Our flight to Chicago is scheduled for noon on Friday. Check-in time for international flights is two hours early (10am). It takes two hours to get to Heathrow on the tube (leave at 8). It takes us two hours to wake up in the morning (wake up at 6).
So we needed a 6 o’clock wake-up to be on the tube by 8. We get to join the peak commuter rush. Oh goody.
We said our good-byes to Jen before Gabe took us on our first leg home in his little Mini. After another quick set of good-byes we descended into the Bethnal Green tube station.
The platform is so crowded, and the trains are so full, that we had to let one train leave without us and squeeze ourselves into the next one. By this time it was 8:45, and the only way to get to Heathrow on time would be to go to Paddington Station and take the Heathrow Express. It runs every 15 minutes, takes 15 minutes to get there, but it costs £12 each.
The Heathrow Express is a strange train. From the inside it looks and feels like an airport shuttle bus. Strategically placed teevee screens spew out a steady stream of advertising. Occasionally the advertising gave way to war news courtesy of the BBC.
An ample supply of trolleys waited for us on the train platform at Heathrow. The 80-90 pounds that we were carrying could now roll in front of us rather than ride on our backs.
Now we remember why we hate O’Hare more than Heathrow. At Heathrow, trolleys are well-maintained, widely available, and free. At O’Hare (and other American airports) they’re called baggage carts, and if you can find one it will usually cost $1.50 to unlock one from its stanchion.
We changed from our city clothes to our flying clothes and made our way to the Air India check-in counter. At O’Hare we stood in line for 45 minutes to get checked in. Here, there was no line at all. We had our boarding passes at 10:10, leaving us plenty of time to find some serious coffee.
An alarm went off while we were having coffee. An announcement over the PA was drowned out by the alarm. Rozie heard the words “Air India” in a background conversation. The proprietor of the coffee stand told us to “stay seated and remain calm.” Those words are never calming.
We saw people streaming out of a nearby wing of the airport, albeit calmly. The “evacuation zone” ended right next to us. After about 15 minutes or so the people in shiny yellow suits let everyone back in.
We still have no idea what that was all about.
Our flight has been on the departure screen since we got off the train, but as of 11 they still haven’t posted a gate number. All the board says is, “go to departures.”
With less than an hour before departure time, we’ve been moved from one waiting zone to another. Between us and “departures” is a long line and the biggest security checkpoint of the “airport experience.” Packs, bags, coats and such go through an x-ray machine. Then we take coins and other metal out of our pockets and walk through a metal detector. Then another goon waves a wand around.
At the end of all this we’re in yet another concourse lined with newsstands, gift shops, and other airport stuff. We finally found an area with enough chairs to fill a theatre, where we could sit and watch the departure screen.
We keep hearing announcements warning that if we aren’t on the plane half an hour before departure time, they’ll leave without us. It’s 11:45 – 15 minutes before departure time – and we still don’t know what gate to go to.
At 11:50 the screen finally told us that our flight is at Gate 31. Off we go on a long journey down those endless corridors that only airports have. At the gate there’s a short line to have our bags inspected by hand and to get ourselves frisked.
We cleared the last line of defense against whackoes, and found ourselves in another corral. This one is filled with Indians (as in people from India), and it looks like they’ve been here for quite a while.
It turns out the bulk of the passengers on this plane are going to Chicago from India, and only a handful of us are getting on in London. Not long after we got there, they made the boarding call for first class passengers and people with small children.
The entire crowd of restless Indians rushed for the door, and the frazzled gate keeper grabbed her microphone. “No one is going to be boarded until everybody sits back down!”
Eventually, something resembling order was established from the chaos, and we all got herded onto the plane and imprinted ourselves into our seats. As we settled in, the “flight supervisor” made an announcement. They were having “an engineering problem” and there would be a “slight delay.”
So while we’re waiting, let’s eat! Everybody gets served a meal of Indian airplane food. (As we observed in the week 1, Indian airplane food is not bad… it’s a LOT better than the schlock they try to feed us on American planes.)
There must be something in the Air India management handbook about using food to manage a crisis. We can’t deny that this strategy is effective. After all you can’t complain with your mouth full.
After the food was eaten and the plates were all cleaned up, the voice came on the speaker once again. He has “bad news.” The plane needs a new engine, so it isn’t going anywhere today.
We’ll be “escorted to coaches” that will take us to a hotel (“escorted” means “herded”), and hopefully tomorrow they can find us seats on other airplanes going to Chicago, “maybe with American or United.” We screamed “NO!” We were very happy to not be flying on US airlines.
After boarding the plane and sitting at the gate for two hours, it’s time to re-experience “leaving the airport”. We must collect our bags at the carousel, then stand in line at Passport Control to be readmitted into Britain.
After clearing customs we were herded toward the coaches. One by one, coaches filled up with displaced passengers and their baggage, then headed off for the hotel.
We ended up at the Radisson Edwardian. This would be a nice place if it weren’t next to Heathrow Airport. Most major airports are a long way from their host city. There is absolutely nothing interesting to do this far from the interesting parts of London.
It’s well past dark as we finally got to our room. Out our window we see a grand view of cars lining up at the drive-thru McRubbish next door.
We dropped our stuff on the bed, plopped ourselves into some chairs, and turned on the teevee. The screen lit up with an image of a shaken Paul McCartney talking to a BBC reporter. “He was like my baby brother.” He was talking about George Harrison, who left the world while we were watching war news on the Paddington-Heathrow Express.
Airport hotels like the one we’re in specialize in serving “groups.” These can be big business meetings, small trade conventions, weddings, corporate parties, and the occasional load of passengers from a broken-down 747.
They went about feeding us as they would any large group; they spread out a buffet in one of their large ballrooms. We give the Radisson credit for having an assortment of Indian dishes their recipe books.
With our appetites satiated, we need to get recombobulated. We need a fresh phone card to fix all of our broken connections across the Pond. With everything else in our world all fouled up, the computer demons left us alone, so emails went out to friends at home about our delay.
The only communications problem is that our phone card won’t accept Chicago’s new 773 area code, so we have to arrange for someone to call our Chicago motel on our behalf.
This hotel feels like a fortress, and we had to get out long enough to buy a couple of good beers and a newspaper from a nearby convenience store.
We’re finishing our long and exhausting day in a semi-stylish airport hotel, sipping Irish stout and reading the paper.