Hove, UK to Somewhere Over Asia
It was half past five in the afternoon. My fifty litre rucksack, a purple and lush green affair still a little dusty from long days spent in dark cupboards, lay in the middle of the lounge floor surrounded by a archipelago of traveller's must-haves. Guidebooks, malaria tablets, a small mountain of socks (a grevious misjudgement I realized not much later), underwear, a small first-aid kit, fiction, blank diaries, travellers cheques, misc. clothing. There was no way everything was going to fit.
And the flight was leaving in less than three hours.
To be honest, after talking about this round-the-world trip for the better part of a year, thinking all the time about tropical paradises, crazy characters, spiritual enlightenment and the freedom from working-life, now it was finally happening I was really bricking-it.
Shaz and I would be breaking-up, or at least spending a hefty amount of time apart. Also I was, in effect, throwing away my career as a software engineer and the financial security that brought. And lastly, I was jumping into a situation I had no real experience of and would be at the whim of all the nefarious agents of the world.
No wonder I was stalling as much as possible.
But if there's one trait I do possess it's keeping my appointments and after hastily packing the rucksack to bursting point we were ready to leave. I'd already said goodbye to Mum and James, so it was only Shaz and I who were passengers in the car as Dad bolted up the motorway to Heathrow. Aren't roads the most depressing way to come and go from a place? Rivers of tarmac through the countryside and everyone divided into little metal boxes. I was glad this would be my last journey by car for a while.
At Heathrow check-in was a painless affair as there was no queue. Afterwards we sat in a Burger King--if in is the right word to describe airport terminals and their indivisible spaces--and picked at some fries while my flight got nearer. Then we suddenly realized I had to get through customs and this weekend looked like one of the airport's busiest. That's why there was no queue at check-in. Everyone else had sensibly gone through early. There were rushed goodbyes and hugs and then I sped to the rear of a very slow-moving line. Dad and Shaz stood together while the queue inched forward. I shed a few tears and shuffled past a screen that seperated the travelling hordes from the non-travelling hordes.
And came to the custom's queue proper.
It was a like an entire hangar devoted to customs. How many people were leaving the UK? Was this normal, or was their some 'Lets Leave Britain' conspiracy afoot? There was no way I was going to make it in time if I waited. I waved over one of the custom's helpers and got fast-tracked through.
Then I sprinted. Endless avenues of glassed corridors flashed by with views onto the runway. My pace slowed. Are airports deliberately designed for maximum distance between terminal and plane? It seems so. To shed a few last ounces of fat for overburdened planes? To enjoy the scenery? Finally I ended up walking.
When I got to the gate they were just calling last passengers.
I flashed my passport and boarding pass and left British soil.
And the flight was leaving in less than three hours.
To be honest, after talking about this round-the-world trip for the better part of a year, thinking all the time about tropical paradises, crazy characters, spiritual enlightenment and the freedom from working-life, now it was finally happening I was really bricking-it.
Shaz and I would be breaking-up, or at least spending a hefty amount of time apart. Also I was, in effect, throwing away my career as a software engineer and the financial security that brought. And lastly, I was jumping into a situation I had no real experience of and would be at the whim of all the nefarious agents of the world.
No wonder I was stalling as much as possible.
But if there's one trait I do possess it's keeping my appointments and after hastily packing the rucksack to bursting point we were ready to leave. I'd already said goodbye to Mum and James, so it was only Shaz and I who were passengers in the car as Dad bolted up the motorway to Heathrow. Aren't roads the most depressing way to come and go from a place? Rivers of tarmac through the countryside and everyone divided into little metal boxes. I was glad this would be my last journey by car for a while.
At Heathrow check-in was a painless affair as there was no queue. Afterwards we sat in a Burger King--if in is the right word to describe airport terminals and their indivisible spaces--and picked at some fries while my flight got nearer. Then we suddenly realized I had to get through customs and this weekend looked like one of the airport's busiest. That's why there was no queue at check-in. Everyone else had sensibly gone through early. There were rushed goodbyes and hugs and then I sped to the rear of a very slow-moving line. Dad and Shaz stood together while the queue inched forward. I shed a few tears and shuffled past a screen that seperated the travelling hordes from the non-travelling hordes.
And came to the custom's queue proper.
It was a like an entire hangar devoted to customs. How many people were leaving the UK? Was this normal, or was their some 'Lets Leave Britain' conspiracy afoot? There was no way I was going to make it in time if I waited. I waved over one of the custom's helpers and got fast-tracked through.
Then I sprinted. Endless avenues of glassed corridors flashed by with views onto the runway. My pace slowed. Are airports deliberately designed for maximum distance between terminal and plane? It seems so. To shed a few last ounces of fat for overburdened planes? To enjoy the scenery? Finally I ended up walking.
When I got to the gate they were just calling last passengers.
I flashed my passport and boarding pass and left British soil.
posted by Steve at 12:30 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home