Spring Break my junior year of college, I went to London with my friends Bill, Pete, and Travis. The itinerary called for a visit to our friend James in England for a few days, then I was heading off to the south of France to visit our friend Kat; Bill and James were off to Spain to visit our friend Emily; and Pete and Travis were going to rock London.
The plan was to drive from Bill's to my parents' house in the Chicago burbs where Bill would keep his car for the week we were out of the country. I would do my laundry in the 5 hour interim between us getting there and when we needed to leave for O'Hare, and then away we'd go.
We get to my parents' house no problem and I load my clothes into the washer. Obviously I had plenty of time to dry them AND pack, so everything was easy peasy. Then I realize with three hours til we go to the airport that I had left my passport in Madison.
*CUE ATOMIC BOMB BLAST*
Now as everyone obviously knows, I am a total tweak. I freak out over stupid BS minutiae, can you imagine how I handled this? Have you ever had such a wave of panic come over you that your blood runs cold? I didn't even know it was possible.
So what's a girl to do? I called our everyday Superman, a one Mr. Dan Henry (proving once and for all you CAN trust a man with two first names), who was still in Madison, located my passport on their kitchen table and sprinted to the Memorial Union where a VanGalder bus to O'Hare was thisclose to leaving. Gets on board and just announces randomly to the bus "Is anyone going to O'Hare?" And hands my passport off to a random stranger. I get his number relayed to me and we work it out that he'll meet me at the international terminal.
Phew. Ok. Next item on the agenda: drying my clothes and packing. In all the hullabaloo, I realize that shit, it's now 2.5 hours til takeoff, meaning we have to be at O'Hare, like ... now. So I quickly open up a duffel bag (it was basically a glorified gym bag) and start dumping all my laundry into it. ANNNND off we go to the airport!
Now all my friends are checked in and at the gate, and here I am lounging around at the check-in gate (which closes at 8 PM, by the way, and the time is reading 7:40 and counting), frantically calling random VanGalder bus guy every 5 minutes, who is crawling along at a glacial pace on the Kennedy in rush hour traffic. Awesome. He gets there at 7:55, I run through check-in in about 5 minutes or less, run through security to Air India, and am literally the last person who boards the plane.
In a post-9/11 world, of course this is cause for concern, so I'm stopped at the gate and they ask to search my carry-on. Well yes of course you can Air India, I'm just happy to be here. So keep in mind at this point I haven't even seen what is in my carry on yet, but based on the curious glances Mr. and Ms. Air India Security are giving each other, I'm in for quite the surprise on the other side of the pond.
After a completely uneventful flight (especially after all the pre-flight drama), we land the next day at 11am local time in England. James meets us at a tube stop across the street from Buckingham Palace where there is a giant park (a Google search has just informed me that this is St. James Park) so we go to enjoy the sun and lay down and perhaps day-nap off our jet lag.
I also decide to take this opportunity to open my duffel bag and find out what I'm working with for the next week.
Ok seriously. I had brought 37 pairs of underwear. And they're all wet. and not in a good way. So what's an American Girl in London to do? Well I do the most logical thing. I lay them out in the sun to dry out. In St. James Park. At noon. On a Saturday. In Queen Elizabeth's backyard. Obviously.
The next thing I know, a freaking constable -- yes, a bonafide bobby (!) -- comes over in his awkwardly British way where they obviously have no idea how to handle this ridiculous American swine blaspheming the Queen's grass and informs me that this is probably really a bad idea.
the worst part? That duffel bag weighed like 25 pounds. I made Bill and Travis carry it the whole time. And God bless James' grandparents who lent me their dryer to dry all my underroos. I can't even begin to discuss what they must have thought of me.
After a completely uneventful flight (especially after all the pre-flight drama), we land the next day at 11am local time in England. James meets us at a tube stop across the street from Buckingham Palace where there is a giant park (a Google search has just informed me that this is St. James Park) so we go to enjoy the sun and lay down and perhaps day-nap off our jet lag.
I also decide to take this opportunity to open my duffel bag and find out what I'm working with for the next week.
Ok seriously. I had brought 37 pairs of underwear. And they're all wet. and not in a good way. So what's an American Girl in London to do? Well I do the most logical thing. I lay them out in the sun to dry out. In St. James Park. At noon. On a Saturday. In Queen Elizabeth's backyard. Obviously.
The next thing I know, a freaking constable -- yes, a bonafide bobby (!) -- comes over in his awkwardly British way where they obviously have no idea how to handle this ridiculous American swine blaspheming the Queen's grass and informs me that this is probably really a bad idea.
the worst part? That duffel bag weighed like 25 pounds. I made Bill and Travis carry it the whole time. And God bless James' grandparents who lent me their dryer to dry all my underroos. I can't even begin to discuss what they must have thought of me.
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| (Awkwardly) bonding with the locals in France |
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