and killing two hours in the station, I dragged my luggage onto Spain's one apparent tech advantage over the US - the high-speed Ave trains, which would carry me to Madrid in two and a half hours versus the eight on a bus. While economy class is no first, it certainly beats Amtrak, and that's before you factor in the coolness of traveling well over one hundred miles per hour. We arrived at the Madrid train station a little before Midnight. The three of us on the train looked for cabs, but were unsure how cab-sharing would go with three people. Some Madrid-based American students said it'd be far too pricey and we were better off catching the metro. One member of our group, being in a tag-a-long position and worried about not fitting in a cab (and declaring that she wasn't willing to pony up the dough) made the decision to take the other students' advice. So we dragged our bags back through and across to the other end of the station. A good 15 or so minutes were spent stressfully trying to figure out our subway route and how to get to the hotel after disembarking. Finally, I determined that we needed to ride the green line all the way to the end and then either luckily encounter a taxi or wander aimlessly in search of our lodging. The subway ride was a good 40 plus minutes. Thankfully, I guess it was after midnight and sitting room was obtained for the journey. This didn't do much to alleviate my extreme heat problem resulting from dragging about 100 pounds total of stuff up and down staircases during our subway line transfer. Unlike you might think in a very progressive country, elevators to aid the handicapped do not exist in many of the metro stations in Spain's capital.
When we finally arrived at the end of the line, a place I've never before had the privilege of reaching on a subway, we were fortunate to encounter a jolly metro help desk clerk who instructed us how to reach the hotel. This involved lugging that luggage around on a tiny sidewalk that zig-zagged to accommodate car parking. I was lucky it was only 30 or degrees outside. Upon arriving at our hotel, Tryp Diana, I had to wait about 45 minutes at the check-in desk. The place was flooded with travelers. Most, I'm guessing by the quantity and the fact that it was one in the morning, were stranded by various flights-canceled. After that process, we collapsed to sleep, but not before paying a brief visit to haggard friend Mark, who was stuck in Madrid since his flight from Sevilla was delayed and cost him his connection. He was now due to leave Monday, too.
The next, and not last, travel casualty we'd meet in Madrid called Mark from Barajas airport at 5am after his flight to Philadelphia on Sunday morning was canceled. Mark went to the airport to bring Matt in.
Sunday was spent visiting Madrid, particularly the Reina Sofia museum, but there is nothing too noteworthy. Post-lunch, we learned that a third API-er had been caught in Madrid and would be joining us for the night. John was on the same Philly flight as Matt, but unlike Matt he probably wouldn't be able to get back home until Christmas Eve. So Matt, Mark, and I traveled back to the hotel to find John. That night, we all shared our collective miseries over pizza and a movie and enjoyed our last moments of our abroad experience. The night wore on rather late, given that I had to rise at about 4am in order to catch the airport shuttle. I debated not sleeping, and the three of us staying in my room talked 'til nearly 3:30. I then fell asleep until my alarm rang, but I shut it off and failed to wake until Emily asked me what time I had to get my shuttle. It was 4:35, and the shuttle I needed departed at 4:45. I am lucky my bags were packed and I only needed to put on the same clothes I wore the day before. I gave hurried goodbyes to Chris and Emily and bolted downstairs. I was almost the last one on the shuttle. But there was no time to be embarrassed, as one of my fears was confirmed: the weather reports had been right, and it had snowed over two inches. Crap. I quickly learned both the depth of the snow and Spain's inability to handle it, as the roads had not seen any plowing nor salt. After being delayed from leaving because an old couple came out of the hotel at the last minute, we set about at a snail's pace to the terminals. I am thankful for the minibus shuttle, because in the airport I heard many complain that the taxis could barely handle the driving conditions.
