Pretty much my entire life I have wanted to travel. I have always envisioned myself on wild adventures in far-off lands, and envied those who casually dump out their wallets and find change from fourteen different countries lying around. So imagine my joy when my term abroad started, and I was finally off to do the one thing I have always felt I was meant to do: travel.
Turns out I travel about as well as an egg salad sandwich. In the summer.
Why? Airplanes. That's why.
Many of you have already heard the tale of International Barf Fest, but I got over that. Airplanes were still pretty nifty, even after hurling in one. They are the vessels of present day explorers. I still accepted them. I was even still ok with them after International Barf Fest Strikes Back after Venice (story to come). But after today, dear friends and family, I hate-no, loathe, airplanes. On the same level that I hate Zooey Deschanel and the French. And that's saying something.
Knowing I had to get on an airplane early this morning, I made a very mature adult decision to only have one drink last night (remember airplanes aren't dead to me yet at this point), was in bed at a decent hour, and had all my things ready to go to leave Scotland. I woke up at 5am to make a 7am flight, got on the bus to the airport in time, and arrived promptly at 6 to catch my flight to Gatwick, where at noon I would connect to Rome. Proud of myself, not about to throw up at all, and only somewhat disheveled, I strutted up to the check in counter and presented my booking number.
The evil, evil creature working behind the desk giggled and said "Sorry, the gates are closed on that flight."
"But it's 6, the flight doesn't leave for another hour!" I protested.
"No, it's 7."
"Six."
"Seven."
This went on for a while before this vile check-in monster informed me today is day light savings time in the UK and we had 'sprung ahead' an hour at midnight. I think she registered the murderous look in my eyes because she immediately deflected me to another, somewhat less-vile desk creature to see what "my options were".
"My options" was a single flight on a business class British Airways flight that would get me into Gatwick at 11. There's a conspiracy here somewhere. The counter-creature who booked my new flight must have gotten some murder eyes as well because she informed me I was allowed to use the executive lounge. Totally makes up for it, right? Wrong.
Once I was through security I found the Executive Lounge, which was tastefully decorated with armchairs of significantly nicer quality that the plastic seats on the other side of the glass walls. There was also a free buffet, so I decided to take my anger out there. First order of business was to down two free cappuccinos. Then I made a bowl of oatmeal, decided it wasn't up to my liking, and threw it in the trash. Take that British Airways. I stuffed as many free mini apples and oranges into my bag as I could, took one of every type of tea bag they offered, and stocked up on ginger ale, which did make me a little happy because I can't find ginger ale in Italy. People were starting to filter in and give me a wide berth and dirty British looks whenever I messed up the mini-cereal box arrangement so I settled down to fume on one of the armchairs.
The flight itself was unremarkable, except we landed a tad after 11, and my connecting flight to Rome was leaving at noon. I had drunk another coffee on the flight and was now in a state of wired anger, leeching caffeine from every pore, and hell bent on making it onto my next flight. I flew off that airplane like it had bit me and raced to the next check in counter. The counter-monster here was much nicer than the previous, although all the two-hundred or so people I cut in front of were not so cheerful. After counter-monster handed me my boarding pass, however, he said something that broke my heart.
"You know you're in the wrong terminal, right? If you intend to make this flight, you better run."
Saying I ran to my next flight would imply my feet hit the ground. No, I more alternatively flew and scrambled my way over temporary barriers, up escalators, down moving sidewalks, and through groups of dazed travelers. I think I actually transcended physical boundaries and passed through a few solid objects. I was going to make this flight or god help me I would dump out every single oatmeal packet British Airways has ever produced.
Security nearly broke me. Once again I cut a long line of very annoyed people (I'm not very popular in the UK I'm guessing) and skidded through security before remembering my precious ginger ale. Too late, they were confiscated by an amused looking man who is definitely sitting at home somewhere, sipping happily from my ginger ale, telling his wife about the silly American who looked like she had recently been through a wood-chipper who tried to take them through security. I loathe that man, too.
I didn't even put my belt back on after security, just grabbed my things and ran. I must have run through at least two miles of airport, with people actually diving out of my way. I think I may have knocked a small child over. I'm not proud of that. But I made it. I got on my flight, put my belt back on, received some weird looks, and spent the next two hours literally shaking and sweating cappuccino.
I did not, however, throw up.
You're all probably reconsidering being my friend right now, so I'll stop there. Just don't expect to ever see my on an airplane again. I'll be home by freight barge sometime three years from now. I'll bring tea bags.
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