I long for the days when a person had to travel by cruise
liners. Big, impressive, lords of
the sea’s that prowled the worlds oceans delivering the rich to their vacations,
the poor to new lives in the new world, and servicemen to war. For one, your departure was an
adventure. One just needs to go
visit the Queen Mary in Long Beach to get a feel for these bygone giants of
human ingenuity. And when they
left port, it was a event. Friends, relatives and complete strangers turned out to watch
ships glide out of port, ticker tape flew, horns sounded. Yes it took you a week to get from New
York to London, yes Titanics happened, but there was state and ceremony to the
proceedings. Your departure was an
occasion, as an important part of your trip as the first museum or the foreign
boy you fell in love with.
Things are a little different when you leave by plane at six
in the morning. Instead of
tickertape and crowds you get a hug from your exhausted mother and an empty
departure platform in the morning fog.
The drive over did provide my Mom a few more minutes to impart last
minute advice. Mainly, watch out
for pickpockets and gypsies. Mostly
gypsies. No really, gypsies. As my
main interaction with gypsies was Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Norte Dame, I
didn’t really get the concern.
A trip to the airport would never be complete without me
being stopped by TSA. This time it
was my inhaler at an awkward angle that signaled my true identity of an
international terrorist. You know
what they didn’t see? A
lighter. That made it all the way
to Croatia.
I fell asleep somewhere over Sacramento and woke up when the
plane slammed into Texan soil. I had
missed Continental’s famous breakfast, darn.
If you have never made it to George H. Bush International
airport, I highly recommend it.
While no airport in the States matches the grand scale and pure number
of shops of Heathrow or even a European train station, Houston is about as
close as you can get. The first
impression you get when you disembark is gleaming white. Floors, walls, ceilings, and people are
all blindly, glimmering white interspersed with a rainbow cavalcade of
everything from bookstores and Starbucks to Duty free and fancy steak
restaurants. Everything is bigger
in Texas?
Dad had made me a packed lunch, which I supplemented from
the nearest McDonalds, and watched with growing apprehension as the High School
group traveling on my flight slowly grew larger and larger. Luckily they were at the front of the
plane, and I was at the back, though they did end up near me in the immigration
line and were far to peppy, in my opinion.
I gleefully spent the 8-hour flight watching Thor, Jane Eyre, Water For Elephants and Better Off Ted. I kept
expecting nerves to kick in or apprehension, but they never materialized. But neither did the excitement. Looking back, I think I was too tired. I refuse to consider the other option,
that I was jaded about traveling at 22, but there may have been a little of
that sneaking in too. It
could also have been the small child who kept screaming directly behind me that
could have broken the moment a bit.
When the plane landed I grabbed my bag and tried to sprint
to immigration. I needed to get
through the border, to another terminal, then navigate the subterranean tunnels
the Brits are so fond of to the bus terminal, onto a bus, out to another
airport, check in, make it through security and onto another plane to Dubrovnik
in six hours. I was pretty sure I
would have enough time, but it would be tight.
Rounding the corner into Customs, I nearly had a heart
attack. The line was a few
thousand people deep and zig zagged back and forth across a low ceilinged room
like a ride at Disneyland, except at the end was London and not Pirates of the
Caribbean. My frustration was
compounded when the man at the end of the line demanded we have our paper work
filled out before we entered the line. Because we wouldn’t have enough time to
complete it?
An hour later I had finally reached the front of the line
when every single agent left their booths and walked away en mass. It was 8am and time to change shifts,
but the new shift did not materialize for ten minutes. Suddenly there was 3,000 tired tourists
growing slowly angrier and one guy at the end of the line still demanding completed
forms before you were allowed to enter the queue. I desperately suppressed the urge to throw my arm in the air
and yell, “Charge”!
Finally folks put their tea down and sauntered out to the
grumbling international corps waiting behind the turnstiles. Suddenly, I got to
the front, explained I had no English contact, and was resentfully let
through. London! Or at least,
Airport!
Arriving at the Bus stop I discovered a miracle, sun, in
London. I stood outside for five
minutes with my brain refusing to accept it before finding the bus and passing
out against the window for the next hour.
I wish I had more to report on the Stransdon Airport, I
really do. But when I try to
remember those two hours all I get is the vague impression of sunshine, lines,
a call to my parents and a bright orange EasyJet Airplane. The fruit is subtler.
Now, finally, finally I was in Dubrovnik, Croatia. I had totally lost Thursday and was
quickly losing Friday to planes and time changes, but I didn’t care. As I climbed down the jet way the
excitement finally began to break through the exhaustion and bubble through
me. My skin began to itch with it and
every cell in me wanted to get through customs and get exploring.
This was followed immediately by a second thought, “It’s
really hot here”.