Check-in was smooth enough in the airport, because no one is there at 5:30. My time was spent sitting around the gate watching as the snow fell and as the flight info screen refused to provide any information on the flight status even 25 minutes before our scheduled departure time of 7:10am. We finally did board, and were mostly ready by 7:10. But then the problems began. Our captain told us that there would be a delay because none of the runways was suitable enough for takeoff. Fair enough, if this had been a real snow. Three inches probably wouldn't cause too many headaches to a JFK or Philly or O'Hare. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Over an our ticked by as my fears increased that I would miss my connection. Still the runways were too bad. Still we sat. I was temporarily reassured by the remembrance that London is an hour behind Madrid, but those good endorphins stopped flowing while we remained docked. The captain allowed people to leave the aircraft to pursue other flights. After over two hours of waiting, we were cleared to reach the recently de-iced runway. But no takeoff could occur until we were de-iced ourselves, a ten to fifteen minute process that came after waiting about 45 minutes for three other planes to undergo it ahead of us. When we were done and as we prepared for liftoff, it was slightly past 10am, 9am in the UK, and the realization that this two-and-a-half hour flight would not get me to Heathrow in time for my 11:20 connection slowly sank in. Ironic that the snow and cold I had long dremt of since arriving in Sevilla would be the thing that does me in.
Part of me was OK, given the circumstances. After all, Heathrow is infinitely better to be stuck in than Barajas - more international flights, and they speak English. Yet I also had an acute fear that there would be no other flight for me, given the East Coast's recent storm backup, BA's halted strike, and the resulting re-booking backup those two caused. I landed in Heathrow at 11:30 - ten minutes after my Philly flight was supposed to have taken off (I later learned it was delayed for a little while). As soon as I was off the plane, I bolted for the BA desks in the connections terminal, knowing most other passengers would be there, too.
It was packed. Not just the Madrid flight had been delayed, but flights all over. I entered the huge customer service desk queue and waited for about 30 minutes before being approached by one of the roving BA help clerks brought in to aid re-booking. After he made some phone calls, he told me that the soonest I could leave would be the next day on the 7:45pm flight to JFK. But, he assured me, I'd get all my luggage tonight and an airport hotel stay courtesy of British Airways. So not all seemed lost. I felt alright - annoyed of Madrid's airport but somewhat comforted. I got directions from another attendant on where to head in the terminal to get things sorted out. I got to the luggage reclamation zone, but had to wait at another customer service desk to get them to call up my baggage to a certain belt. After waiting at the desk, I then waited half an hour by the belt and was nearly ready to give up and return to the desk when I saw my first suitcase coming around, soon after followed by my larger bag. Sometimes, small victories bring such relief.
The next task was to receive my complimentary hotel stay. For that I had to trudge from arrivals to departures and wait at the main BA ticketing/customer service desk. There, the wait was an hour or an hour and a half, as there were hundreds of people needing to re-book their delayed/missed/canceled flights. The man at the desk, like other BA staff I've dealt with, was kind and helpful. He set me up with the hotel and sent me on my merry way.
The hotel that BA used was the Marriott Renaissance Hall, a pretty nice joint. Rooms normally run about £210 a night, whatever that is in dollars. Around $350, I guess. The bed was a queen and had a super soft mattress and six down pillows. My anger/sadness was mitigated in part by that and the included breakfast/lunch/dinner buffet. Slightly annoying was paying £15 for a day's internet, but they had instant coffee and tea in the room (which I drank all of), so at least I "got" something in return.
Next day, I left the hotel around 3pm to catch a shuttle back to terminal five. I had some fears about my booking, because I had tried to use the BA online check-in that morning and my flight was listed as being on the 21st - apparently, a flight that shared the same number with my flight on the 22nd. When I got to terminal five, I tried the rapid check-in kiosk to print my boarding pass. It promptly denied me, saying my flight's check-in time had passed. Now I was really worried.
