Location: Madrid, Spain, Frankfurt, Germany, and London, United Kingdom
Saturday July 3, 2010
It’s amazing how awfully tired you get when you air travel, when all you’re really doing is sitting, waiting, or sitting as you’re waiting. Here are my examples of sitting or waiting or a combination of both as I made the what’s-supposed-to-be-short journey from Madrid to London:
a. a. Stood in a mad line that successfully blocked most of the traffic in that departure terminal at MAD(I’m pretty sure it stands for an airport that will drive you MAD)-Barajas airport when trying to check in my 3.5 kg-overweight suitcase at the Lufthansa desk. But the check-in lady didn’t charge me nor ask me to embarrassingly rearrange my shit. Yay, Europe for more ‘lax rules!
b. b. Stood in another long, unmoving line at the gate. Why do some European airlines opt out of sectional seating but rather ask all their passengers to flood the gate twenty minutes before boarding, so that only the people who have the agility to rush to the front of the line and the patience to wait for a long time get enough storage space in the overhead compartments?
c. c. Fell asleep when my head hit the soft Lufthansa seats (well, any seat is soft, really, when compared to the Comfort: 1 Ryanair’s plastic seats) When I woke up, I asked the Spanish couple (the lady was in a hot pink velour tracksuit. Why, Lord, whyyy?) next to me if we had just arrived at Frankfurt (my layover). They laughed and said no, I just napped for an hour on the tarmac as the jet aimlessly did laps.
d. d. My Spanish plane arrived half an hour after my connecting flight took off. So the airline booked me another flight two hours later, sending me to another terminal, where I sat and watched Lufthansa employees struggle to control a gaggle of loud and restless Arab families flying to United Arab Emirates, who wouldn’t understand or chose to blatantly ignore the repeated announced phrase, “The plane is not yet ready to board. Please do not crowd the gate. Please take your seats.”
e. e. Shit went down in the Tube, where improvement work was taking place on the Jubilee line that weekend, which I found out when I got my ass all the way to Green Park station. Thus I had to make painful switches to another line to get to Waterloo station to find the replacement bus. Okay, a bit of a stretch on the waiting part, but I did wait until I got to London to find out about these Underground rail changes. But thank god, there were kind English men who helped me with my (remember, overweight) luggage each time I had to brave a flight of stairs.
f. f. I settled on the regular 188 bus stop outside the Waterloo station after finding out that no one at Waterloo actually knew where the replacement bus stopped and additionally wandering for thirty minutes looking for the actual 188 bus stop that had been move to an unmarked area because of poor road construction.
g g. Waited thirty minutes in the chilly London air (yayayayyyy, London!!!! Sorry, forgot to be excited, because I was caught up with all this traveling-bitching) to witness the phenomenon of diffusion of responsibility firsthand. As the red double-decker 188 came barreling down the Waterloo Bridge toward us, three of us stepped up to the curb to wave down the bus. But none of us made a big enough motion, like, jump off the curb and wave our entire arm, thinking that someone else would do that. So the bus did not even slow down. My psych professor would be proud of me observing this firsthand.
h. h. The other girl, wearing only a sleeveless dress and shivering in the cold, gave up after waiting for fifteen more minutes and flagged down her £50 cab. But the other guy and I were champs and stuck it out for the hour that it took for the next bus to come. I guess that route’s service really slows down at 2 in the morning.
i. i. As I awkwardly apologized for my trunk half-blocking the front of the full bus during the forty-five minute journey to Canada Water, I eavesdropped on the conversation of two hot British cricket players (yes, people apparently still play cricket). Some happy drunkies entered and climbed over my bags. One stopped with his face uncomfortably close to mine and said, “You. Have a very big bag. I like it.” Chuckling awkwardly, I thanked him for his unconventional compliment. His friend followed with an “You show me your big bag, and I’ll show you mine.”
j. j. My shortest wait of the day: at the door of Luan’s (my mother’s childhood friend’s son, who I didn’t meet until the day after I got to London, because he was stuck in Hong Kong) apartment when Luan’s super awkward flatmate (he actually admitted to disliking human interaction... -.-“ okay…), Michael, came down to open the door at 3 am. Yayayayyy! I finally made it. *Collapse*
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