Category: Scotland

Heathrow

Something was not quite right but I didn’t know it at the time. I watched out the window to my left, watching the tarmac roll by under the wing. Heathrow, we were in England, all of us for the very first time. So this could have been any other airport (they really do all look the same through the passenger windows), but this was Heathrow and the pilot was explaining to us that we would be unboarding from the stairs rolled up to the plane to the aircraft door, loaded onto buses and driven to the British Airways terminal. We boarded one of the many buses that were being driven to the parked aircraft and exited after driving around the tarmac to the terminal lower level. Finding our way up the escalator and into the frantic confused eyes of a growing mob. People were scrambling not quite knowing what was going on. The four of us just had minutes to find our connecting flight to Glasgow. We found the board listing all the flights, only to find confusion. The mob of people grew and some found their way into lines (or queues in the native tongue). British Airways information staff scurried among the crowd answering frantic questions from passengers with no direction. Tina checked her British Airways app on her phone finding our flight had been cancelled. Queena and Sarah found they were reassigned to a later flight in the day to Glasgow.

I asked one of the airline staff and confirmed what I already knew — this was a clusterfuck! Technology was the culprit here, trust in Coyote had cashed in the chips and we were likely on our own. We explained to the airline staff our situation and listened closely to our options. Time was against us. We had not expected to be divided so abruptly, but this was the immediate situation we faced. We knew there were steps and procedures that would be taken by British Airways, but in all likelihood, Queena and Sarah would be in Glasgow, while Tina an I would be waiting for the next couple of days for a flight out of London.

We weren’t having any of it. The British Airways staff person, a younger man, explained our one option would be to catch the Heathrow express into London, at the Paddington Station, catch the tube to King’s Cross and from there catch the train to Edinburgh. Simple, like catching the rules to Quidditch on a whim and expect to snag the Golden Snitch on the first go round. And to top it off, we just had a little over 3 hours to do this. Okay, I thought, which way is London.

Tina and I waited, making certain Queena and Sarah were well on their way to catch their connecting flight later in the day. Actually, Tina did while I remained in a frantic state of mind, memorizing the directions given by the very polite British Airways staff. One thing I have to admit, watching the world collapse  around you into complete chaos is much more tolerable with an accompanying soothing British inflection. Alfred was always able to calm down Bruce Wayne, if he had been from New Jersey, Wayne would have decked him a long time ago and crawled off into the cave of bats.

We said our goodbyes and proceeded on our separate journeys to Edinburgh. Tina noted the look of uncertainty and terror in their eyes. But all they needed to do was wait untile their flight was called. The high road in the air and the low road by rail. Trusting luck and a decent sense of direction to assist our respective charges to cross in the next several hours.

The Road to Edinburgh

Like a challenge in some weird game show, Tina and I were Team Rail. No tickets and only verbal instruction. Our first task was to locate the Heathrow Express, whatever and wherever that was. Bags over the shoulders and passports in hand we found our way to the gates that first allowed us into the country. The entry way into England is pretty basic, no stamps, no questions from security guards, and just a gut feeling to jump the precise hoops, then we are on our way. At the gate, the passport is scanned, I look into the camera, the gate doors open and I officially walk into England. Tina did the same at her individual gate. Except, she placed her carry on bag behind her. After a bit of negotiating the gate allowed her entry, bag first.

The next step was to find the Heathrow Express and tickets for the same. We scrambled in the direction we were told, bits of the crowd from the terminal were making their way in the same direction, so my inclination was to follow. Down escalators into the tunnels, we came on the machines to purchase tickets. Information stands were scarce and guess work was the order of the day. This is where college orientation from years ago came in handy. We just need to get into the friggin’ Heathrow Express Class to Paddington. I kept thinking of Bears in yellow slickers. Then there were people waiting next to an enclosed rail. Trusting we were on the right “track”, the train arrived. We walked aboard, sat down on seats and the cars began to move over the rails and into a very dark tunnel

.