I thus returned to the same huge queue line, today composed of many canceled flights to other destinations in Europe rather than the eastern US. I am glad I arrived to the terminal four hours early, because the wait in line took nearly two hours. When I got to the desk attendant, she began to look up my details. Yeah, somehow I was put on an overflow flight the day before, which shared the same number and destination, rather than today's flight at 7:50pm as I was told. "What a nightmare," she said to me. Tell me about it... Apparently my situation was confusing, because she flip-flopped about me being on the flight I wanted until finally deciding that I was only put on it in some sort of "option/want" purgatory, whatever that was. No idea how I was to be on yesterday's flight, either. She proceeded to find me an American Airlines, with nearly the same departure time, at 8pm. I was super happy. A potential second night in Heathrow was averted. But, since the flight departed at 8:00 and it was already slightly past 6:00, I had to hurry. "Terminal four," she told me.
Now my concern partly returned. After all, airlines recommend being at check-in at least two hours early. Now, with slightly less that time, I'd have to get to the terminal in the first place. So I lugged my crap down, down, down to the Heathrow Express subway system. Time: probably about 6:10pm. After waiting and riding, I got out of the car at the central hub station to await a terminal four-specific train. Next train to terminal four? Nine minutes. After boarding and more riding, I took the elevator up to departures. I began walking around, looking desperately for the American Airlines desks. I checked each corner, and was becoming confused at the high percentage of Middle Eastern/Asian airlines. Finally, I spotted what looked like the AA desk in the back. Pulling my suitcases as fast as I could, I came closer to the desk. Then I reread the TV screen signs above. Singapore Airlines or something. Really? I was in a rush - it was nearly 6:30 and I needed to check in. I moved back to the center of the terminal and asked a help desk guy. "American Airlines? Yeah, you're in the wrong terminal." WHAT?! Apparently, terminal three was what I wanted. How had the lady told me wrong? I chuckled at the man's answer, and threw in a 'whoops' or two. This showed my exhaustion - I couldn't respond in a serious, distressed manner. I was in shock. It was 6:30, I had been granted an 8pm flight after all the previous mishaps, and here I was possibly about to miss it. Not on my watch. I yanked my bags and strained to move faster, heading back towards the trains to the terminals. The disbelief at the situation - being told the wrong terminal, having been at the correct connect station at Heathrow Central earlier, and the possibility of missing my flight and those implications combined in my head. Perfect storm, eh? I turned some heads running back to the metro. Next train back to the main station? 25 minutes. This is bad. 25 minutes would put me at 7pm before transportation even began.Who knows when I'd reached the terminal after then walking from Heathrow Central. I hemmed and hawed: to wait, take the London Underground and try and figure out that system, or take a cab? Cab it is. I grabbed everything and went to arrivals and got a cab. I'm sure British cabs are more enchanting when one isn't sweating like a waterfall and facing the prospect of another day in Heathrow and the headaches of a missed flight due to one's own fault. Every yield the cabbie did, every turn in the road, every time I saw a terminal three sign and it wasn't just right around the bend, I died a little. Finally, around 7:00 we pulled up to departures, I flew in the door and to the AA desks, which were line-free. Probably panting and looking like I'd run a marathon, the super unenthusiastic AA employee told me, "Sir, are you aware that the flight is delayed until 1:00am?" 'THAT'S GREAT!' I said, more or less. Life went from uncertainty to guaranteed in a matter of seconds. I was so happy. After the clerk asked some more questions and in general acted like he'd rather die than work at that time, I made my way up to security. The "highlight" was going through the x-ray machine and having to take off my coat, thus exposing my drenched shirt. Thank God I didn't set off the metal detector and require a pat-down.
From here, my travel story becomes markedly less interesting. Normal, in fact. Besides the nearly six hour wait 'til take off, nothing happened. I bought some magazines, sat alone in a pub, and missed a little of Spain already when the servers told me they were closing at 10:00! Way too early. At 10:00, you've just finished dinner a few minutes ago.
Now I sit, somewhere south of Iceland, heading for a 3:30am New York landing. My parents might grumble, but I couldn't care less. After everything, I'm finally coming home."
-Dan
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