My perception is that I slept no hours that night on the plane.
Watched a lot of Flight Plan progress and statistics -- fascinating
data for the zoned out. Twisted, turned and tried to quiet myself a
lot, I can remember. Wore an eye covering and ear plugs, but all to no
avail. When I finally decided to give up and accept I was awake, we
were a mere 90 minutes or so from London, and amazingly I discovered I
wasn't dead (which one would assume I would be) – and besides . . .
Cedric was also awake and just as nice as he'd been before we fooled
ourselves into thinking perhaps we'd call it a day.
Next thing you knew they were giving us a true continental breakfast
and we were wiping the sleepers out of our eyes. (Not!) Prepare for
landing, folks; we are coming into London Heathrow Airport.
My little old heart did beat a little faster as I saw those misty row
houses come into view, I have to admit. I knew I was not pressed for
time, so took my time getting to where I figured I needed to be. In
that airport they do not even list your departing gate until 45
minutes before departure ("Won't know
the gate until the plane you're leaving on has made its way to the
airport to deposit the previous passengers and been assigned a berth,"
I was informed). When I finally moseyed down to the area of my gate
(#8 in terminal 1), they said didn't you get that yellow sticker for
your passport and have your picture taken. (Hhm? Somehow I had missed
that.) It is true that when I first arrived there HAD been this
enormous line of disembarked passengers creeping slowly along in long
cordoned rows in a very large, warm, smelly room. After passing along
it for some time I got the distinct impression that this was for
"Heathrow-is-my-final-destination" passengers, and hollered across
several rows to the attending official (young woman -- wouldn't have
had the nerve to do this if it had been a man, but, heck, didn't want
to loose my place if it weren't) at the front of the line to confirm
my suspicions. This turned out to indeed be true and I and a number of
other passengers exited the line -- me to go and find my gate, with
the firm belief that I would go through customs in Manchester, MY
final destination.
I had been turned back from gte #8 with the instructions to go to some
desk or other up near where I had first arrived. After many
miss-starts, about-faces, and questions asked, I finally found the
correct place – podium 37. Behind it was this kindly grandfatherly
man, very gentle and cordial. (Think of the man behind the façade of
the Wizard of Oz.) There were two mothers with their children in front
of me in line, Scottish and American. I waited patiently as he chatted
with the children, calling them out by name, identifying each one and
engaging them in a brief conversation. When it was my turn, I gave him
my passport and declaration paper. We chatted similarly about where I
was headed and what I hoped to do on my British adventure. He said
"jolly good" and sent me on my way to get my photo, enclosing the
yellow sticker in my passport to be retrieved by the people at gate
#8. Everything was uneventful from there with my boarding. Once again
there was some reason for delay. (British Airways doing business as
bmi.) The captain also chatted with us friendily several times from
the cockpit and bid us be at ease. During this flight I asked the
stewardi, that if I hadn't gone through customs yet, I'd be doing it
in Manchester, right? (asked as I began to question myself about what
exactly had happened to me back there at desk #37. Could that have
been "going through custom"? Nah.) They were clueless and said, Yep,
that's it. Later I checked through my passport for the marks they
rubber stamp you with and saw all my old ones near the front. The new
one not there. Later still doubting I looked through again more
thoroughly and discovered on page 17 THE stamp, dated July 10, 2012,
that stated that Deborah Florence Taylor has leave to enter, abide in,
travel about, and enjoy England for the space of 6 months. In the
Manchester airport there was no customs queue.
Went to the baggage claim area, where one is instructed to "reclaim"
their baggage. I'm not exactly sure how that works, seeing as how one
has not claimed it a first time to start with. I got my first large
monstrous bag half way through the slow, turnstile maneuver. Smugly
knowing that I personally would luckily be receiving all of MY bags, I
wondered how this could be possible with the extent of changes I had
experienced that day. Soon, as if in slow motion, the turntable
seemingly all a sudden churned to a dead halt -- without my other bag!
(But, wait!!) Filled out papers. Not to worry, would be delivered to
my doorstep in Grimsby. (Haven't seen it yet, but, you know, it's OK.
Have everything mostly I need for now in my other bag. Truly, a
multitude of to-be-expected, exasperating things have happened all
along the way, and I have just felt comforted that everything would
turn out just fine – and you know it has! The Lord has blessed me over
and over in this journey, and for that I am VERY grateful.)
Manchester was a nice small airport, in proportion to like half of the
arrival area at SL Int Airport, with a similar pickup area directly
outside the glass doors. My next challenge was connecting with Dave
Hardy, my ride to my new home. I had actually spoken to him once over
a stranger's cell while waiting in London, so at least I knew he knew
I was on a later flight, so knowing that was comforting. Richard had
said Dave would be waiting for me on the other side of the Customs
check. (Yeah, well, so much for that!) He had also said he'd be
holding a sign that read Deborah Taylor -- that had reassured me when
he said that. There WAS one man like that. Regrettably, his sign did
not say my name. (Oh, drat!) I walked back and forth a bit, thinking
he might be inside and me out, then me out and perhaps him in. Outside
along the curb at pick-up I asked a movie star looking guy if I could
please make a call from his cell in my distressed state. He looked at
me with a bored look and proceeded to ignore me. He was the only one
in all those two days who ever gave me such a response. As I was
turning away, this nice, solid, Richard-sort of guy pulled up in his
Mitsubishi SUV, leaned over, rolled down the window and looked at me
with knowing eyes – like "Are you the one? The auntie I'm supposed to
collect?!"
Off we went, for a two hour drive along the English motorways, through
round-abouts, alongside hayfields and villages (I have to admit that I
was dozing off consistently by now!), sharing all the way. He was as
good and kind as he looked and I made, once again, a new friend --
this one to keep, as he is close by. He is very outdoorsy and said he
would be happy to invite me to accompany him and his partner (What the
Brits call their unmarried spouse. Alas, very common!) and their kids
on hikes to the Peak district and other interesting spots. Seems they
travel a lot. In the last year they both quit their full-time jobs
and are pursuing degrees that will lead to work they really like
(graphic design and nursing, respectively), beyond merely making
money; in fact, less of it with the anticipated career change but more
time to pursue the more meaningful areas of their lives. Does that
make sense? Smart thinking!
He delivered me to Sandra's (pronounced Saundra) door just before 7pm.
(She had rung up her son, Richard, having expected me closer to 5,
wondering if all was well.) Happy to have made it, all in one piece --
all in a day, as they say – well, actually two.
I WAS IN ENGLAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
