You know you’ve been on a plane too long when you start watching a Bulgarian movie with English subtitles. It was the middle of the night and I was on my way to London. After a long layover in Houston, a 4-hour nap seemed appropriate. I probably could have slept longer, but the flight attendant hit me with her cart and insisted that I have something to drink. That’s when I discovered that the, “Friendly Skies of United” aren’t really that friendly at all, because when I woke up, I jerked and dumped a glass of water onto her feet.
The plane landed at Heathrow Airport on time, and I hustled on the 20-minute walk to the Customs Station, where I joined people from all over the world snaking their way up and down the roped off rows for 45-minutes. Finally I reached the custom officer’s desk. She looked at me a few times, but finally decided that my passport photo remotely resembled my face, and sent me on to the luggage area that was only two electric stair rides, and a 10 minute walk, away. My flight number wasn’t posted, but luckily I found my bag that I had festooned with bright colored scarves. I arrived at Terminal 2 with my 35-pound suitcase and my 20-pound carry-on. Hip, Hip, Hooray! Then I remembered that my limousine was waiting for me at Terminal 5.
Not knowing where the lift was located, I juggled 50 pounds of suitcase on the electric stairs (escalators), and then walked another 20 minutes into the catacombs of Heathrow Airport where the “train” was to take me to Terminal 5—and this was an honest-to-God real train! After a 5-minute wait, a distinguished man from Berlin was so thrilled that I could speak German that he helped me get my suitcases on and off the train. A person can fake almost anything under duress, and I found out that a, “Bitte” and a, “Danke” can go a long way.
Finally, I walked another 10 minutes and reached my destination, and I asked a nice flight attendant (she wasn’t armed with a cart) to direct me to the pick-up area. It had now taken me approximately an hour and 45 minutes to get to my destination, and now there was no driver anywhere to be seen. Since my little cell phone wasn’t an overseas phone, the kind flight attendant called the limo service for me. The voice on the other end of the line said, in that cultured accent, “The driver left.” My response was, “Well, send him back.” After my playing, “The Ugly American,” she advised me to take a taxi and I would be reimbursed. “That better be in American money,” I yelled. The flight attendant put me into a cab, and I assured her that she didn’t have to be nice to anyone the rest of the week.
Luckily, I had 100 British pounds in my pocket, because the cab ride to my hotel cost 80 pounds. My driver was so angry that my limo driver had left me stranded that he said, “I will write a receipt for 100 pounds, so you can make some money off of those Bloody Blokes!” I told him, “No. If I’m going to begin a life of crime, I will knock over a Royal Bank. I’m not going to steal a ‘Bloody’ 20 pounds. Since I had been safely delivered to my hotel, I figured that I might as well begin to speak the Queen’s English. Things were looking up. I got settled in my room, took a stroll to Buckingham Palace, ate an early dinner and went to bed---at the hotel--- not the Palace.
The next morning, I rendezvoused with my friends, who had arrived 3 days earlier, and we took a limo to South Hampton, where our over-sized ship was waiting for us. She was a year old, a very big, but beautiful girl. Embarking was relatively easy, once the staff picked up an old lady whose flip-flops had gotten caught in the escalator. Watching her bounce, head first, down the up escalator, took awhile, so I found a chair. But she got up and headed for the bar, so I knew she was okay.
My vacation had begun---(To be continued.)
Esther Blumenfeld