Jabberwalking

My first international travel experience is now over. And I am so relieved.

Heathrow was kind of awful, not because I got lost or had a bad interaction with someone (in fact everyone was absolutely polite and helpful—gotta hand it to the Brits!), but because I was so tired and it was so huge and overwhelming. The main part of Terminal 3 is literally a mall, with a Harrods and Swatch and Dolce Gabbana, and even a T.G.I. Fridays, and tons of other stores. There are hundreds of people milling around, and all of them are speaking a different language or at least a different dialect, and that kind of thing just kind of hits you in the face when you are terribly weary from jet-lag. I ended up sleeping off and on in the main lobby, waiting some 4 hours for my flight.
I realize I forgot to recount another bit of the Heathrow experience. This happened after I got the main shopping area of Terminal 3:

I looked at my boarding pass and saw the unlabeled number/letter, “8A.” I assumed it was the gate number, and went off early to find out where it was, so that I wouldn’t be rushing. I wove through the crowded corridors, reluctantly passing by a stuffed-terrier at Harrods that seemed too cheesy to pass up, and got into the main hallway that led to the gates. I walked onward, passing by gate 7, and looked up at the sign pointing me to the next hallway: “Gates 9 to 11.” Huh. Maybe 8 is just in between, so they didn’t label it. I walked forward, and the next large door I saw was labeled “Gate 9.” I must have missed something. I’m tired, so it’s totally possible. I turned toward an authoritative looking figure standing by the bathrooms and asked him for gate 8. He looked at me frankly, and pointed at gate 9. Then he looked to the sign behind me that said “Gates 3 to 7” and pointed to that. And stared at me again, in a way that obviously said, “DUH.” He pointed me back down the hall, and I moved onward. I once again hit Gate 7. I think I walked back and forth from 7 to 9 about 5 times, before I became completely sure that there was no Gate 8. Then I wondered if this was Hogwarts sending me a message through my boarding pass… maybe there IS a Gate 8, but you have to be a wizard to get in. The Platform 9 ¾ of Heathrow, you could say.

This seemed highly unlikely (also, I wasn’t going to try running into a wall, because I already looked crazy looking around or a nonexistent gate), so I asked an old man (another authoritative looking figure) who was reading a newspaper. He looked up and said, “How much do you want to bet that that’s your seat number?”
I wanted to cry just then. Stupid. Before I could get to the crying part, he got up, and very kindly asked to have a look at my ticket, and walked me to the TVs showing flights. He proceed to explain how not all airlines are prompt in issuing gate numbers, and how I had an hour or two before I would know mine:
Me (still wanting to cry and feeling dumb and tired): “Sorry, this is my first time travelling internationally…”
Man [British accent, of course]: “Now, now, see we sorted it out! No need to worry! It’s sorted! Now, go back to the shopping center, and look about, and buy some nice things, and enjoy yourself!”
Thank you, nice, old, British man. You stopped me from having an embarrassing outburst because of a non-existent gate. (But seriously, Heathrow. No gate 8? Is that a joke?)

Anyway, it was then that I decided NOT to look around, because I was tired and grumpy and completely overwhelmed, so I sat in the waiting area and dozed. It felt great to be in England, but after 6 long hours in a crowded, foreign, international airport, I was done and ready to get to Spain. But don’t worry, England, I’ll be back, and I’ll see more of you than your ginormous airport!

Around 9 or 9:30, I finally arrived at Sevilla airport. I luckily did not have to figure out the correct way (in Spain) to hail a cab, since they were all lined up in front of the airport. I grabbed one, told the driver my address, and tried not to fall asleep on the way.Looking at the window, I noticed how contemporary everything was… that may sound weird to a lot of people, but when we are shown pictures of Sevilla, we see pictures of the old buildings in the center of town, bordered by cobblestone streets. But driving away from the airport, I noticed how similar it looked to the U.S. Everyone has this idea that Spain and Europe are absolutely different from the U.S. in everyway, but we were driving down a standard highway, flying by billboard after billboard, neon-sign after neon-sign. And at a breakneck speed. This reminded me a LOT of Houston.

Lesson of the evening: in Sevilla, red lights are merely a suggestion.

Anyway, the cab pulled up to the Plaza de Armas Hotel, and the driver helped me with my bags and asked for 30 euro. I was told it would cost no more than 24, but I didn’t have the energy or willpower to fight it. I thanked him, and he smiled, with the slight look of a lecher, and said something that included “Eres guapa” or something along those lines. My first brush with a creeper! I was so tired, I just gave him a confused stare and walked away to the hotel.

