DON'T MAKE THIS MISTAKE AGAIN!

SUNDAY SEPT 11; MONDAY SEPT 12

 

Heading Home

 

I get sad and scared early this morning.  Very sad to be leaving my sisters, Judy and Sally.   Scared because I know this return trip home will be tough physically and emotionally.  I want to be up to it.  In my e-mail I receive an inspirational essay on resilience and determination:  “Persevering does not mean being rigid and fixed, but flowing like water, willing to meet the conditions at hand yet never giving up.”

And I get an e-mail from my friend Susan, who reminds me she has been lighting a candle for me each day while I’ve been gone and won’t stop till I get back.  And messages from friends who say they miss me.  Brings me to tears while it strengthens me.

After breakfast, Judy and I walk in Crane Park.  Judy and Sally are so lucky to have a beautiful park in walking distance from their homes in Twickenham.  Everyone on the path this morning has kids or dogs.  I point out a terrific spider web to passing children, who are amazed by its intricacy.

 At 1:00 we walk to a restaurant in Twickenham Green, which used to be a men’s loo (the restaurant, that is).  Carol and Simon, Sally, Kathy and Paul meet us there.  I look at everything around us while enjoying crab cakes, thinking it will be a long time before I return. 

Typical architecture in Twickenham

We chose to eat outside.

I had their signature crab cakes.

Across the street, laundry dries.

A warm, sunny day on the Green.

Cricket and Lounging on the Green.

From this point on, I take no photos.  Talk about tension!

I shower and finish packing at Judy’s place.  I am so very grateful she and Sally accepted me as their step-sister.  They are the wonderful present I got from the marriage between my nutsy father and their nutsy mother.

At 7 PM, Sally comes to get us.  It is hard not crying.  Why am I such a mess?  When they drop me off, I can’t watch Sally’s car drive away so I head quickly into the Queen’s International Airport, which is new and snazzy. It is 7:30 PM.   I see a sign for Turkish Airlines business class travelers, but no line for tourist class.  I ask the uniformed woman behind the counter, “Can you tell me where to go for the cheap seats?”

“Is it just you?” she asks.  “Come here, I’ll take care of you.” 

Next, I go to Security, where the agents are joking around.  Very different from Atlanta, where the agents look stern and business-like.   I hope this gang are paying attention.  A young couple with creamed coffee complexions are standing at the receiving end of the conveyor belt.  Mom holds a stuffed baby bag in her left hand and their sleeping baby in a car seat in her right while Dad struggles with a stroller and chair.  I say, “You’ve got to be strong.”  

In a strong accent he says, “No, this is light,” and we smile all over the place at each other.

At 8:30 I’m done with all the rigamarole and shop for a book to read.  They finally post my flight’s gate.  At the gate there is plenty of room plus an outlet for my laptop.  I can check my email!  An unsure, elderly woman chats a bit after I reassure her that she is in the right place.  “I get so scared when I have to fly,” she says.  Actually, I think most of us older travelers deal with the in-the-air bit just fine.  It's all the airport stuff that is unnerving.

 
When I board the plane, who do I see in the seats next to mine?  The family I spoke with in Security!  “I am following you,” I say.  We all laugh and rejoice in the cutest baby I’ve seen for years.  Maybe 6-8 months old?  Curly black hair with a light caramel complexion and a big teething smile.  Mom and Dad sing to him.  “Persian poems,” he says.  His wife also sings “Twinkle, Twinkle” in English.  They are on their way to see her father in Iran.  

Other passengers pass by my seat, which is the front row of economy class.  As she passes, the scared elderly woman and I smile and wish each other well.  Many others smile back at me.  We’re a friendly bunch this trip.

Turkish Airlines to Istanbul leaves Heathrow at 10:30 PM.  The plane is only half full. (The second bomb attack in Istanbul drastically reduced the number of tourists, I learn later.)  I take advantage of empty rows by moving one row back after dinner.  I sleep about an hour on my back with my knees bent.  The young family gladly spreads out their baby stuff over my old seat.   We land at 2 AM Brit time, which is 4 AM Turkey time.  Back into the bazaar-like Ataturk Airport. 

