Getting There Is Half the Fun (London 2016, Part 1)

I consider myself a fairly experienced traveler. As of the end of this week, I've flown between the West Coast of the United States (usually San Francisco, but one notable exception of a flight to Seattle) and London ten times. I've seen a good chunk of my own country, and I've had the fortune to see a few great places in Europe.

That said, international travel has changed in the last eleven years, since I flew back from England to resume being a full-time American.

For starters, I have one tool I didn't have in 2004-2005, though everyone else did: a cell phone. I didn't take one to England, didn't have one while there, and only got my first permanent, take-it-with-you-everywhere cell phone on my return in August 2005. Since then, I haven't been without. Then I got my first smart phone in 2012, and no trip will ever be the same.

Another way international travel is changed is that more and more pieces of it are "technologically advanced." Online check-in, passport scanning, body scanning (*shudder*), etc. So much personal information about me comes up with one swipe of my passport, that the Customs Agent at London Heathrow would have known if I was lying when she asked if I'd been to England before, simply because the information that yes, I was, was right before her on a computer screen.

For all my confusion at some of the new security measures, I have found that maintaining good humor through the process of traveling goes a long way--a very long way--in making things easier for me. No matter how tired I felt after a ten-hour overnight flight with no sleep, no matter how hungry I was, and how badly I needed a loo, I was determined to be pleasant and somewhat coherent at UK Border Control.

I can't promise I wasn't slurring my speech, however.

Travel isn't exactly fun (the title to this blog post is me at my sarcastic best)--at least, the getting there isn't. Of course when I arrived in London, everything was incredible, but there is nothing pleasurable about hauling baggage, waiting in line for security wearing socks while being stared at, or worrying that at any moment I might drop my passport, my boarding pass, my debit card, my phone...

Hey, I don't call myself The Anxious Traveler for nothing.

The adventure started at 8:00 on Saturday morning, as Dad and I waited at the Rocklin Amtrak station for the 8:33 Capitol Corridor train. I was pretty much bouncing with excitement for my long-overdue return to England, and Dad was his usual calm self. We chatted about my plans for the week, I checked my purse--again--for my important papers, cards, camera, and phone, and finally, the train rolled up and Dad walked back to the car, waving at me with a big smile as I hauled my suitcase on board and settled in for my journey.

From the train, a small church in Rocklin.

Morning fog clinging to the North Bay.

By 11:00, I was alighting in Emeryville, where I was to meet Summer for a quick lunch and a ride to the BART station (I could have reached BART from Amtrak but Summer and I wanted a bit of a catch-up and this was the perfect opportunity).

We had lunch and did a quick shopping run--she wanted to check Old Navy and I bought a coin purse for my trip and some sunglasses at Charming Charlie--before heading to the Rockridge BART station where I would catch a direct train to San Francisco International (SFO).

As we drove along, I found a cute sign picture. 

At the BART station. Thank you, Summer!

Waiting for BART, with San Francisco behind me, lost in
the glare of the sun.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say I made it to the airport in about an hour, dropped my bags in quickly (online check-in is genius), and made it through security with minimal fuss--even making one TSA agent chuckle.

"Where are your shoes?" she asked me.

"They're in this tray, under my coat..."

"They have to be out," she told me, and the man behind me. "I know," she added with a smile, "It's weird."

"Hey, what's weird is that I'm about to get in a tin can and hurtle through the air to Europe," I replied, earning a nod and a chuckle.

Otherwise, I made it through security without a problem, even avoiding the full-body scan by being directed through a simple metal detector.

The aftermath--putting one mini laptop back in my backpack,
getting my shoes and FitBit back on, and getting my rather
cumbersome (but dead useful) handbag situated on my body.

The most notable part of the next couple of hours was that I had to buy a t-shirt at an airport shop because my decision to wear a pink sweater was foolish for two reasons:

1. It got black crud all over it from hugging the crumbling case for my mini laptop, and,
2. I was already sweating and couldn't fathom sitting for several hours in a sweater if I was this warm now.

The thing about flying is that you rush to get to the airport and sweat your bags through check-in, sweat yourself through security, and then you...wait. Meanwhile, the airline is happy to have your bags for loading and security wasn't nearly as bad as you thought it would be, and now you have two hours to just...wait. And wait some more.

