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.

This entry was posted on Friday, February 26th, 2010 at 09:39 and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.