After a welcome stop in a beautiful bathroom, I stand still on the edge of the huge crowd sorting out where to go.  With a ten hour layover, I would like to find a lounge I am eligible to use.   Before I left Georgia I tried learning whether there was a lounge for peons (not first class passengers) but was frustrated by language barriers.  The airport web site did state there is an information office someplace in here.  But first I have to go through Security again and Passport Check.  Several male officials stand around but each one is frowning.  I am sure they are scrutinizing all of us as potential trouble-makers, for which I am grateful, but I am afraid to ask them where the information booth is. 

Finally I see a welcome sign peeking up above all the quickly traveling, noisy people walking in front of me.  The gentleman behind the glass speaks some English.   “There are two lounges.  One above food court.  One below.”

“Which one is better?” I ask.  He begins to frown; I suspect he is not permitted to make recommendations.  “Well, if you were me, would you walk up or down?”  “I walk down,” he says.  I smile with gratitude.  

The whole place is colorful, loud, bustling:  chaotic. As I take the escalator down, I see squads of Korean travelers, their leaders holding up signs, shouting directions.   I crave some quiet.

For 60 euros I can sit in a semi-quiet lounge in a comfortable chair, use wi-fi, eat breakfast, read my book, and maybe sleep.   

Although we had a nice little dinner on the plane, I have a good appetite for...  what?  Gosh, some sort of creamy vegetable soup with a delicate, exotic flavor.  Then an eggroll-looking thing with something dark inside; tasty.  Then scrambled eggs, a big chunk of parsley and three kinds of cheese, dark cherry juice and a delicious latte out of a presto! machine.  They also have Turkish coffee and 17 other things to eat or drink.  I love Turkish coffee but want to sleep, if possible, sometime before my plane leaves.

Looking around the multi-roomed lounge: we are an international group with many face colors, languages and outfits.  Only one woman wears a hijab; one wears a head scarf.  Two young women wear very short shorts.  I don’t recall seeing teensy shorts in any U.S. or British airports.   It seems insensitive to me but perhaps they are Turkish and making some sort of statement?  There is so much I do not know but I am too tired to contemplate or study.  I curl into a pretzel and doze for about 45 minutes.

Finally at 12:15, a scrolling sign in the lounge says I should go to my gate.   There I go through another type of security: talking with an agent about where I have been and where I am going and whether anyone had my suitcase before it was put in the plane from Heathrow.  After that, I wait in yet another line.  A woman behind a metal screen takes my boarding card and passport and does something I cannot see with them.  

Then I have to present my passport and boarding card to yet another agent who tells me to have a seat. He tells a bunch of other people to get in line for a physical check of their carry-on bags and a pat-down.  I can see no visible reason why some of us get to skip that part.  Maybe he makes the selection numerically.  It’s not by sex, age, skin color, apparent ethnicity.  Even a woman pilot has to get in that long-winded line.

Now it is 12:45.  The plane will leave at 14:05 (2:05 PM) if it is on time.  I am too tired to write and have been running on fumes for most of this airplane adventure so my camera has remained in my backpack. 

I am amazed at myself for creating such a stupid way to travel to and from England — stunned that I did not realize how much longer going all the way East to Istanbul would make the trip.  I promise to have someone without brain damage approve my plans before I finalize plane reservations in the future.  Altogether I spend 34 hours getting home.

Here is part of what I write to Judy the next morning:

… I sure do also wish we lived closer.  It is a happy thought that we will try to meet in Montreal or Toronto…

I arrived in the Groome (shuttle) parking lot in Athens at almost 10 PM after 34 1/2 hours of travel.  Toni took me home, which was very good cause I was practically incoherent and my knees weren't working so well after all that sitting.  I went to bed right away but woke up in the middle of the night with huge leg cramps.  Feather helped me wake up this morning at 6:30…

Hot and humid with allergy and UV alerts but not as hot as it has been.  It might rain Friday.  Toni said she used up all the water in the rain barrels (3,000 gallons) trying to keep things alive.  No wonder all my friends were enamored of the Lake District photos, enjoying the lushness of rain.

I am sitting here drinking the first of many glasses of water while my internet radio is set for BBC 3…

I need to write Susan (the friend who has been lighting candles for my safe return) that I'm home.  Love and more love.

*****

It takes me a full month to recover from this trip.  My neurologist tells me this is to be expected based upon “your concussion history.”  Saving $260 on the airplane ticket by flying to London via Istanbul was so incredibly stupid it’s funny.  Apparently even though I am now 75 years old, I still need to learn by making mistakes.  

If you'd like to write me, you can add comments below or send me e-mail at rwoodel.woodel@gmail.com