If you're me, that means poking into the shops until they're no longer interesting (about ten minutes), sitting for ten minutes, reading for ten minutes, using the ladies for five minutes, debating whether to get some food for ten minutes, deciding not to, watching planes take off and land, and taking a few pictures of your lucky rubber duck.

Then finding you still have an hour or so, but hey, they're going to start pre-boarding soon.

I remember taking a picture of this very sculpture in January
1999, when I was waiting for a Virgin Atlantic flight to London
Heathrow. 

Lovely day for a trans-Atlantic flight.

One of the first pics I took with my camera, a nice little close-up detail of my
home for the next eleven or so hours.

Cali Swimmy has traveled, but this was his first international
flight, and he was extremely excied.

Gate A5, and the marvelous staff of Virgin Atlantic. I never had
one rude person, on either side of the Atlantic.

 Finally, it was time to board, and suddenly, I was surrounded by British accents. Flight attendants with various regional accents (I could swear that the one who first greeted me as I stepped on the plane was from Essex), fellow passengers with that familiar lilt. I couldn't keep the huge cheesy grin off my face. After months of anticipation and planning, now my adventure was well and truly starting.

Yes, I Instagrammed the jetway. 

At my seat, with the essentials. 

It had to be done. This was my last Instagrammed picture
before putting my phone into flight mode.

The flight itself was a breeze--for being ten hours long, that is. Take-off was uneventful, and though there was some definite turbulence that could be described as "mildly violent," we eventually lost that and had a nice tail wind for most of the trip.

Our very British captain had me chuckling quietly when he came over the intercom to say, "Ladies and gentlemen, I do apologize for the turbulence...we tried going to another altitude but we just can't seem to get away from the storms out there. Hopefully soon we'll be through it, but again, I do apologize for the discomfort and will keep the seat belt sign on for your safety until we are through it."

Only a British pilot would apologize for something so wholly out of his control.

I amused myself at first by taking a few iPhone pictures out the window of my beloved home state, and grinning foolishly at it as I flew away towards my other home.

You can vaguely make out San Francisco.

Flying over the low Coastal ranges towards the Delta.

The Delta

I could blog for days about how long the flight was, how uncomfortable airplane seats are, and the woman next to me who tossed and turned every two minutes or so for ten bloody hours, invading my personal space bubble. I could moan about how I got not one wink of sleep. Instead, I'll share my absolute giddy joy as the "night" part of our flight ended and the sunshine outside my window indicated that my long-overdue return to England was near.

My first glimpse of that lovely island.

By this point, I was just grinning and trying not to cry.

Heathrow is very near Windsor (I missed a glimpse of
the castle but apparently it was visible from my side of
the plane) and Eton--this waterway was filled with tiny
teams of rowers, presumably from Eton.

I love this shot.

 Then suddenly, we were in serious descent mode and the ground was getting closer and closer. Tears started leaking from my eyes and I struggled not to giggle out loud. I was glued to the window...and overwhelmed with joy to be back in England.

The very moment we touched down. 

Hello, London.

An English Love Story

If you go back to the very beginning, all of this is my parents' fault.

It was Dad who asked me if I'd ever considered studying abroad. "Well...no," I replied. "I mean, sure, I'd LOVE to, but it's expensive."

"We think it would be a great opportunity," Dad said. "It's up to you. If you want to do it, set it up, and we'll pay for it."

"There's a London Semester Program through the school of Humanities and Fine Arts...maybe I could do that some time."

"Like I said, if you want to do it, set it up and I'll write the check."

It was September 1998 and I was a happy, thriving music ed major at CSU Chico. I had moved into a new apartment the month before, with two dear friends, and two other friends were always hanging around, so it was always busy and full of laughter.

Until it wasn't--for me, anyway. While all of that college drama is water under the bridge, at the time, it was traumatic, losing four friends completely and suddenly, all because one of them decide to make me the enemy. It was all so very stupid, but of course, at the time it was the Most Terrible Thing Ever. And it plunged me into a pit of anxiety and stress.

In all of this, I applied for--and was accepted to--the Spring London Semester group. Forty-three Chico students would go to London with two Chico professors for four months of studying, sight-seeing, and life experience. At the darkest moments that fall term, I had one big light at the end of the tunnel: a city far away that I'd never seen, that sounded so incredible.

