SNOWPOCOLYPSE Part Two: The Journey Home

Greetings, my dearest readers, from the colonies!  Yes, I did in fact make it back to the States (a story you'll read momentarily)-- terribly sorry for posting abominably late, but things have been rather busy, and once I got home, I had already told the story several times, so I stopped thinking about putting it up here.  But for completeness' sake, let me catch you up on the end of my stay in London and the journey home.

Right.  Let's see if I can even remember this far back.  Wednesday (Dec. 22) was my last day in London.  I spent the morning traveling all over the place (yay for my finally-acquired-public-transportation-navigating-skills!)-- I went to the West End to pick up tickets for a show that night, and from there, I headed to Borough Market (one of my very favorite places in London) to find some lunch.  Getting to Borough Market proved to be slightly more challenging than I had anticipated, because while my Tube navigation was spot-on, my above-ground navigation was considerably less so, and I was without a map.  So I wound up taking a twenty minute detour.  Oops.  At least it was scenic.

I enjoyed a lovely British Christmas season lunch-- a mulled apple and pear cider, a pie (like a little meat pie, but it had sweet potato and goat cheese...mmm), a brownie from the amazing bakery place (plus I bought another one to save for later), and a mini mince pie.  Yum.  I then made my way back to the flat to pack up my things and such, but took a little detour (intentional this time) and swung by the salon that's a few blocks away and made an appointment to have my hair cut that afternoon.  I spent the next few hours panicking about what I was going to do next (you'll see why in a minute), but then gathered up my courage and headed back to the salon.

Once there, I had to wait for a little while for my stylist to finish with his earlier client, so whilst sitting on the couch, I was given a glass of rather strong mulled wine by the receptionist.  On one hand, this was pretty awesome-- hey, free mulled wine!  On the other hand, I was a bit concerned that drinking before making major decisions about one's hairstyle could be slightly problematic.  But I happily drank it anyway, in the hopes that it would steel my nerves.

I finally sat down in the stylist's chair.  "Vat are ve goink to do for you today, dahrlink?" he asked.  I took a deep breath, "Cut it all off!" I told him, "A bob."  "Oh, zis vill look soo sexy, darlink.  So sexy. Ok!"  (The stylist, Sid, was hysterical.  I couldn't tell you where he was from-- he really had the most peculiar accent.  But he was awesome.  And a damn good hairstylist.)

I started freaking out when I felt the scissors at the very top of my neck, and heard the first snip.  I couldn't see what he was doing for a good 15 minutes, because he was working with the back of my head, which only added to my anxiety.  But by the time he had finished, I was feeling much less terror and much more excitement-- my hair looked chic, I looked totally different, and I felt somewhat liberated, even.  Still didn't stop me from constantly running my hands through my hair and trying to figure out where it had all gone, though.

After the haircut, I hightailed it down to the West End to meet Daniel for dinner before the show that we were seeing.  We had to eat a super-rushed dinner (because I was running late), and then practically run to the theatre, but it was still nice.  And the play that we saw-- "The 39 Steps" (based on the Hitchcock film)-- was brilliant. Absolutely hysterical.  Classic overdramatic mock-serious comedy, like what my friends and I used to write in high school... only much better. 

We went back to the flat, I packed my things, and went to bed early, as I had to get up at 5:30 am in order to make my 10:30 flight.  I took a nice, quiet 1.5 hour trip on the Tube to Heathrow, which lulled me into thinking that I would actually have a nice, quiet trip through the airport and onto my flight.  I was wrong.

The airport was a madhouse already, at 7:45 am.  I grabbed my bags out of luggage storage as quickly as possible, and made my way up to the departures floor, to see nearly every inch of floor space occupied with people and luggage, everyone either standing still in the longest queues that I have ever seen, or scrambling about in the little available space to maneuver into one of these queues.  I was beginning to worry that I wouldn't make my flight, let alone get a refund for the extra ticket that I had to buy (that cost an absolute fortune, by the way).  But there was nothing to do other than to queue and hope for the best, so queue I did... for TWO HOURS.  Yes, I spent two hours in a line to drop off my bags.  By that point, I was convinced that I would miss my flight.  I gave up on the possibility of arguing for a refund, and simply sprinted for security after checking all of my luggage.  Miraculously, I made it to my gate with ten minutes to spare.  And even more miraculously, I was bumped up to business class!!! 

Let me tell you-- business class on international flights= fantastic.  I had one of those sleeper-seat things, that reclines all the way into a bed, with my own little private compartment, free champagne, a three-course lunch, high tea, and all sorts of general awesomeness.  For this, I somewhat forgave British Airways for causing me so much grief.  But again, only somewhat.

We arrived into Newark, where I missed my connection to Philadelphia because our flight took an hour and a half to leave the runway at Heathrow.  So after waiting anxiously for my bags to arrive (and they all did, which was yet another miracle), and passing through customs (where they thankfully didn't question my form, on which I had underdeclared by a rather significant amount), I sat and waited for a few hours for my mom to pick me up (thank you Mom!!), during which time I called several people and spoke in a British accent, because it was so strange to be hearing so many American accents around me.

I finally arrived at home late on Thursday night, totally exhausted, but so glad to have simply made it there after all of that time and trouble.  Yes, I missed Bath, and yes, I missed my ASE friends, but by that point, the pain of farewell had mostly worn away and was replaced by a strong desire to go home and see my family and friends there, which, once satisfied, felt wonderful. 

If you are still reading this blog, my friends, please stay tuned for one last post-- a final reflection on my time in England and my struggles with reintegrating myself into life in America.  Thank you for your patience, and I hope that you've had a lovely holiday season!  Cheers!