At Home
I arrived at home in ABQ on Saturday evening, then had three days with the sibs before catching the plane on Wednesday. There were only three kids at home, since Mom and Dad went to an old, family cabin in Arizona for Labor Day weekend.
Being the eldest sister and, for many years, the default family babysitter, I expected to fill that role again while I was home. It's a hard role sometimes, but it has its perks. To my surprise, my sister Sam, who's nearly seventeen, took charge at dinner the first couple nights, and everyone pitched in to run the day-to-day chores, and I scarcely had to do a thing. It was a little disorienting to realize that my younger siblings aren't children anymore and don't need to be babysat at all. They're gaining that mature characteristic of looking around, recognizing work that needs doing, and doing it. It's exciting to watch my brothers and sisters grow up.
So I didn't babysit, but I did spend some time being a good listener.
This is the face of a broken heart. The vial of bubbles seemed to help a bit.
Before long it was time to fly out of the country. Of course, I didn't sleep well the night before, then got up at 5:00 am to take the two high schoolers to seminary. (Oh man am I glad I don't have to do early-morning seminary anymore.) I got a little more sleep after I dropped them off at school, but then the hours flew by and it was time to head to the airport.
A Day at the Airports
I got to the airport nice and early (thanks to some family friends for the ride!), checked my bags and DIDN'T have to pay the checking fees because it was an international flight (YAY!!), got through security without a hitch, and didn't have to wait too long before boarding the plane and taking off.
An older couple from Michigan had the seats next to mine; they had just finished visiting their grandchildren (they showed me a picture). The grandmother, who was sitting next to me, asked where I was going, and of course wanted to know what I would be doing in England. I've spent almost two months answering these questions, and I feel rather selfish talking about myself all the time. But once I say the word "England," people want to know all about it and it's no use trying to sidetrack them into something about themselves. Oh well. I collected another promise to read my book, anyway; she asked me my name and repeated it to herself, reminding herself to look for it on the shelves. Who knows, maybe in a year or so she'll be scanning the cover of my book, trying to remember why the author's name seems familiar.
I have no idea how many of the people I talk to actually will read this book of mine when/if it is published, but sometimes I'm surprised how earnestly people tell me they'll keep an eye out for it in the bookstores or who want me to send them a copy. Is it just the polite thing to say to a prospective author? Do they simply want to wish me well, or do they want a tiny bit of the glory, to be able to say, "I knew this girl when . . ."? Maybe both? I wonder what I'd say to a person like myself.
Anyway, the first part of the trip, the flight to Chicago, went well. I felt rather cramped in my seat, but I told myself it was only a couple hours. I looked out the window and peeked at the book the grandmother next to me was reading, Nineteen Minutes. The kid in the story killed himself by stuffing a sock down his throat. I turned back to look outside at the clouds.
After we landed, making it through the Chicago O'Hare airport was the next hurdle. The place is huge. International flights took off from the farthest terminal, which I had to take a shuttle/train to get to. I had to ask two different people for directions to the place, and the second one was a guy at the information desk, who handed me the directions on a slip of paper (I guess I wasn't the first person to be confused). I collected another promise to read my book from a baggage handler who waited with me at the shuttle stop. Made it to the terminal (by then the shoulder straps of my duffel bag and laptop were digging hard into my shoulders), tried to find signs directing me to my gate.
I quickly came up to the security checkpoint. I figured I'd already been through once, so there had to be a way for people on continuing flights to skip through. I looked for a way around, but there was none. Maybe I'd come the wrong way? Whether or not that was the case, the quickest way onward would be going through security again. I'd been fine with once, but a second time made me feel surly. I was tired and sweaty in the humid airport air, but I pulled off my shoes, took off my carry-on bags, yanked my laptop out to go in a separate bin, and waited for the security officer to wave me through the metal detector. Passed just fine, just like the first time. This is idiotic, I thought as I tried to get my stuff together again.
Once I got through, I wasn't too disgruntled to notice the difference between this terminal and the others I'd flown through in my lifetime. It was the international terminal, so there were people from all over the world walking by, speaking in their native languages in groups. Mostly Indians; I noticed several flights going to India. They all looked about how I felt: nervous, excited, a little lost, and very tired. The shops just beyond the security checkpoint echoed the international feel of the place, offering duty-free goods (perfume and wine, mostly) and an international variety to the still ridiculously expensive food.
