We managed to leave anyway (with the cats left at home, and apparently the books as well). We were about a mile down the road when I said: "Did anyone lock the door and put on the alarm?" Apparently not. We did a quick turnaround and drove back to find, indeed, the unlocked, unalarmed house.
That little error corrected, the rest of the trip to the airport was uneventful, though by no means short—involving a stop at Starbucks and QFC, a missed turn on the way to Gretchen's new house, and enough traffic through Seattle that we got to the airport only three hours before our flight (which was delayed half an hour anyway).
Here we are at the airport, bag and baggage, ready for travel. That low black duffel bag is what I refer to as “the shoe bag.” That’s the extra bag I added when I found that I could not possibly pack both clothes and shoes in one suitcase—the shoes would take most of the space! And you really can’t skimp on shoes. After all, an army may travel on its stomach but the rest of us travel on our feet, and our feet will not be happy without adequate and appropriate shoes. That means a pair for running (lightweight Nike free hardly take any space at all), a sturdy pair for country walking, a lighter pair for lighter walking, and pair of sandals for when your feet just need to be free (and since I was wearing the sandals, that was just three extra pairs, plus a pair belonging to my mother—not bad at all).
It was amazing how quickly the “extra” space in the shoe bag filled up with bags of snack bars, maps and travel guides, and other odds and ends that didn’t quite fit in the primary suitcase. The smallish green and black bag is my laptop, which is quite light really, but became heavy when I filled the extra space in that bag with magazines (which are amazingly heavy). The idea is that over the space of the trip, the snacks will be eaten and the magazines will be read and discarded, leaving extra space to fill with a few, minor, well-chosen purchases.
I am wearing my ideal airplane travel outfit. Stretchy black yoga pants, for comfort on the plane and in case I want to do a few spontaneous yoga poses in the aisle of the plane (which might have been a good idea, had I not been trapped in the window seat, requiring an exodus of the entire row whenever I wanted to get up—which meant that I only got up three times during the entire flight). (And yes, the "entire row" was only my parents, but since my mother tends to be a bit of an immovable object on airplanes—she only leaves her seat when absolutely necessary—getting past her was a bit awkward. Especially when both she and my dad were asleep. I could climb over one body, but two was a bit much!) On top I had layers, to save packing space and account for every possible temperature level on the plane—a polished cotton belted jacket (for some bit of stylishness), over a bright green hooded cotton jacket, atop a tissue paper thin cotton tee shirt, in case the plane was really, really warm and I felt the need to strip all my clothes off. (Which I did. Then I got too cool and put the green jacket back on. Then I got a blanket. Then I got too hot and threw everything off again.)
I had forgotten, or underestimated, how wearing a long-haul flight in economy class really is. I had sort of thought I would feel like Andie in The Devil Wears Prada, who when she flew to Paris for fashion week, was so glad to be in a place where no one could bother her, that she didn’t even mind the sardine can conditions of economy. Honestly, it is so cramped and boring, despite the movies (which you would think would make the time pass), that the airplane meals are highlights because they break the monotony. I lovingly ate every scrap of my microwaved dinner, happy for the entertainment value of a beef casserole with peas and carrots. After that it was just a countdown to the next meal, a breakfast of sorts, which was especially significant because it is served only about an hour before landing. Breakfast truly meant that the long wait was almost over.
And then we were there. A final indignity—the plane had to land in a far field so we were all piled into buses to take us to the terminal. But actually, the buses were much more comfortable to ride in than the plane! Passport control—no problems (apparently we did not appear suspicious). Baggage carousel—all bags arrived safely. Her Majesty’s Customs—we sailed through the green zone (nothing to declare) without a hitch. We emerged into the arrivals hall, fringed with drivers and greeters bearing signs with names on them, all very much like the opening scenes in Love Actually (Widescreen Edition), though without, of course, the Hugh Grant voiceover narration. (More’s the pity.) We had arrived. We were in London.
