Heathrow
I know why people hate airports. Let's just say: being cooped up in T3 at London Heathrow is not the most memorable experience. A first class lounge is lovely, but my stomach was killing me along with the repetetiveness of British news television. The air was stifling, so I left. I had read every newspaper, magazine and book until my eyes were sore. I walked around the terminal so many times, I figured everybody would recognize me. Hey, it's the guy in the yellow backpack. Who's mocking him now? I swear, when you travel alone, people find it as an excuse to shun you. Like you're purposely antisocial. Still, I was no Tom Hanks. I've stayed in airports for longer, usually a fair deal more groggy and upset at the viciousness of air travel over 20,000 kilometers, but then at least I had something familiar: a face to stare at, a friend to talk to. My worries are rendered unimportant, though, because time moves on and eventually... we get there. I mean, that's what you pay for. But the lack of usual smiling Cathay agents (I had to negotiate with an Indian cleaning lady who didn't speak English just to get into the lounge) and even smiling Cathay passengers (the lounge was empty save for one or two souls) - plus getting in trouble for walking around with a video camera in my hand (it needed some fresh air; I took it for a walk), AND not knowing the gate number until nearly 40 minutes before the flight - made the terminal atmosphere absolutely terminating of that pleasant feeling after a transit through British security (never thought I'd say that). Sure, I have a great trip to look forward to. But I can't take the thirty seconds of stock footage needed for a good introduction? Not until I get out of no-man's land, at least... I suppose that's where my problem lies, patience. I should be enjoying this. I should be documenting it in full. Happily. That Starbucks should have kicked in. But them Brits just don't know how to make a good coffee.
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