My flight out of Amman was strangely empty. There were no more than thirty people on board. Honestly, I’m surprised it even flew. Maybe it had to return to the UK for some logistical reason. I don’t know. But with the whole row to myself, for the first time in my flight history, I got to stretch out and sleep. It was like it was the poor man’s version of first class.
I landed at Stansted and hopped on a train to Plaistow, where I had booked some cheap accommodation. Finding the place was easy enough, but getting in? Not so much. The property used one of those keypad systems… and even though they’d sent me the code, i just couldn’t get it to work. I tried again and again… and again… growing increasingly frustrated with each number press… until I finally messaged the owners, demanding they come to the property immediately to let me in.
Then, as I stood there fuming, I noticed another keypad on the door. Would it have killed them to mention that in the instructions? Of course, as soon as I entered the code into the second keypad, the door opened. Problem solved… or so I thought.
When I got to the entrance of my room, I had to deal with yet another keypad. This place was a multilevel house that had been converted into individual boarding rooms. It was cheap…. absolutely… but I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d do if I locked myself out without my phone and forgot the code. I’d be screwed. The layout of the place was whack too. Rooms were numbered in no logical order, with 1 and 6 on the ground floor… 3 and 5 on the second… and I could only assume 2 and 4 were somewhere on the third.
My room was ok. Just a simple room with a shared bathroom. Nothing special. But I do have a big question. Why are there never garbages in UK bathrooms?
Never. I don’t get it.
Once I was finally settled, I braved the cold and rain in search of a cozy pub for a glass of wine and something yummy to eat. I always forget, though… and I don’t know why because I worked in enough of them… that pubs in the UK don’t usually excel in the food or wine department. There are exceptions, of course… but this time was not one of them.
I ended up at a quaint little spot called The King Edward. Its façade had so much character… and considering I had passed a few dingy, old-man hangouts… it seemed like a solid choice. As soon as I got to the bar, I asked for a glass of white wine. The bartender shook her head apologetically and told me they’d run out and wouldn’t have more until Thursday.
Thursday?
That simply would not do.
Ugh. Disappointed, I prepared to settle for something else when she added, “… so all we have right now is rosé.”
Rosé?
I love rosé!
Sorted!
So… the thing about most pubs in the UK, though, is that you often have to order and pay at the bar… which always feels a bit impersonal to me. As she poured my wine, I ordered some nachos and preemptively asked her to add a second glass of rosé to my bill. I was confident I’d want another.
Right?
Right.
Well… that was a mistake.
BIG mistake.
The rosé was awful… easily the worst I’ve ever had. It tasted like a sugary, fruity cooler… the kind of thing you’d drink poolside… in desperation… on a swelteringly hot day… complete with ice, a straw, a maraschino cherry and a pineapple slice. Maybe… if there was nothing better.
I couldn’t believe it was being passed off as wine. By the time I finished my nachos, I still had most of my “rosé” left and couldn’t bring myself to drink another sip.
When I asked if I could switch to a glass of red instead, the bartender shook her head. “This is the only wine we have,” she said firmly. I couldn’t hide my disappointment or disbelief.
“Is there anything else?”
Emphasis on “anything.”
There was not.
“This isn’t really wine,” I said. “It’s more like a sweet, wine cooler.”
She didn’t like that.
“No, it’s not. It’s wine. It’s just a sweeter, fruitier rosé.”
Oh honey, no. It’s not.
Now… I’m no sommelier, but I know enough about wine to say this was closer to Boone’s Farm mixed with grenadine. It was dreadful. I told her she could either keep my money for the second glass as a tip… or drink the second glass herself.
I wasn’t touching it.
You know if I’m not touching wine, it must be beyond bad…
And then, something really unexpected happened. She popped out to the shop around the corner… and bought a real, true, genuine bottle of Pinot Grigio to serve me!
I kid you not.
I finally had a glass of real wine.
I can’t make this up.
So there was an enormous storm coming in and both Northern Ireland and Scotland had been put on red weather warning alert. It wasn’t exactly the perfect time for me to be flying to Rotterdam.
The next morning, I walked to the Abbey Road (NOT the famous Beatles Abbey Road, unfortunately) station and caught the train to London City Airport. The rain and the wind had begun… yet I was ever hopeful my flight would still be on schedule. British Airways had sent me an email informing me of potential cancellations and delays.
They could NOT cancel or delay.
I had trudged through wind and rain, hauling what felt like the world’s heaviest pack… all for this moment. I had to make that plane.
I was on my way to Rotterdam to visit Tom and Meryl in Middelburg… a reunion 25 years in the making. The last thing I needed was Europe’’s biggest storm in a century derailing my plans.
The moment I arrived at the airport, I marched straight up to the British Airways attendant and asked the question I’m sure everyone had been bombarding him with all morning…
“Is my flight still scheduled?”
It was.
Fingers crossed it would remain that way. I guess for the first time, crossing my fingers worked… because my flight was not cancelled.
Airport security drives me mental everywhere I go. LCY was no exception.
It takes considerable effort to pack my bag so that it actually closes… so for it to be “randomly” selected for inspection made my heart sink. The agent unpacked everything I had so carefully arranged… while repetitively asking me if I had packed any food or sharp items.
“No? I don’t think so…”
During her exploration tour of my bag, she finally found… my toothpaste. Yes… my toothpaste. She disappeared to some machine to run tests for prohibited chemical substances.
On. My. Toothpaste.
Thankfully, it tested negative for whatever they were looking for, but putting everything back together was a nightmare.
Can we all just stop with these silly procedures at security ? I think we’re all very much over it.
Storm Éowyn was on everyone’s mind… and flights north were being cancelled… left, right and centre.
But… I boarded… and it flew.
Bumpiest flight I think I’ve ever experienced… but it left London… and an hour later, I touched down in The Netherlands.
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