Made my way up to the room Christy and I would share. I knocked, and she opened the door with a big smile and a big hug. Home! It was such a relief to see someone I know, especially after traveling alone through so much unknown territory.
Travel accomplished.

… but I’m not picking up, ’cause I have a flight to catch and refuse to attempt navigating the labrynthine streets alone.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010
London, Heathrow Airport, 11:15 am (London Time)

First song listened to in the U.K.: BBMak’s “Back Here.” I think that’s totally appropriate.
My flight arrived at London-Heathrow at about 9:45 am, London time. Not gonna lie, I had a little spaz as we were flying in, when I looked out the window and saw the Houses of Parliament and London Eye along the Thames. So awesome. However, I also noticed that the layout of London has no rhyme or reason. I imagine giving directions goes something like this:

“Oy, mate, just take Pall Mall to Haymarket, but don’t take Shaftesbury, or you’ll be halfway to Kent. Keep on down Regent until New Cavendish, and pop left there. Do a full circle, but not twice, or you’ll end up in Shropshire, and we all know how those folk are, eh? *Chuckle* Put on your right signal but turn left at Ladbury. You’ll be tempted to pay respect to the nice old woman at the corner, but don’t say a word or she’ll take to you and knit you socks for the next 50 years. Get out, hop on one foot, and get back in your car. You should be in Queensgate. Go straight, and once you’re at Sutherland, reverse your car three meters, and turn right. From there, go which ever way you want, because I can’t even remember which side of Porchester my house is on…”

Anyway, I can’t imagine navigating anywhere in this city. Which is why I’m still in the airport instead of seeing the city, and will be for about 2.5 more hours. A little background: I have a flight on Vueling airlines (a small airline owned by Iberia) to Seville at 5:35, but Continental doesn’t have a connecting agreement with them. Therefore, I had to go through Immigration, get my bags, pass through Customs, and navigate my way from Terminal 4 to Terminal 3 (in the world’s largest intercontinental airport) for my Vueling departure. So, here I wait in Terminal 3, since Vueling doesn’t start checking bags until 1:35 pm:

Navigating Heathrow so far has gone by without any hiccups; however, if my dad hadn’t drilled into my head my route (and printed out about 4 maps of the airport alone), I probably would have been hopelessly loss and brimming with tears.
Immigration took only a few minutes; hardly anyone was going through. Plus, the immigrations official was a very charming man, and oh-so English (note, the following transcript is best enjoyed with a British accent in mind):

Official: “And… how old are you?”
Me: “I’m 21…”
Official: *Understanding nod, followed by slightly apologetic expression* “Now… I’m not accustomed to asking a young lady her age. You just looked 18, and we like to take care of our underage travelers.”
Me: *SMILE*

Anyway, after being advised by the Immigration official that I must see Córdoba and Granada (“which are rather close in proximity, I believe”), I moved on to baggage and passed through Customs without any trouble at all. I wandered over to the train platforms to take the Heathrow Connect from Terminal 4 to Terminal 3. Oh okay, one hiccup here… I unnecessarily spent 7.15 quid (I love saying that) on a ticket.:

[What message are they trying to to send with “STD ADULT”? Isn’t that a little presumptuous?]

I saw a ticket booth, panicked, and thought I needed one. Turns out it was for London-Paddington, and interterminal transfers are free. I’m keeping it for posterity, though. My first purchase with pounds.

Took the train and got out at Terminal 3, and I was unclear on whether the elevators or the escalators would take me to the right place. Figured they’d spit me out in a similar location, but I was feeling the escalators. This is the part where I felt like in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (the movie). The building is all grey and white concrete and metal, no adornments at all, with painfully bright fluorescent lights, and surveillance cameras everywhere. And apparently it takes 5 escalators (or was it 4? I started losing count.) to get to Terminal 3 proper. I went up and up in this massive concrete building, every the floor the same… real building, or Terry Gilliam set? Both perhaps?

Well, that’s about it for my London adventure so far. I can’t wait to finish all this traveling hassle and get to Sevilla and see Christy. However, I’m getting a little terrified of having to communicate in Spanish… I feel like I forgot all of my vocab. I’ll manage, though. For now, I’ll sit here and enjoy listening to the various English accents around me. Cheers for now!