Then I was there, and the hurt and drama of the past few months washed away in the muddy waters of the Thames, leaving me a different person--more grown-up.

I wandered the twisty streets of London and learned the Tube system. I survived without my parents and made new friends--but the most important thing I learned that semester was how to be happy in my own company. Maybe "happy" is too simplistic. More, I learned to be content in my own company.

I've said it many times in the years since--the Meg who left for London in January 1999 and the Meg who returned that May are two different people. The changes were for the better. Being an international traveler and student gave me a better world view...and awakened in me the desire to return to that city that had sparked these changes.

It took about five years, but I returned to England--this time to teach. I didn't live in London, but rather in a small Essex town called Burnham-on-Crouch. How I adored dear Burnham, but I'm not going to lie--the school was a very stressful place to work. Once or twice a month, I ventured into London on the weekends, to shop, see a show, look around. I was less a tourist there and more just an "honorary Brit" enjoying a weekend in the city. But those adventures kept me sane when the stress from my job, and my ever-present anxiety, had me reeling.

That year, of course, is documented here. I started this whole blog to write about my adventures (always wild, always absolutely true), and I've just kept on going with it, even as my accidentally-acquired British accent and my tendency to use Britishisms faded back to my All-American, California Girl accent.

It broke my heart to leave. I wanted, so badly, to try a second year, but I also knew that that second year might very well be more than I could handle. Meg then had some growing up yet to do. Meg now might have handled things differently...but that's not who I was. So I came back to the United States.

Life has been good--I've moved around some, I've lost jobs and weight and gained maturity and perspective and so much more. I always intended to get back to England as soon as possible, and then a year went by. Two years. Three. Five. A whole decade.

Travel is expensive. I was unemployed for a while. Life just...happens.

Still, I loved London, and England, and the people there. I just couldn't quite get back to them.

Until this week, and oh, what a week it was. I have cried more this week than I cry about anything anymore, but mostly tears of joy, or the cathartic tears that come when you are finally able to see a place again, and the people there who love you, and realize that no matter how far away you go, you are still so very lucky to have a home there.

I'm drawn to water--the wild crashing Pacific Ocean, and the rivers of "my" England--the Thames of London and the Crouch in Essex. In my Burnham days, when I was most stressed, I would wander a mile or so down to the river, and walk along the quay. The river, at Burnham, is salt water, and boats bobbed along the banks and in the marina. I can't tell you how many miles I logged along that river, stamping out my anxieties. On Tuesday, I walked down there again, and cried to remember the stressed-out girl I was, and cried some more with joy at the woman I am now.

Yesterday, my last morning in London--for now--I wandered around Kensington Gardens, watching Londoners go for a morning run, or walk their dogs, or cut across the park to get to work. I heard the distant traffic sounds and watched the winter sun hit the surrounding buildings and whispered to the waking city: "I'll never not love you..."

Together Again

I can't tell you how many times I've muttered the word "fuck" or some variation thereof today. "Fucking move," I muttered (no one heard) to the people at the airport who thought it a good idea to stop in front of several hundred people who just disembarked from various international flights and who were trying to get to customs. "What the fuck?" I muttered to myself when the Google Maps directions I printed out a week ago failed to get my to my hotel and I had to stop in the middle of a random square to consult a real map. "Should've fucking taken a cap," I muttered. What should have been a mile jaunt from Paddington Station turned into at least two miles.

Travel is odd, you know?

But wonderful. I'm in London!! After eleven years away, I'm finally back, and it amazes me how natural it feels. The money doesn't freak me out, I haven't nearly been creamed trying to cross a street, and while I had one moment of, "Oh, that's right, they drive from the other side of the front seat of the car!" I haven't been too shocked by anything else.

As expected, I cried when the plane landed. Big, happy tears accompanied by a big, happy grin. It's so good to be back.

Fortunately, my room was ready when I arrived, so I was able to check in early. I threw my stuff in, then walked out to get some food. I was nearly delirious with hunger and lack of sleep, but I managed to navigate a Marks and Spencer (they have a potato salad named after the new Princess, I'm not kidding). Then I came back to my hotel to unpack a little, shower, and crash. I only slept an hour but I feel like a new woman. Tonight, after going to see Cirque du Soleil, I know I'll crash.

Tomorrow, I reacquaint myself properly with dear London.

