To be honest, I wasn’t ready to go on this trip.
Not at all.
THAT is the first time I’ve ever said anything like that when it comes to any travel I’ve planned. Honestly. Usually I’m chomping at the bit… continuously planning and counting down the hours, minutes and seconds till departure.
That didn’t happen this time.
I’d pre-planned a lot of it…. and yes, pre-I’d paid a significant portion as well, but all in all, I wasn’t ready.
What does that mean? Well…
I am not ready physically. Not one bit. I am horrendously out of shape and nothing I’ve packed seems to fit me properly. I have a feeling the majority of my clothes will be unceremoniously dumped before long. In addition to feeling chunky monkey, I’m having issues with my knees, lower back and heels. Of course, they’re all the defective signs of getting older… but I could have easily made the effort to stretch and do the necessary exercises required in order to alleviate the agony.
I did not.
The fault lies entirely with me.
I am not ready financially. Every time I turn around, I seem to be met with another atrocious bill. Dentist, prescriptions, painters, grooming, taxes, vet… and believe me, the list goes on.
And on… and on…
People casually make comments to me all the time.
“You’re so lucky” and “You must be so rich.”
Anyone that thinks I’m lucky has obviously not read any of my travel blogs. Luck is rarely on my side. Anyone that has sone preposterous notion I might be rich, has obviously never spent any time with me. I am neither lucky, nor rich. Although I tend to conduct myself in a very frivolous manner, I am eternally in debt.
Meh… it doesn’t really bother me. I know money comes and goes. I would rather see the world while I am still capable and concern myself with crippling debt afterwards. And yes, I know…. It’s a very stupid & irresponsible way to live. I often strive to be responsible… but so far, my way seems to be working for me. Plus… I am currently manifesting good fortune.
It will come. I am confident.
Until then, I will continue to work hard and think positively.
The truth is that I’m selling my place in Mission and it’s not been as cut and dry a process as I had come to believe… or hoped for. With approximately 5 days to do approximately 12 days worth of important things, plus visit friends, family and spend time with my beloved dog… I was behind the 8 ball before I even got out of bed each morning. I could have used another 24 hours. Or 48. Or 72.
Truth.
But travel day finally came and considering I’d forked out a lot of money for airfare and hotels… I’d be damned if I wasn’t getting on that flight.
Some of you might know that I seem to have developed an intolerance to flights and although I spent a lot of my time on airplanes, I’ve grown to hate them. I get aviation nausea and the imposition of it rarely crosses my mind until I’m flying high… or as I like to call it, flying & dying.
This flight was no exception to the rule.
I was sick from Vancouver to Calgary… and then, as an added bonus, I was sick all the way from Calgary to London.
Lucky me.
Lucky people next to me.
I won’t go into details… but sick bags were involved. A few of them.
I’d even taken a Gravol and prayed for the best… but to no avail. Take off is the worst and sometimes I try to be asleep by that time, but it’s not always the case. I really do wish I could afford first class. Aviation nausea would be so much more tolerable if I had my own pod.
The big problem, when it happens, is… I can’t be around anything that might, potentially be a sensory overload. I can’t tolerate smells or sounds… or things touching me. Combine these vexatious symptoms with menopausal hot flashes, restless legs, headaches, cramped quarters and uncomfortable seats… and the fun just does not stop.
It does stop, actually.
Eventually.
It comes to an end when every single will to live is sucked down the vacuum plane drain. Often stewardesses will inquire as to if I’m ok, but mostly they keep their distance.
Anyway… all nausea aside.
I arrived.
Exhausted. Drained.
A mere shadow of my former self.
Well… not really.
I look exactly the same as I did when I boarded.
Without much issue, I managed to find my way out of Heathrow Terminal and right to the Elizabeth line I needed to get to Windsor. It doesn’t sound like much of a feat, but anyone who knows Heathrow airport, knows what agony can be navigating that enormous monstrosity.
I had no issues except that I now detest my pack with all the fanatical extremities of flaming fire and boiling blood.
Its over.
I’m getting a roll-along.
I’m too old to be throwing this elephantine, canvas mutation over my shoulder like a continental soldier. Ok… I’ll admit… partly it’s my fault, because I pack too much and everything I have is big & heavy.
But… it’s over.
I’ve downloaded an online workout app and I intend to use it, diligently and religiously. Mark my words. I also have a sneaky suspicion that many of my belongings will not make the cut in moving much further forward.
Enough talk of my alignments, weight, financial strain and stress… I’ve arrived in Windsor, beloved home of the late Queen Elizabeth II.
I like it.
If you’re a royalist, a history buff or just an easily fascinated tourist, Windsor is the place for you.
By the time I arrived at my hotel, I could hardly keep my eyes open, let alone climb three flights of decrepit & wobbly stairs to my attic abode. As soon as I saw my bed, I collapsed into it. I meant to only have a brief nap, but eventually had to force myself up and out and onto the streets to find something to eat.
I was desperate for nourishment. The plane had wiped me clean.
The following day…
I realize I probably shouldn’t have done what I did, but I did it… and it couldn’t be un-done, as much as I complained. I woke up at 3am… waited… waited… tossed & turned… and waited some more…
As soon as the clock struck 6am, I took leave of my attic oasis and hit the streets of Windsor. When I say, I “hit” the streets of Windsor, I literally mean it.
By 10:30am, I had completed 25,000 steps.
By 12:30pm, 27,000.
By 4:30pm… 32,000.
It was a feeble attempt to ward off jet lag, but the result was pure exhaustion and temporary (hopefully) loss of the use of my legs.
On a high note though, during my 19km adventure, I ventured through the Old Windsor village, along the River Thames and saw the JFK memorial & the site of the signing of the Magna Carta. I also visited the statue of King George Ill and his horse, strolled the Long Walk, watched the changing of the guard... and explored Windsor Castle.
Anyone that knows me, knows that I’m a royalist, through and through.
Well… I adored Queen Elizabeth II.
Chuckie, not so much.
Camilla, not at all.
But… regardless… I was beyond ecstatic to explore Windsor Castle. It was the devastating fire here, in 1992, that contributed to the Queen’s ‘Annus Horribilis’… amongst other events… like Charles & Di announcing their separation.
It was quite busy considering it was the end of October. I was shocked at how many people were there. Maybe I shouldn’t have been.
Maybe they were all history buffs.
They weren’t.
It was actually so incredibly crowded with tourists… all crammed into the lavish state rooms… that they had to temporarily close the doll collection room to the public.
Shame.
Unfortunately, that happened while I was there… BUT… fortunately for me, I’m not too fond of dolls, so it was a bit of a bonus.
Win. Win.
I probably shouldn’t have taken the largest walk ever without my pills… after a horrendous flight… with crippling jet lag, but here I am. I limped around Windsor, ever so confident, giving off the impression that everything was cool with my heel and my knee, but the pain truth was a hot 20 on a scale of 1 to 10.
Regarding the exercise app?
I skipped it. It’s difficult to work out when you have rigor mortis. Day one… tomorrow!
But hey… guess what heals pain & jet lag?
Wine.
That’s right. Wine.
Bottoms up.
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