Getting to the Centre: A Few Mishaps

Starting Off

3:30 in the morning is early, but upon recognizing the length of this flight, I got up and showered. Dad's mad driving shaved off thirty minutes to SeaTac. I don't think I've ever departed without some Seattle rain, and today was no different--a "soaker", as some dorky forecaster called it. United's front desk was so understaffed that the five-minute check-in turned into thirty. I felt like one of the schmucks standing in line at Disneyland, without the ride at the end.

The first leg was four hours to Toronto. With 48 bucks and a sandwich in my purse, I wasn't interested in spending money before I hit London. But the 90-seater plane didn't grant the peanuts and cookies I anticipated. I slept in snatches, trying to ignore a crying toddler up front and the mad typing of my seat partner. It was altogether pleasant, considering how hungry I didn't feel.

The "Incident"

The last hour--zooming over unfamiliar Canadia--I was seized by nausea and the heat wave of a fever. Gulping for air, I climbed over my seat partner to get to a bathroom. But a few ladies were already in line. I clutched the seats on either side, trying to stay upright. But all I saw was smoke and popping lights. My knees gave way and I sank backward into what seemed like deep water...

"Are you alright?"

Someone's face swam into view. I was lying in the aisle, looking up at the lady in line before me.

"Can you stand up?"

She gripped my shoulders and stood me up--the thought occurred to me that people were probably staring. My legs felt like marshmallow and I slumped into an empty seat. Gravity seemed to clear the smoke. Stewards swarmed the aisle.

"Are you having trouble breathing? Do you have medical history of fainting? Are you taking medication? Has this ever happened before?"

My voice sounded from the far side of some lake. No...no...no, I'd never fainted before...

"Well, I felt someone bump into me, and I turned around and saw her on the floor. I'm a respiratory nurse. Can you take her blood pressure?"

One man laughed. "We're stewards. We can't do anything."

So they thought. One cup of orange juice laced with sugar and I was able to walk up to business class. The nurse took my blood pressure--110 over 65--while the stewards filled the paperwork and even carried my bags when we landed. Two fireman on the ramp (despite my protests) put me in a wheelchair to take my vitals in front of everyone in the terminal. Although my blood sugar was low, everything else looked fine.

But rather than comfort the workers around me, one agent threw away my waiver and announced that UNTIL I'd seen a physician, I could not fly any further. I stood there, stunned. I had no weak constitution by any stretch of the imagination, but now I was being grounded against my will? Not only was I a day late for this Study Abroad, but this lawyer thought I was such a House episode that he was forcing me to pass through some kind of socialist medical hoop at my own expense to ease HIS fiscal worries. He muttered something about "have to land somewhere" and "make everyone late". My protests were ignored. Security led me through the bowels of YYZ to visit some desk. No one explained to me what was actually happening, and I was so sour at that point that no one wanted to talk to me anyway.

Stuck in Toronto

Two limo vouchers in hand, I caught a ride to an "Urgent Care Center" and stood in line, one of three white people in the place. Everyone else was Indian or Arab or black. I paid $45 dollars to be "seen". After forty-five minutes, I sat in an office and explained my situation. The physician (a big black left tackle who sounded very Haitian and very tired) told it to me straight.

"Canada Air is very sticky to fly on. I used to work for them. More than any other airline, they're worried that medical incidents will force them to land and therefore ruin their pristine reputation. Therefore it is very hard to get medical clearance once your flight has been cancelled. But I will run some tests and fax all the work and they'll hopefully clear you."

He ran basic reflex, blood pressure (for the third time), nodes, and an Equal Cardiogram (super awkward for womenfolk) and faxed it all to MEDA in Montreal. I called a car to come pick me up, marginally more cheerful but resigned to the fact that I would miss this 6:30 flight.

The animated driver was surely someone's Polish grampa. He talked about food markets and fish markets that had since shut down in Toronto and ranted about how water was so expensive in the airport. I told him my story about fainting, and he asked, "Did you eat anything?" Something NO one had asked me yet. "When you get back to the airport, ask for food vouchers. Sounds like you don't have much money." Honest, honest. "I have fruit!" He passed back a plum, a fat apple, a pita, two slices of cheese, and a water bottle. "Don't worry, I have more," he insisted. I watched Toronto flit by; all the houses are made of brick and all other buildings are some variation on the Swicket or the Marb. It was flat and prickly in patches, like the city were built on some old man's chin.