The Night Before

Dear London,

I was telling a friend today about how I cried the last time I left you. How heartbroken I was to feel the plane leave the ground, and how much I've wanted to return ever since.

I will see you very soon. It hardly seems possible, but I'm less than twenty-four hours from the departure of my flight, and the start of what I've been calling London 2016...my grand adventure, a cap on several years of unemployment, partial employment, and financial regrowth.

Will I cry when I land on Sunday? Oh, probably. It may sound silly, but I believe cities have souls, in their way. Not human souls, of course, but an underlying pulse that makes them feel like living, breathing entities. In 1999, that soul kept me sane after a nasty fall semester, and in 2004-2005, it helped me power through the ups and downs of being a young teacher in a very, very different type of school.

I've never regretted my choice to teach in England, or my decision to leave when I did; everything has a way of working out as it's supposed to and my path has brought me to some really great places--and some not-so-great, but that's just life. It's finally leading me back to you, and I'm so giddy with excitement, I can hardly contain myself.

My suitcase is packed, and my iPhone is charging; I've spent the evening bustling about checking my lists and printing out my boarding pass (window seat--I want to greet you properly). My clothes for the journey are laid out, and all I need to do now is sleep, and gear up for the trip.

To you.

It feels, in some ways, like a homecoming, even though California is truly home and I like my life here. It's possible, I suppose, to have more than one home in the world, and aren't I the lucky one to have found that out?

Love,

Meg

My Week in Instagram (Week #167)

A lot of selfies this week...that's what happens when I curl my hair two different days.

Sunday:

Every day in 2016 so far. I'm sad to break my streak when I
go to London next week (but not too sad, after all, this is
London we're talking about).

How I spent a good chunk of Sunday...thanks to Matt, who made
me do pistol squats on Saturday, which KILLED my calves.

Got a fancy passport wallet.

Monday:

Finally wore a dress I bought in December. I'd been waiting to
find the "right" shoe but finally thought, "Eff it, I'm wearing it
with my boots."

Accessorizing!

My kinders made sea creature puppets. 

Morning view.

Rollin' in my Gaelic Storm t-shirt.

Pretty much.

Tuesday:

I woke up like this. (Slept in curlers.)

When the Medusa-hair settles down, it actually looks gorgeous.

Op Art

Still looking cute!

Oh, yes. I will. :) 

Wednesday:

Music Pizza!

Thursday:

More curls.

I spent my prep period fixing this board up. The kids who painted
it weren't really into it, and it was...messy. I finally got it
looking a lot better. 

This is the forecast for my week in London. Ha!

Come on, who doesn't play ukulele in their R2-D2 nightie?

Friday:

Women in music get a whole two pages of a large book.

So Target updated their $1.50 socks and I managed to limit
myself to two pairs (mermaids and dinosaurs). I'll get more,
but after my trip.

YOU ARE KILLING ME, TARGET.

Selfie in the car window while filling her up with gas.

Saturday:

The last time I used my large suitcase was coming home
from England in August 2005!! I bought new tags (the polka
dots). 

Selfie with no makeup. It's a long story why I am not wearing
makeup. But I don't think I look horrible.

Mom and Dad's friend Vern has a bunch of model trains in the
back yard and once a year does a Train Day for friends. 

He's built an elaborate system and it's really fun.

After Train Day, Mom, Dad and I went to Folsom.

They wanted to have their anniversary dinner at our favorite
Chinese place in the whole world. The sling is to keep Dad
from lifting his arm while the wires for his new Pacemaker
heal into his heart. 

We've been eating here for almost 30 years and it hasn't changed.
The manager still recognizes us and is always so thrilled
to see us. The service is lovely, and the food is delicious.

I thought my fortune was very appropriate. So far: USA, Canada,
Spain, England, Scotland, France, Ireland, Italy. Not too shabby!

And Suddenly...

Suddenly, I'm just a teensy bit over a week out from my trip and it's occurring to me that there's so much to do. I must plan outfits and buy batteries for my camera. There's itineraries to finish and emails to send to ensure I've got times to see everyone I want to see. There's copying my passport and credit cards--one to leave with Mom and Dad, one to take with me. There's a suitcase to wipe down, as it's covered in dust from being in my storage unit for four years, unused.

The excitement is palpable. And yet, it also feels unreal that it's only one week from tomorrow that I board a plane that will take me back to London.