I was hungry, but I figured I'd find my gate and then see what shops were nearby to choose from, so I made my way down the terminal. My heart sank as I realized, from the signs, that my flight was taking off from the farthest possible gate. How far could that be? Probably a mile, no joke. After the checkpoint I had stupidly decided to sling my duffel bag around my neck to one side and my laptop around the other side, and now as I walked the straps were creeping up both sides of my neck. I thought that if I didn't reach my gate soon I would either collapse or be decapitated. And then, to my chagrin, there were no more shops after the first hundred yards, but by the time I admitted defeat there I was closer to my gate than the shops, so I pushed on and finally made it to the gate. I fell into an open chair and breathed for a few minutes.
Then it was time to check in with the folks. It was nice to talk to someone (especially Mom and Dad); traveling alone is hard. One of the hardest parts is that, if you're dumb like me and brought heavy, non-rolling carry-on luggage, you don't have anyone to sit with it while you go to the restroom or get food. After I hung up, I was still hungry and the shops were still a mile back. Being tired is one thing, getting the shakes from not eating is much worse. So there was nothing for it. I took a minute to steel myself, then headed back down the terminal with my bags, bought a sandwich, and walked back as quickly as I could. Took half an hour, and it was not fun. The sandwich wasn't too bad though.
Flying by Night
The trans-atlantic part of my flight was through British Airways, and they were very gracious. Maybe it was just me, but I was glad to be away from the stinginess of American airlines. This was my first contact of the trip with actual British people, and I admit I felt a little giddy to hear the flight attendants speaking in English and Scottish accents as we boarded.
Each seat had a packet on it that included a blanket, socks, headphones, a toothbrush and paste, etc., and there was a small TV screen on the back of each seat. I admit, this was what I was really excited about: watching movies during my flight. The person with the seat next to mine ended up being a young American woman, like me, who was on her way back to grad school at the University of Exeter, studying Shakespeare. I told her what I was up to, and we were mutually slightly jealous of each other, but we got along great.
I had chosen a window seat, excited at the prospect of seeing the ocean as we flew over it, but I ended up having the shutter closed most of the time. We weren't over the ocean until after sunset, and then all I could see was clouds anyway. The thought of flying over the ocean was a little scary, but the flight didn't feel different from any other I'd been on—just longer. Actually, if I closed my eyes I could easily pretend I was sitting in the family van on a road trip.
The entertainment experience was fun. There was a nice selection of movies I could watch. I started watching Out of Africa, then got bored with the sparse, artsy dialog (and boring subject matter). There was a weird glitch with the screen for a little while, so it couldn't play video on demand, but then it restarted so I chose Kung Fu Panda. In between all this, they served a very nice hot dinner (I had salmon with pasta and green beans), and then in the morning a tasty croissant with butter/jam and orange juice.
The only downside of the flight was that there was a very long-legged man sitting right behind me, who obviously felt he didn't have enough space. He kept moving around, kneeing me in the back, and then when he got up to use the bathroom he elbowed me in the head in his haste to get out of his seat. I understand the sufferings of long-legged people, but goodness sakes, leave other people alone about it.
I was tired and tried to sleep a bit, largely without success. Just can't fall asleep in a sitting position. It was alright, though; adrenaline kicked in as we landed, and it was light outside, so I was awake enough to make my way through the airport.
Heathrow
Actually, the airport terminal was apparently too crowded for us to park there, so the plane let us off somewhere else nearby. Two shuttle buses took everyone through a maze of airport byways to a side door of the terminal. I stopped to use the filthiest public bathroom I've ever seen, picked up my luggage, then followed the signs and the crowds to the border crossing checkpoint.
The checkpoint was interesting. I'd been prepared for the experience: a friend told me that the British customs people were particularly anxious to make sure you left Britain again as soon as possible. Wouldn't want any immigration taking place. The officer I talked to asked me all kinds of random, probing questions. "What was your father's first job?" "Do you squeeze your toothpaste from the bottom or the middle?" "How many grandchildren do you anticipate having?" Okay, not those particularly, but almost. I answered her questions, but I wondered how much of it was really her business to know.
I got through in a few minutes, then headed onward, excited now because I was almost done. A crowd was gathered beyond the last barrier to welcome new arrivals, and right in the middle of them was a couple holding a sign with my name on it, smiling broadly when I appeared—the Camerons. The last time they saw me, when my dad was in England serving in the US Air Force, I was three years old, but apparently I look so much like my mom that they recognized me instantly. They welcomed me with hugs and in a few minutes I was walking with them to their car, tired, dazed, but very happy.
I was in England!
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