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Geo: 47.6353, -122.302

I didn't sleep well at all last night. It was Friday, so people were out all night long, and there was a restaurant right beneath my window. And again with the metallic clanging noises at 4:30! Oy!

Everything managed to fit in my suitcase, so I left the hotel at 8:20 a.m. and walked the few blocks to the bus stop. The airport bus turned up in ten minutes or so. It wasn't terribly full, but I did have to stand. It filled up along the route, but it wasn't packed or anything, and only a 30-minute ride. It stopped at Terminal 2, and I had to take a free shuttle to Terminal 1. I was at the airport early enough that I had to wait around for ten minutes before I could actually check my bag in. I was worried it might be overweight, but the agent sent it merrily on its way without demanding more money, so I guess it was fine.

I had a croissant and an espresso at Paul, a famous chain bakery. It was fine, and I think I really needed the caffeine to wake me up. I set off the metal detector going through Security, so I got patted down by a bored-looking French woman. I always want to tell them it's probably my underwire, but it wouldn't do any good anyway.

I looked around several of the shops and was tempted by a few things, but only bought some candies to take to the office. The flight boarded quickly, and we were able to take off ten minutes early. A flatbread sandwich of ham and cheese was served, and it was really, really good! We got a proper gate at Heathrow, which surprised me because it seems like nothing ever gets a gate there. Went through passport control and security and got to the shops. I bought a couple of books -- but could have bought several more -- and a Lion bar for John.

The flight was called for boarding, and we had to take a bus from the gate to a stand because, like I said, nothing ever gets a gate at Heathrow. I settled into seat 30H and then an Indian woman came along and indicated that she was at the window. When I checked in online last night, I noticed that there was no one booked into the middle seat, but the flight was looking pretty full. I asked the Indian lady if she knew if someone would be sitting there, and she said yes. But she nodded when she said that, and I think Indians actually shake their heads instead of nodding for an affirmative response. So I wasn't sure whether to believe her or not.

Then an English woman appeared and told the Indian lady that she was in her seat. So we both got up, let the English lady in, and the Indian lady asked me if the middle seat was her seat. Uh ... sure? We all got settled in, figured out which seatbelt belonged to which seat, and the Indian lady (I'm just going to call her Priya from now on) pulled out her blanket and put it over herself. Eventually she had moved around so much that the blanket bunched up, with quite a substantial bunch being on my side of the armrest. Oh, well. At least it was soft.

We were given dinner ... and I use the term loosely. I had "tortiglioni in pesto" and it was the saddest looking bunch of pasta I've ever seen. A tray of naked rigatoni-like tubes, and a blodge of green stuff in the middle. And thinking about it now, I believe the things that I thought were pine nuts were actually sunflower seeds. It didn't taste bad, but the presentation left a lot -- a ton! -- to be desired. It came with a side of potatoes ... I think they were potatoes. I tried a couple, but the seasoning was very strange, so I didn't finish them. Dessert was good at least: orange chocolate mousse.

So dinner was over and we were in the lull where you just wish the flight attendants would come around and pick up the trays already, when Priya suddenly started acting funny and looking ill. I asked her if she needed to get up, she said yes, so I picked up my tray, put up the seat tray (not easy because the guy in front of me was Mr. Recliner, who kept trying to make it recline more (though, to be fair, the flight attendant asked everyone to put their seats up during the meal service, and he did)), hauled myself out of my seat and stood in the aisle. Priya, meanwhile, is looking at my me like, What are you doing?, and then wouldn't get up and indicated I should sit back down. Sigh. So I did. But then she looked like was going to throw up and she said "sugar" a few times. Maybe she's hypoglycemic, but she put her meal away pretty well, so I don't really know what her problem was, but I gave her the sugar packet from my tray. Then she said "milk," and I gave her my little tube of milk. She put the sugar in the milk, moaned for a little bit, and then seemed okay.

So then she decided that she did need to get up. I let her out and she disappeared for a while. Not too long after, the pilot turned on the Fasten Seatbelts sign, and the announcement came over asking everyone to return to their seats, blah, blah, blah. Priya reappeared with the flight attendant, who was trying to make her sit down. I got up, then Priya started acting like I should just move into the middle. The FA asked if I wouldn't mind doing that for a few minutes (what with the Fasten Seatbelts sign and all). By this time I was getting tired of Priya, so I said, "Okay, but that's my seat and I paid for it!" (True, I paid for it back in January when I booked my ticket.) So the FA said I should just sit back down and she'd take Priya to her jump seat.

The FA came back through the aisle several minutes later, so I stopped her and apologized for being snappy but, I told her, I was confused as to what exactly was happening. She said, "No need to apologize, darlin'." She said the Indian culture is so different and the concept of assigned seating isn't really a thing there, plus she realized Priya wasn't feeling well. So I'm glad the FA didn't think I was a complete bitch.

Priya came back eventually and sat in her seat, fell asleep, and snored for most of the rest of the flight. (When she was awake, she'd burp.) I had planned to read one of the books I bought at Heathrow but I just couldn't. Ended up watching several episodes of "The Big Bang Theory," "Friday Night Dinner" (which was hilarious), and "Brooklyn Nine-Nine." The good thing about watching TV shows on board is that you can be entertained over the course of two episodes while an hour of flight time goes by.

The flight itself was fine. Not too much bumpy air, not too many weird smells, only one crying baby somewhere in the back. The FAs weren't grumpy either.

I think we landed more or less on time at SeaTac. They've got a revised system for getting through passport control. U.S. and Canadian passport holders can go to automatic kiosks to scan their passports and answer a few questions. The kiosk then takes your picture and prints out a receipt with the photo on it. Then you go to an agent, who stamps your passport and the receipt, and you go downstairs to get your bags. The Customs guy collects the receipt and apparently doesn't care about the landing card you filled out while on the plane. I like the new system because it went very quickly.

But here's where I feel sorry for someone like Priya. She could barely speak English and answered "yes" to every question. I doubt that Border Patrol has a Hindi speaker handy to interpret. We are so, so lucky to be native English speakers. Even in France, famous for being ultra-protective of its language and reluctant to accept words from other languages, there was plenty of English signage, and nearly everyone I asked spoke English well and was patient with my French. How do non-English-speaking visitors manage in the U.S.?

John was waiting for me with my water bottle, and I was so glad to see him (and, to be honest, my water bottle). We got home and I saw for the first time the row of new mailboxes (a neighbor had organized the whole thing); they look good. Chloe didn't seem to care that I was home, though she did have a good sniff of my suitcase later on.

I've had a lovely two weeks, and I don't have to go back to work till Thursday (yay!), and I'm happy to be home. On the way back from the airport, John asked where I'd be going next year. Hmmm ...

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Photos

Back in America?
Miss Liberty on the Quai des Etats-Unis in Nice

Comments

[Aunt Marianne]

Home safe and sound. Good. Thanks for letting us know.

[Yvonne]

I too wonder where next year will lead you. But I'm still living vicariously through this trip of yours.

[Dutch]

Enjoyed the articles. You should be on the television show Globe Trekker. Glad your home safely.