It was a long, long road to get there. After the three-day flight delay I already mentioned, the fun started anew once we got to the airport. British Airways had rerouted us to Virgin Atlantic because they couldn’t fit all the passengers, which would have been fine, except British Airways does not have a weight restriction for carry-on, while Virgin Atlantic limits you to one 6kg bag. After wheedling our way out of that one (and another argument with Mum over my hairdryer), I was on the plane to Heathrow Airport in London.
For the brief moments that I saw it, London was wonderful. It was grey and white and black from all the melted snow, and there was nothing not to love about it: red buses, mossy roofs, little garden plots, tiny houses, chimneypots, and windy tumbling streets. I discovered how difficult it is to take pictures out a tram window, even with a high shutter speed.
The Tube took me to Kings Cross Station to catch a train to Gatwick. Then I hit the stairs: a bajillion of them. This wouldn’t have been any problem if it weren’t for the 70 lbs of pure suitcase I was lugging. *Hrk.* Lots of nice people helped me, and one man carried my bag all the way to the railway platform, only to have the guard tell me that the trains weren’t running because the station was flooded due to all the snow. … sigh … So I forced my suitcases back down the three flight of stairs and got back on the train to go to a station whose railways were still running. In my oh-no-I’m-late frenzy, I accidentally bought a first-class train ticket (no wonder it was so expensive…), which turned out to have lovely blue cushy seats and big windows. The "complimentary tea service" never actually came.
I squeezed into Gatwick at 1:00 for my 1:00 flight, which WAS DELAYED UNTIL 3 O’CLOCK—HALLELUJAH! I had a whole hour to pick up a bite to eat, wander round the shops for a bit, and call my mother. On a side note for anyone travelling to London in the near future, Gatwick has no pay-phones, it has bleed-your-wallet-dry-phones. 1.20 GBP buys you 20 seconds before it disconnects—and another 1.20 just to call the person back to explains before the phone goes dead again. That’s 60p—or almost one dollar per second! Whose time is that valuable!? Luckily I was full of blackcurrant yoghurt and passionfruit OJ, which made Catherine a very happy traveller and not mind so much about the silly English phones…
A good portion of the other Bologna passengers were native Italians, and it made me feel better just listening to the ebbs and flows of that beautiful language while I was on the plane. It helped that the people were all so sexy. I don’t mean looks-wise they inherently more attractive, I mean the way they carry themselves—the way their clothes fit! I slyly took several pictures of this one man with a drop-dead gorgeously fitted long coat on. It was fairly difficult to get a good picture while he wasn't look--I know, I know, creepy-touristy, but it was either that or tear it off his body as a souvenir. That coat! Auh!
A lot of things were completely different to how I pictured them, but my suspicions were entirely correct with Luca. Just as I had foreseen, I completely lost the ability to use words to form language; I don’t think I could have formed a coherent English sentence in the state I was in. I was reduced to a helpless, embarrassing deaf-mute that couldn’t do anything except numbly follow along. I can’t imagine it was the best first impression. I met his friend, who everyone calls Toble or Taba, and it was very, very, very cool to actually hear him and Luca chatting in Italian, so that now I can match the name to the face to the voice. It’s kind of funny not knowing how a person moves—I know that sounds weird—I’ve seen tons of pictures but never really web-chatted in depth, I’ve never heard him say anything except “cioccolato” (long story). You end up forcing your brain to reconcile the way your imagined things with the way the person is; his speech patterns are very different than how I hear them in my head when we talk on MSN.
At any rate, it was a huge comfort to not have to hail a taxi, and to have someone who knew the city (and two people to take the pressure off me for conversation). Taba also drives the coolest car ever: it’s a giant red party van that looks awesome in the sea of tiny little Euro-sedans, so I got to experience some genuine Italian driving. Yeah. That was, um, that was exciting. o_O Italians on mopeds and motorcycles ride between lanes of cars, which I’m used to seeing in NYC, but when the lanes are too close, they just zip right into oncoming traffic and then back into your lane to cut you off with centimetres to spare. Italians also don’t brake, they swerve. Michael—you’d fit right in, although you would hate everyone on the road. ;P
It was pretty awkward just not knowing what to do or say, but Luca took me to his house to have a breather (and meet the kitty! and see the books!), then we carried on to the hotel, where I will be until January 23. For now, this blog post is going on and on, and my energy is not. Ciao for now, tutti.
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