Hello, lovely, lovely readers!! Apologies for woefully neglecting this blog; I’ve been going non-stop for the past week. But I have time now, so I can throw a KAGILLION updates at you! I’ve been recording thoughts and little experiences since I left Houston, so I’ll do a little entry for each of those days I missed. Let us start with my journal entries on my flights…

Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Houston, Bush Int. Airport, 6:40 pm (Houston time)

After about an hour of waiting at the gate, I’ve finally boarded my first flight ever across the pond. Harry Connick Jr.’s dulcet tones are humming through the airplane speakers as I wait for take-off. I feel rather lucky tonight—there’s hardly anyone on the plane. I have a window seat and the rest of the row to myself. This bodes well for sleeping.

Speaking of sleep, I felt a little bubble of excitement as I approached my seat, because I noticed that each person gets a complementary blanket and pillow! See, this one time when I was little, when I was on a flight with my parents, a flight attendant gave me a little pillow for free. I was obsessed. I thought it was so awesome, the best freebie ever. After that, I always hoped I’d get a pillow on a flight, but never did. Basically, I lost all hope in the airline industry. I mean, you charge me for a second bag, but don’t even have the decency to give me a soft cushion for my tender head?! Absurd!

My faith is restored. I, in fact, get two pillows since the seat next to me is open. Actually, I’m not completely sure about that. They might charge me $50.00 for the extra.

I just noticed that I’m sitting next to the right wing of the plane. I’ll let you know if I see any gremlins. Hope I’m spared that spectacle, because I’d hate to have a William Shatner moment (or a Bugs Bunny moment depending on your reference point).

So, this flight was delayed 30 minutes originally, and we’ve been waiting in the plane for a fair amount of time. People are getting antsy. Luckily the captain came on the speaker to explain the delay:
“Hi, this is your captain! I guess you noticed how… we’re not moving.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious (maybe that’s actually his name…).

In other news, I sat across an Englishwoman with two kids in the airport while waiting for the flight. Is it sad that just hearing her speak made me happy? I love accents. A Welsh man came and chatted with her, and I tried to keep it cool and pretend that I wasn’t gleefully listening to them speak.

Plane is moving! Finally! I’m off to Europe!!!

Later that flight…

Just asked for a Wallstreet Journal. Don’t really want to read it… but everyone else is reading a paper and I feel I must blend in…

Oh! Safety video! The BEST!

Enjoying Mr. Flight Attendant’s sweater combo: navy v-neck sweater, blue button-down, and a striped, silk tie in light blue, navy, and light yellow. He looks oh-so classy. Also, he just did an elaborate pantomime to the flight attendant behind him and doesn’t know I’m watching.

Cheers for now! Take-off!!

I have never been so concerned about the weight of jeans in my life. The past couple days have been packing extravaganzas, and I have been slowly learning the art of packing “light.” Now, by “light,” I mean one large suitcase stuffed to the brim, plus one carry-on of the maximum allowable size. (Travel-veterans are cringing.)

Okay, so that’s still a lot of stuff, but I’d say I’m doing well right now! I’m keeping pretty much everything I’ll need to bring for 6 months in Europe in a single large suitcase (plus a few things in the carry-on), no more than 50 lb. Not too shabby! Of course, this was after a considerable amount of unpacking, agonizing over clothes, repacking, agonizing over shoes, unpacking, walking away to check facebook, regaining objecctivity, discarding excess shoes, and repacking again, etc. etc.:

And yes. That is a scale in front of the suitcase. I started to literally weigh my clothes to find out the heaviest pieces I could wear on the plane or carry on. It was a tiny bit ridiculous. (But I felt pretty hardcore. Why isn’t one-bag packing an Olympic sport yet?)

Included in things I’ll be wearing on the plane are some pieces I’m pretty excited about: some new Steve Madden, suede, slouch-boots (They make me feel like a pirate. Or Robin Hood. It’s a win-win situation really.), a new Fossil, cross-body purse, and an off-white, cotton scarf I’ve been working on for months and finally finished. The body of the scarf has been done for a while, but I kept forgetting to add the fringe. Check it!

It’s going to be a hassle getting through security, but on the upside, I won’t be paying exorbitant fees on extra pounds of luggage, and I will be oh-so stylish on my flight. Can you even handle it?!

Well, folks, my flight leaves tomorrow evening, so I have do some last touches on packing and actually tidy my room a bit. It’s hard to believe right now that I will be across the Atlantic Ocean in 24 hours. I don’t think my mind has really processed that fact… which is probably why I spent the morning baking scones rather than getting my stuff in order. No matter! Packing can wait. Cheddar-dill scones, however, beckon to be made immediately. Good thing I got that out of the way (no seriously, it was literally on my to-do list for the day). Back to preparing for a European adventure! Cheers!