About thirty minutes later we were at Paddington Station, lugging bags crossed over our shoulders and looking for transport to King’s Cross. Eventually, following signage to the correct platform, we found the “Pink” line to King’s Cross. A very kind Platform Assistant helped me get two tickets and told me where we should wait for the next tube, to take us to Kings Cross. When our ride arrived we walked on board.

By PeterSkuce – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, Link

Our ride, I noted is literally a tube. A series of connecting hollow sections forming a single long transport. This must be what the inside of an earthworm looks like, I think. A person can literally see from one end of the cars to the other. I am not sure if this is better than sectioning off the passenger cars individually or not, but I really like the open feel to this moving all inclusive room that keeps everyone together. It is quite possibly a psychological thing, but I am completely on board with it.

I am familiar with this routine as I it is similar to metros all over the world. The announcement over the speaker indicates the upcoming stop. I am glad I have given SIRI a British accent. All for fun but I feel it is a familiar voice providing information. I check the up coming stops with the map displayed on the upper edge of the car. Yes, by all intents and purposes we are heading toward King’s Cross. We are on the Pink line. So far so good. Tina and I lock eyes for a moment, reassuring each of us that all will work out and by evening we should be in Edinburgh. We approach Kings Cross and stop. Tina and I exit the train and the platform into a large enclosed shopping area. Unlike the DC Metro stops, this platform exits directly into the open floor of the center. Tina is hungry bordering on hangry. It has been hours since we have eaten. I set the pace through the mall and Tina follows close behind. I spot a Le Pain, a familiar eatery, as we have eaten at the one in Old Town Alexandria. We find a table and Tina sits down to look at the menu. I decide to take this opportunity to leave the bags with Tina and find the  ticket office for the rail and buy the tickets to Edinburgh. I look over the menu and quickly decide the Portobello Shrum & Tumeric Hummus Tartine looks tasty and quick. I ask Tina to order this and take off.

I find the ticket office on the second level up the escalators. I will have to say, the signage is very helpful, otherwise I would be stopping every other person and making a pest of myself and likely loosing valuable time. There is a line at the ticket office and I stand at the end of it. When I reach the next window opened for business, I tell the gentleman on the other side of the window may need for two tickets to Edinburgh. He looks at me and inquires, “now?” I reply, “yes, now for the next train”, “it’s going to be expensive,” he says. This strikes my weak point and I flinch only for a second, “yes, now,” I answer assuredly, “what time does the train leave?” “4:30” he says. Yikes, look at my watch and that is 35 minutes from now. I purchase two tickets and walk briskly back to Le Pain where Tina is hopefully digging into our food order.

When I get back to the restaurant, I find our table and Tina is sitting there with just the silver in front of her. No water, no drinks, “did you order?” “the waiter just left,” she says. What?! I figure we have no more than ten minutes to get and collect our food. I tell Tina when the train leaves the station and she says we have to leave. I look for the waiter, since he has just left I can cancel our order before he has a chance to place it with the kitchen. But they are not having it. They respond angrily, they have already placed the order! I am like, I’ll pay for it, but we have to leave this minute. Tina has already left the area, “let’s go! we are paying for something we didn’t get.” I get ready to pay anyway, but the host is disgusted and tells me, “no, just forget it!” He’s annoyed, Tina’s annoyed, and I’m annoyed, we’re all on the same page; I won’t wait for him to reconsider, Tina and I are quickly heading in the direction of the trains. It is already 4:15.

On the second level near the ticket office, I inquire as to where the train platforms are located, we are directed to the end towards the exit doors and to the left. It is all very vague and hurried as we are loosing precious seconds. We pass Platform 9 and 3/4 of Harry Potter fame, a crowd of tourists wait in line to take their chance to reach Hogwarts, taking a run towards the wall where a shopping cart is already halfway in.  Finally we reach the platform numbers where our train is already boarding. We insert our tickets into the gate, the doors open and we make our way to the train that will take us to Edinburgh and not a moment too soon!

