NYC & London: Brief Intervals b/w Sleep

Leaving San Diego this time proved easier than my past few departures, strictly because I took a redeye rather than flying at some godless early morning hour, and was able to sleep through the entire flight to New York. I wish I could say I spent the next few days soaking up all the classic New York experiences, but aside from a late night run to an all hours Chinatown restaurant (Wo Hop), a mid-evening dining experience at NYC's original pizzaria (Lombardi's) and a short stroll through central park, my priority was catching up with all the great friends I've accrued who currently call the city their home.

That done, I woke up on Monday at one of those godless early morning hours to catch my flight across the Atlantic. I have not been to Europe since my British childhood, and that is only remembered through a five-year-old's height and perspective, so obviously the excitement was nearly unbearable as I took my middle seat between a couple of young Eastern European women and set forth to London's Heathrow airport.

So unbearable that I only slept the first five hours of the seven or eight hour flight. This is an important detail when you consider the time zone change. Whatever the difference, my 8:20am departure resulted in a roughly 9:15pm arrival and, of course, I was well-rested heading into the 11-hour layover my budget ticket bequeathed me.

So, as the crowd deboarded and rushed to the immigration line, I took my time, figured out which terminal I needed to be in, and took a few moments to freshen up in the restroom. I then went to catch the inter-terminal bus, only to find that the last one of the evening had departed. When I asked if I could simply walk there, I was informed that Terminal 1 was several miles away, on the other side of a restricted zone, so, no.

It's at this point I take umbrange with the several people who told me what a great airport Heathrow is, and how a prolonged layover is no problem. Here it was, barely 10pm and the place was shut down. Granted, I was in Terminal 4, which is apparently in some remote area with genetic laboratories and bomb testing grounds, but the same proved true when I finally made it to the more populous Terminal 1.

Now, here's what was supposed to happen: I was to take that bus to terminal 1, where I would remain, sequestered in a secure area, never having technically entered the UK. There I would spend the night with a few other passengers, staring at some ugly carpet in the middle of a locked-up, shut-down, duty-free mall until sometime after 5am, when things would slowly start to come to life.

Here's what really happened when I missed that bus: Informed that I could probably still catch a train to Terminal 1, I was forced to be one of the last few people going through the immigration line, getting a stamp in my passport without any paperwork when a confused and tired employee asked "You're just spending the night here?" I caught a train to the right Terminal where the young, sleepy woman at the security stand infomred me I couldn't get through til the morning, dashing all hopes of staring at the ugly carpet in the darkened mall.

She did give me one sound piece of advice, though. How to catch the N9 night bus back to the airport.

With nothing to do, and free from the beaureucratic purgatory (stamp or not, I'm still not sure I entered the country legally), I hopped on the tube at 11, disembarking at Leicaster Square (pron: Lester, apparently) not long before midnight.

So far as unplanned trips to the center of London go, this one was lovely. I had soup and coffee at a small sandwich shop just off the Picadilly Circus; saw many a brave Londoner suffer bare legs in the bitter cold for the sake of a stylish skirt; grabbed a whisky from a friendly bartender, and gave what may or may not have been a tortured Zimbabwean refugee a pound (one bob, four quid--I'm not sure how their monetary slang works).

The only downer proved to be the 3am night bus. Not because of the bus, which was, of course, a comfy double-decker where I was eventually able to grab a front seat and gain an unobstruted view of the city passing by, marveling at the antiquated architecture while listening to cinematic music on my ipod.

The real problem was those embarrassingly obnoxious Americans. A group of a dozen or so college age midwesterners sat behind me, drunk, loud, and by the sounds of it not particularly bright. Even as one quipped that they were being the stereotypical dumb yankees, their boisterous behaviour continued, earning disdainful glances from the native passengers. I kept my mouth shut and prepared to answer any questions in Spanish.

Clearly, I made it back to the airport with time to spare, was at security when it opened at ol' Terminal 1, and caught my plane safely to Barcelona, where my spanish is only good enough to convict me of being American. But that's another story, for another post. Soon, I promise.