,
Having spent
the past couple of days traipsing about London, scouring the clearance racks
for 50% off Kate Middleton inspired designer frocks and indulging in one too
many pints of Guinness, it was now time to put on my responsible hat, kick into
“mean ol’ Auntie” gear and pick up
the kid at Heathrow. The former French
revolutionary 12 year old had blossomed overnight into a “wise beyond her years” 16 year old fashionista, eager to take on
the world and follow in her Auntie’s pink-sneakered footprints and discover
far-away lands in even further away places.
Fortunate to have the privilege of spending two weeks soaking up Greek
and Italian culture whilst on a school excursion, my niece had decided to
prolong her travel adventure and accompany me on my European journey. Hoping to re-live the “good old days” with her uber cool, if somewhat strict middle-aged
Auntie, the kid envisioned a care-free holiday, her every whim catered to,
wishes granted by a magical fairy dust princess, or, in my case, “money is no object” rich Auntie (who,
moi??). Residing in a “made for TV” saccharine fairy-tale
version of reality, my sister’s youngest child was in for a harsh wake up call,
appalled at having to traipse through Europe with her frugal and economical
Auntie, who subsided on a pauper’s budget on her sojourns around the globe.
Travelling with cheapo shopaholic me would
prove to be an exercise in patience, exhaustion and frustration, as we un-graciously
hauled our over-burdened luggage on buses and trains, all the while enduring
the hostile glares of our fellow passengers, as we trudged and schlepped our
way through Europe. What? No servants?
No limos? No five star
accommodation? And, to further add
insult to injury, we had to forgo cabs and either walk or take the over-crowded
pedestrian bus. Yikes!! This is a holiday? What had the kid gotten
herself into?
It all
started to go downhill the morning that I left my B & B in order to make my
way to the airport in anticipation of my niece’s arrival in London. Flying solo from Athens, the kid was in her
glory, pretending to be a jet-setting socialite, who was accustomed to boarding
planes at a moment’s notice. My sister
had threatened to disown me as a relative if I was so much as one second late
in picking up her daughter at Heathrow, hence my 6:00am wake-up call from
Canada, commanding me to get up, get dressed and high-tail it to Heathrow
lickety-split. Like seriously? The kid’s
flight only lands at 3:45pm, leaving me plenty of time in which to get a
coffee, meander along the shops, partake of a leisurely lunch, take a nap and
make it to the airport in time. You would think that a generous 9 hours would
suffice. Well, think again, as I never
anticipated the issues that I would encounter along the way.
Having
already navigated the hallways and corridors of Terminal 3, upon my arrival a
couple of days ago, I was smug in my expertise of getting out of the airport
cheaply, quickly and economically by choosing to travel on the National Express
Coach bus for a very reasonable cost of £6.
Hoping to
save a bit of time and also catch up on some sightseeing, I hopped on the “Hop on Hop off” bus that was so
conveniently located just down the street from my London digs. Since I had already purchased my £30, “valid for 24 hours” voucher the previous
day, I was quite familiar with the route the bus would take, having spent the
day looping around London on the “Big Bus
Tour.” Smarty pants me was planning
to hop off the tour bus not far from Victoria Coach Station, board the Airport
Express bus to Heathrow and arrive at the airport in time for a leisurely
lunch, allowing me plenty of time to read magazines while I waited for the
kid. Great plan in theory, not so much
in reality, though.
Weaving its
way along the ever so crowded streets, the “Big
Bus Tour” crawled at a snail’s pace, barely inching along the congested
traffic jammed laneways. On the tour bus
for most of the morning, stranded out by the London Eye, I was now a bazillion miles
away from Victoria Coach Station, no longer a convenient short walk but a
marathon inspired sprint away. Yikes!! It was now approaching noon and my plan to be
leisurely settled in the airport Lounge, enjoying a vino with my lunch, was
replaced instead with sheer panic, as I now had 3 hours in which to race to the
tarmac and greet the kid. Visions of
having to endure the wrath of my sister cursing me for the remainder of my life
sent shivers of fear down my spine, as I envisioned the kid wailing unceremoniously
upon learning her fate of being stranded at the airport, having to sleep on
cheap plastic chairs and scrounge for left-over food scraps for the duration of
her first grown-up idyllic European holiday.
So what’s a
gal to do but grudgingly hop into a cab to race her to the bus depot. Like, seriously - I tried walking for about 10 minutes or so but
gave up when I realized it would take me at least 3 hours to get to the bus
station, so for a mere £20 (Yikes!!), I was deposited at Victoria Coach station
within 25 minutes. Okay. Breathe. Relax.
I’m half-way to the airport already. Whoa. Hold your horses. Not so quick
there. You sure about that?
Clambering
off the bus 45 minutes later at Terminal 3, I now had less than 2 hours to get
to Terminal 5, a mere hop, skip and jump away – or, so I thought. Yikes!!
Little did I realize that Heathrow is a sprawling “metropolis” in itself, encompassing 5 Terminals spread out over
several acres, all within easy access via the underground or Tube. Now - normally, this would not pose any sort
of problem for most people, but with severely claustrophobic me - who goes to
great lengths to avoid the entrapment of elevators and subways - this is an
entire other set of issues, requiring years of therapy and endless gallons of
vino to be able to possibly overcome.
The Tube could efficiently scoot me to my destination within a couple of
minutes and would be the wisest and most practical choice - but would
effectively result in the entire city of London witnessing a middle-aged
pink-sneakered woman having an undignified meltdown, un-elegantly gasping for
air, screeching in the black lightless tunnels, panicking that the train is
about to breakdown - resulting in her being trapped until the end of time in a
dark confining tube for the remainder of her life. Not a pretty sight, if you know what I mean.
All righty
then, what next? How to get to Terminal
5? Dashing, sprinting and racing from
hallway to corridor to information desk, I was adamant that there was no way in
hell that I was going to get to Terminal 5 via the underground, determined that
there was an alternate route in which to navigate from terminal to terminal.
Seriously contemplating exiting the building, whether having to resort to
racing along the tarmac and dodge incoming airplanes along the way, my pink
sneakers were up to the task. Visions of a pink-clad delusional Canadian foreigner
unintentionally making front page news headlines – unceremoniously arrested for
sprinting along the runway of a major International airport – were not the
memories I wished to take home from my European adventure. Quite certain that my sister wouldn’t even
post bail, still mad that the kid had been abandoned at the arrivals Lounge; I
was in quite a conundrum indeed.
With less
than an hour left to meet and greet my niece, desperate measures called for
extreme action and thus I was left with no choice but to beg and plead with the
nice folk at the National Express Bus Coach counter whether or not there was
any possible way the bus would be able to give me a ride to Terminal 5. Let me tell you, in no uncertain terms, that
crying and appearing hysterical will get you the desired results nine times out
of ten. Without even having to dish out
any extra money for additional fare, my old bus ticket still valid, I was
graciously escorted to Terminal 5, with a couple of extra minutes to spare!! Now that’s good old-fashioned British
hospitality!!
Come
traipse all over London on a day-long hike involving buses, taxis and even more
buses (but no underground!!) as I scramble to get to the sprawling hub of
International travel in 9 hours or less – encountering traffic jams, that pesky
claustrophobic Tube and genuinely swell people along the way…
Next week
– Where do my pink sneakers take me?? Stay tuned!!
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