Travel Diary

Touchdown!

We arrived at Heathrow a little earlier than expected. This was due to a strong tailwind. What is a tailwind, you ask? Well, it's a strong wind at the tail of the airplane. Okay, sure, I could go look up a factual definition, but that would distract from my writing, and I'm already going on enough tangents as it is. Besides, I'm not here to teach aviation. Just accept my definition and get on with life. Anyway, people will stop questioning your answers once they realize you make almost everything up. Try it now; thank me later.

Once we got our luggage, the girls said goodbye. They were leaving. I would see them in three days. I leaned over my luggage and waited for Alan and Irena to arrive. Their flight would be three hours later. My waiting turned into sleeping. But I was at Carousel Four. Surely, they would come to the same carousel. Finally, I awoke at 3pm to find them...uh...missing. Their plane landed at 2pm. They went to Carousel Six. They searched and had failed to find me. They subsequently left the airport. Uh oh!

This was not good. No sir, this was not good at all. I scouted around the airport for 20 minutes trying to find them. No luck. I abandoned my search and bought a Tube ticket to get to the hostel. Hopefully, they had checked in there.

On the Tube Again

Being back on the Tube again returned memories to me. It was a long ride. I had brought a book, but my mind was too weary and stressed to do any reading. Forty-five minutes later, I arrived at the Gloucester tube station and begin my journey. Probably setting a new record, I was lost within five minutes--and I even had a map. So there I was once again wandering the cold darkening streets of London. My search for Queen's Gate road had me finding roads like Queen's Gate Garden and Queen's Gate Park. In a land with queen-obsessed history, I wasn't too shocked to be discovering these problems. So I wandered around and watched the sky grow dark. Finally, some kind lady pointed out the right direction. I found the street. Once again, I grew confused trying to locate the hostel. The street addresses were just not cooperating with me. They use a whole different system over there. And so there I was, walking the wrong way on the right street, not once but twice. One would find it hard to believe that I lived there for three months only a year prior.

Like the heavens parting was the discovery of the name: "Albert Hotel." Weary as I was, I managed to drag myself up the steps and inside to inquire about my reservation. Good news! Two people had already checked in under my name. They were Alan and Irena. Happy, was I. I then climbed up four flights of steps and reached the room. Inside were the two of them. Alan was in good spirits, but alas, Irena was not. She had come down with a cold and was not feeling well. Plus, the accommodations were somewhat of a shock to her. I had been used to such things from previous visits to hostels. Heck, I survived much worse living situations in the Marines. And this wasn't terribly bad. Plus, it was just for the night. Every hotel looks the same once the lights are extinguished.

The First Night: Complications Arise

Evening approached fast and the time came for us to go see the planned show. Heather and the gang were supposedly booking us all tickets to see The Lion King that night. We needed to rendezvous with them and get over to the theatre. Being sick, Irena elected not to go, and Alan stayed with her. But I had to follow through with the plans, and I headed down to the Tube station. Even doing that was a challenge. The main Tube entrance that I was familiar with was closed. I then retreated back to the Gloucester Tube station further down the street. Having to change directions like that really sucks in cold wet weather. Arriving at Piccadilly Circus Tube station, I ascended and began looking for their hostel. True to fashion, I was clueless as to where to find it. But I searched onward and soon discovered the Piccadilly Backpacker's Hostel. The good news is that they had indeed checked into that place. The bad news was that I could not visit them. Only people who reserved rooms there could ascend the stairs inside. And I wasn't a resident there yet. My only solution was to head over to the theatre and wait for them there. After a long walk, I found the Lyceum theatre. They weren't outside so I waited...and waited...and waited. An hour passed with me standing around the theatre waiting for people to show who would never show. The Lion King had been sold out and only the ticket scalpers were left offering any tickets. One thing I did notice was an old scalper with white hair. I had seen the same guy over a year before scalping tickets outside the Palace theatre. Well, here he was again. His voice was cracking from repeating the same lines over and over. I surmised that he must have been doing this scalping work for years now. Around 8:15pm, I knew they weren't going to show up. I suppose I could have bought a scalper's ticket and just seen the show anyway. But I was tired, and plus, I don't like seeing shows alone, and plus, it wasn't a show that I really wanted to see in the first place. I walked back to the Piccadilly Backpacker's Hostel (PBH). I then had the bright idea of inquiring about a message board. Yes! They did indeed have a message board. Could I look at it? No! The board was only for residents. Argh! The evening was getting worse. Having done my best, I headed back to my hostel to rest up for Paris. I slept, but not well.

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