2004-06-17 - 10:30 a.m.

Ah, Heathrow.

What a hole.

Gates 12 and 13, latter of which our much-delayed flight to JFK was taking off from, are roughly a mile apart, or so it felt.

Never mind that we had an hour and twenty minutes from the projected time of landing to projected time of takeoff; never mind that we sat on the runway in Barcelona for roughly 40 minutes; never mind that we then sat on the runway at Heathrow for another 20 minutes because our groundcrew wasn't there to meet the plane; never mind that we were about 15 minutes late anyway landing.

All of which adds up to an incredibly mad dash through Terminal One to get to Terminal Three, from which our flight was to depart; and then a little speedy meandering, looking for a screen that would tell us exactly where our flight us, and then, finally, the aforementioned enormous distance between gates.

There was much running, and a little swearing, and also a little hoping on my part that we'd be stuck for another day on the continent, and that maybe I'd have to call Lara: "Hello, Lara? Yes, Jim and I were wondering if you and Roj wanted a little company this evening"...

As it was, our incredible athletic prowesses (!) got us through the Pain in the Ass That is Heathrow and we just barely made it onto our flights in time.

People, I did not want to leave. I wanted to stay and eat a continental breakfast of Jamon and cheese and some yogurt and cereal every single morning. I wanted to dine at 2:30 and 9:30 every day. I wanted to walk cell phone-free streets, really enjoy the place in which I live, marvel every single day at how good life.

Bah. Of course, I'm sure I could do that here, if only I could muster up the energy.

Phoo!

 

 

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