My father was nice enough to give me a drive from his place in Thornhill to Pearson at 6am. I arrived at the airport around 6:30, and went through the whole shebang of getting on a plane. First I had to check in, then I had to drop of my luggage, then I had to go through security. It’s a whole big thing. The plane was supposed to board at 7:55am, an hour before it was scheduled to depart. I got there around 7:15 after going through all the fun. I was happy I wouldn’t have too long of a wait. 7:55 rolled around, then 8, then 8:15. We didn’t even start boarding until 8:30. Sigh. Whatever. I got to my seat, and discovered that I had an aisle seat… better for stretching out, worse for sleeping. After a couple minutes no one else came, a few more minutes and no one else came… then we starting departing the gate, and I had TWO SEATS TO MYSELF! FUCK YEAH!
I watched the latest episode of New Girl, and as usual, it was garbage. I listened to Love At The Bottom of the Sea, I tried to watch a movie, but couldn’t keep my attention on it. So I listened to Departures by The Rural Alberta Advantage. I got to look down on the coast of PEI and Newfoundland (but not Labrador).
They served a shitty breakfast. A really bad bun, some cantaloupe and honey dew, yogourt1, and a choice of either an omelette or pancakes. I had to make a decision. I had seem them roll the cart of food onto the plane about two, or two and a half hours earlier, obviously it won’t be very good, but which will be worse.
I took a wager and bet the omelette would be terrible. I don’t know if I’m right, but I was right that the pancake, while edible was not very appealing.
After some time of restlessness and being unable to sit there. I decided to get a sleeping pill. I took one rather than the usual two. I tried to sleep. I didn’t sleep. It wasn’t fun.
Oh! What I didn’t mention was that I got to watch a couple making out in the seats across from me, and groping one another, and conspicuously going to the back of the plane around the same time… and not returning for 10 minutes2.
So eventually we passed by the southern shore of Ireland3. We saw Wales, and eventually we landed, in London, it was late. It was 9:30pm.
From that point we needed to go through customs. My passport lost its virginity. I found my luggage, and went through a long maze of hallways and corridors leading to the Underground, and by Underground, I mean Subway4. I rode the dark blue train in silence, listening to two groups of Germans chatting amongst themselves in both English and German. There was also a Canadian girl (with a Vancouver 2010 knapsack) sitting beside me… listening to Dave Matthews Band way too loudly.
I transferred to another line5. I saw in the middle for some odd reason. Then a group of four people were laughing and giggling, and apparently one of the stuffed a salt shaker from the restaurant in another’s purse. She shaked the salt over her shoulder, I sarcastically thanked her and a conversation was born.
One of her friends was so enthralled that I was wearing my Apple windbreaker, and was impressed, because as he put it, it was an Apple mack!
So then I got to the place at midnight, and for the first bit I couldn’t come in… Evenutally someone did let me. I’m going to assume he’s the Fawlty in Fawlty Tower. He was grumpy, gave me a key, and sent me to my room. I didn’t have time or the wherewithal to ask for the wireless password. I think my room is about 3 metres length, 5 metres width. Now this space is divided into a washroom, sleeping area, and a little foyer. I don’t quite get the point of the foyer, it’s about a metre squared. Kinda useless, but there it is.
From there, I started wandering. Turns out there’s nothing in Pimico… maybe that’s why the hotel was inexpensive. I did however find a group of people who were friendly enough and pointed me across the river where I found a pub that advertised it had food. The barkeep reminded me of the elderly Steptoe. I ordered a Marston’s English Pale Ale… and it tasted like piss-water. They weren’t serving food, and the gentleman though I was a fucking moron for asking him about food at 1am. To which I replied, It’s only 8pm. I don’t think he understood me, both my joke, and my accent.
From there I found a corner shop, and dined on chips and a half decent mango drink. I got back to the hotel, took a couple sleeping pills, and here I am, 10 am… gotta figure out what to do.
You will quickly discover 2 things about England (which, coming from Germany, was severely disheartening to me last week).
1. British beer sucks.
2. Shit closes early.
Next time you fly to Europe, leave at night. That way you arrive in the morning.