Departures
I’m writing this from an airplane. To be more precise, I’m writing this from an airplane that’s somewhere between Vancouver International and London Heathrow, while wedged awkwardly into a seat next to a man with armrest entitlement issues and directly in front of a compulsive seat kicker. Dinner (if that’s actually what you can call a plastic tub stuffed with a dehydrated chicken breast swimming in some kind of greasy broth) has been served, one miniature bottle of champagne had been consumed, and an incredibly sappy chick flick has been viewed. Now I’m sitting here watching everyone around me fall asleep – after all, it’s exactly 12:03AM if you’re on Pacific time, which I very much still am – but I’m much too keyed up to do the same.
To be perfectly honest, I feel like I’ve been lifted out of my real life and dumped into my very own sappy chick flick, one of those incredibly cliché films in which a girl spontaneously jumps on a plane to Europe so that she can “find herself” while swanning around the continent’s most beautiful cities. Part of me is wondering exactly what I’m doing and whether I’ve completely lost my mind, while another part of me feels as though I’ve been waiting my whole life for this exact moment. Yet another (although much smaller) part of me is having a minor panic attack at the thought of sacrificing an entire workday to the chain of airports, planes, timezones and trains required to get me into Paris, but we won’t talk about that right now. Every time I start to feel all calm and composed I end up seeing a picture of the Eiffel Tower in a magazine or hearing a snippet of conversation in French, and then my stomach does this weird, excited flip as I remember that I’m really on my way to Paris.
Actually, come to think of it, that weird stomach-flip thing might be less from pure excitement and more because the plane just pitched sharply downwards into an air pocket. Seat belt? Securely fastened.
Heathrow is overwhelming. This would be relatively true for even a well-rested, fresh traveller, and it’s particularly overwhelming to someone who’s just stumbled, bleary-eyed and utterly sleepless, off of a nine-hour flight. It’s pouring rain outside, and for a moment I’m not sure what time it is. Is it morning? Afternoon? Today? Tomorrow? An entire chunk of a day has vanished into thin air, and it feels like a piece of my brain went missing with it. Somehow, I manage to haul myself through a series of cavernous hallways, down a million different escalators, back through security, and into Terminal 5’s cavernous departures area. I successfully avoid smacking into any glass walls this time, although I admit to causing a small incident on an escalator. Sleep deprivation and a searing migraine headache clearly do nothing for my coordination.
Terminal 5 is visual overload at its very best. Compared to North American airports (where yoga clothes are the travel attire of choice), Heathrow is like a catwalk. Chic people are striding around everywhere, massive elevators are soundlessly whisking people away, and there’s a DJ putting on a show (complete with flashing lights and, yes, people dancing) in front of the Duty Free store. In fact, Heathrow is closer to a mall than an airport, and for a moment I’m not sure whether I’m here to catch a flight or start shopping. There’s jumble of accents and languages swirling around me – businessmen in impeccable suits speaking tensely into cellphones, lovers’ spats, shouting children. I grab a cappuccino (okay, a triple cappuccino – at this point, I would inject it directly into my veins if I could) and a muffin, then settle in for a solid people-watching session.
My exit from Gare du Nord is a comedy of errors. I trip over a small child as I’m leaving the train, causing her mother to unleash a barrage of meaningless French at me. Then, somehow, I get stuck in the turnstile. The two sets of gates clearly weren’t designed for a flustered girl hauling a massive suitcase, bulging handbag, and laptop case, because the gates lock up again after I’ve made it through the rotating bars, but before I’ve pushed open the little green doors. My suitcase? Still on the other side. The doors? Definitely not moving. A pack of American tourists eventually steps in to help, hefting my suitcase over the turnstile while I vault awkwardly over its doors before dying from embarrassment. Ah, freedom.
At this point, the thought of dragging the suitcase onto another train is highly unappealing. Taxis are, mysteriously, nowhere to be found, so I decide to walk to the apartment. It’s only just over one kilometre, but it’s nearly all uphill, through pouring rain, and down narrow cobblestoned streets where all the drivers appear to be intent on running me over. Eventually – I’m still not sure how – I find my way through the twisting streets to my building, where the suitcase and I climb four flights of the steepest, oldest, most creaky stairs in existence before finally, finally arriving in the apartment. I’m dripping wet, sweaty, and incredibly tired, but when I swing open the window I’m greeted with a glittering cityscape and a spectacular view of the Eiffel tower. Suddenly, all is right in the world – I’ve arrived.
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