On Tuesday, we flipped into travel mode. Tina’s sister, Debra, came up by the train to Alexandria with Jun Jun. They are watching the animals, so no worries. Queena and Sarah arrived shortly afterwards. We mentally prepared to make the trip to Dulles where British Air would take care of the rest of the travel leg over the Atlantic Ocean to London, and Glasgow. Every step to this point went without a hitch, unless you count the moment where Google Maps was thwarted by an incoming phone call right about the time Queena was negotiating a direction change. But compensate we did, eventually parking at Dulles and making our way to the checkin with British Air.

It has been a long while since I have been in the Dulles International Terminal. I think 1972, when a group of us from Lynchburg flew down to Miami to the Republican National Convention out of Dulles. That was a flight when the pilot mentioned the construction of Disney World in Orlando when we flew over the soon to be obliterated dark spot at night, known then only as Central Florida

.

Progress, tight security, and air travel as a regular mode of transportation has transformed the whole experience. Waiting to board, Tina and I ate Italian, Queena and Sarah made their way to Five Guys for burgers and fries. We waited to board the plane. We met a couple from Pittsburgh on our same flight heading to Africa. The waiting area at Gate 44 filed up with a number of people, including a younger man in red shorts, dred head and wearing a top-hat. Sarah and I planked, she for 5 minutes and me for 3.

When the announcement to board the plane was given, we lined up in the various queues according to ticket status. First Class passengers were boarded into their respective cubicles, the rest of us, Economy Passengers, were lined up and filed into the rest of the plane and into our seats accordingly. The rows of seats in three groups of three lined all the way to the rear. Normal sites for frequent travelers but still amazing for those like me who managed to keep away from this mode of traveling for at least six years.

A wide eye moment for me, as I noted in these cramp quarters with Tina beside me, Queena and Sarah in the adjacent seats across the isle, a small touch screen and access to in-flight entertainment located on the back of the headrest directly in front of me.

Everyone was seated and mentally preparing for the takeoff as the plane began to taxi toward the runway. The plane slowed and stopped, after a few minutes the pilot announced a delay as the flight information was not downloading into the flight controls as expected. A portent of things to come, but we were ignorant of any issues. We remained patiently on the tarmac waiting for runway access for nearly an hour, before the plane began to make it’s way into takeoff position. The pilot assured us we would make up time when in the air so as not to be too delayed at our first stop in London. Soon the taxiing aircraft was acquiring accelerating speed, moving down the runway in the dark. Eventually we felt the rise of the nose and the wheels leaving the ground below us as the plane lifted off into the night sky. From the window view we could see the lights of Northern Virginia, the District, and the surrounding areas receed into a quilt of lights linked by tiny threads linking the cities below.

I watched the screen in front of me indicating the location of our flight over a map display. In the corner of the screen an information window indicated airspeed, altitude, and estimated arrival time in London Heathrow; 11:35. Our connecting flight was scheduled to depart for Glasgow at 11:50. A slight concern that I made no mention of, trusting the pilot’s reassurance that we would make up for any delay in the take-off time.

Window shades had been drawn shortly after takeoff at the instructions of the flight attendants, so we were isolated from any note of the minus 70 degree world at 36,000 feet, nearer to space than to the nurturing environment of our life nurturing mother. Many slept restlessly as I did, our takeoff was just before midnight. Food and refreshment carts were rolled up the aisles between the seats offering wine, soda, or water along with snacks. Later on the flight attendant offered us a hot meal of vegetarian or chicken served in an aluminum dish with plastic forks. A feast for 200 at the table hurling at around six hundred miles per hour skipping over the limits of the atmospheric edges of the planet. This dreamlike experience replaying scenes from Kubrick’s space odessy and fueled by a slight buzz from party bottles of gin, whiskey, and wine. Partying passengers counting on the designated pilot to get us to the curb of our destination by morning.

After what seemed like days sitting in one upright position, I caught a line of light coming through the window at the bottom of the shade. We had caught the dawn playing chicken with the rising sun. Like Charles Lindberg’s  1927 flight across the Atlantic, except we had traveled six times his speed. This was the stuff of his dreams and countless others whose shoulders the travel industry was built on.

The flight attendants instructed the bleary eyed passengers to open the drawn window shades, revealing the coast of England as we made our approach to Heathrow and the mess that we were yet to find under the tree of gifts.