LHR

Flying British Airways was absolutely magnificent. The seats were big and squishy, with headrests that were actually designed to support a nap. There were video screens on the back of every chair, and an entire movie and television lineup. I watched a lot of Doctor Who. (I know, there's no accounting for taste.) Where domestic airlines serve peanuts for food (literally), we had complimentary wine, dinner with dessert, multiple beverage services, AND breakfast. And this was a seven hour flight. I wanted to stay awake to watch The Godfather and a few new releases I've been meaning to catch, but the plane hummed me to sleep. What a great flight.

I think Fate was preparing me for what would come next. Heathrow was a mess! The check-in attendant in the United States advised me to speak with an employee about my luggage as soon as I touched down in London. Only, when I touched down in London, there were no airline employees to be found. Only a long gray hall, followed by another long gray hall, followed by another, and another, and another. I stopped counting at five, and focused instead on putting one foot in front of the other. I have about 80 pounds of carry-on luggage, and 100 pounds of checked luggage. Carrying all those books for Gulu has its costs. Just ask my traps.

Anyway, after a long, long walk I finally progressed from Terminal 5 to Terminal 4. I was supposed to go to Terminal 3. The sign pointed me out an automatic sliding glass door. Full of confidence, I walked toward the door. It never opened. There was a bus outside leaving for Terminal 3. I tried to wave down the driver, tried to slide the door open -- no luck. I turn to the woman at the security desk behind me. "Is something wrong with the doors?" I asked.

"No, it's my job to open them. Oh look, you just missed your bus. The next one will be by in a few." I sigh. I wait for the bus. It's a ten minute DRIVE to get from terminal 4 to terminal 3.

I am falling asleep as I type, so if you see a random note about purple bumblebees playing poker in the shower, you know why.

Upon reaching terminal 3, I am told that my flight was canceled. The airline blames it on a technical strike. It took three hours just to get a turn to talk with the booking agent. He told me I wasn't stranded. He told me that all I had to do was get my paper ticket from the Virgin Atlantic main desk and take it to Kenya Airways so that I can book a new flight with them. Sounds easy enough. I start to leave when I realize ... I have no idea where I'm going. So I ask a security guard for directions. He says something in a thick British accent that I barely understand.

I tried to follow the directions. Exit, left right left. Only that doesn't work. I wind up going in a circle. I smile at the flight attendant offering directions as I go by the second time. The third time around the terminal, I wind up in immigration. Not what I thought I wanted! The time after that, and I'm actually having conversations with the security guard outside of Virgin Atlantic. He asks where I'm going. I tell him. He sends me back to the little Virgin Atlantic desk upstairs that can't help me.

It turns out, everyone is wrong about where this desk is. The desk isn't even IN the building. Finding it on my own was a minor trick ...

Okay, must finish typing quickly, because I really am falling asleep with my eyes open.

Seven hours later, and I am officially rerouted through Kenya airlines. There were some great moments. I made friends with a lot of folks going Nairobi who were likewlse stuck in London. I got to hear the "Mind the Gap" recording on the underground, again when I took the Heathrow Express train, at one point. And when I explained my ticketing situation at the Kenya Airways counter, four clerks simultaneously break out into a rousing chorus of "Always Look on the Bright of Life."

So I'm just rolling with the punches. Or sleeping over them. I'm going to go take a nap.