Another line, another desk, another super nice person who helped me out that day. The clerk could see how on edge I was, nervous that I would have to sleep in the airport. She immediately put me on standby for the 11:30pm flight to Heathrow, which meant I would arrive about five hours late. She faxed MEDA again, and they cleared me at last. Freedom to fly! I was so relieved I didn't think to ask for food vouchers. A few more lines through customs and security, and I was finally able to settle into the lounge and wait for the flight.

Change of Plans

"Paging London passenger Willard, initial K. I have good news."

I hurried to the front desk where assistants were laughing. "Hi!" I verified who I was, and that I was on standby.

"We've assigned you a seat in Business Class."

"Really?" The uppity, roomy seats in front? Wow! I didn't try too hard to act like a bored adult right then. "Thank you very much!" It was plain the attendants were trying the same thing. The announcer told me that she would put my bag on this flight and it would arrive with me. Relieved beyond belief, I went back to my chair and fell asleep, almost missing my flight. Kind of embarrassing when she had to page me again.

Business class on a triple 7 is quite the experience. In fact, for the first twenty minutes I was just pushing buttons for the chair, lights, TV screen and any other settings I could find. When an attendant asked me what I wanted for dinner, I asked if it was free. I think she lost a lot of pretense after that. I doubt those ladies get very enthusiastic responses to their work, so I did my best shouting over the headphones for Fantastic Mr. Fox. The halibut surely meant I wouldn't faint again.

The morning found me curled in an egg-shaped cubicle under a blanket. I reached up and unceremoniously jerked the window-shade up--and was dazzled by a pale ocean. I stared at it, the spotty clouds like ice islands below. I'd never seen the Atlantic before. Nor the countryside of England; it was like seeing a spring quilt flung over a gaggle of sleeping children, with orange and emerald and chocolate patches, cut through by curly green thread. The landscape is less harangued by order, as fields are in the States, but governed by the very old hills and rivers.

All too soon, the plate of fruit was taken away to prepare for landing. Switching to purely business, I'd memorized the plan (which is not much of a plan, anyway): Go through customs, get bag, go to ATM to get money out, buy a Heathrow Express ticket to Paddington and walk to the Centre from there. Shouldn't be too hard.

Panic

Getting through customs proved my theatrical skills still exist: "I am a participant in an accredited Study Abroad, here to tour and study the culture." At least, the little Scottish clerk thought it was impressive.

"What university is that then? Brigham Young, ah, the Mormon one." He seemed pleased, so I was more than happy to affirm. Without having to show my customs letter, he stamped my passport and I was away to baggage claim.

Considering how easy the first step was, I was jovial for the first fifteen minutes beside the rotating dais. But my fellow flyers were disappearing and the mouth stopped shooting out bags and all my worst fears about my brand-new piece of luggage were verified. The nearest desk told me that my bag was on a different flight and would arrive tomorrow. I let out a groan of exhaustion. But the clerk promised to deliver it right to my door in the morning. I would be able to walk from Paddington without much difficulty. Okay, so, three-quarters of a plus.

But the ATM only spat out cash existent in the immediate account and had no routes to savings. With $1.46 and a coin pound Dad gave me, I tried to call his cell from a payphone. No good. How was I to get eighteen pounds and travel 14 miles to Palace Court without a phone and a computer? I passed by the same cab drivers a dozen times, trying to think and trying desperately not to freak out. What if I were stuck there for hours? I didn't have a cell or a number for the Centre, and even if I had, they didn't have a car to come get me. Nothing but cash or walking can travel fourteen miles in the most expensive city, but I tried not to think about that. I'm a big girl, and it's not like I haven't got resources! I've got a ton of savings but I just can't get to it! If only I had a computer...

And there they were. An island of glorious kiosks, coin-operated, one pound=ten minutes. I needed less than three. Viola! Money in my account and an email to Dr. Seely telling him why I was so late. With new pounds tucked safely into my purse, I hurried down to the trains and bought an Express ticket. Mind the Gap, now. I couldn't help but fawn out the window at the oh so green trees and old church steeples and factory housing. It was frustrating because the SECOND I spotted something marvelous, a tree or rail or the road would block it from all view. The fifteen minute ride flew by, and I disembarked on Paddington bricks rubbed slick by millions of visitors, ready to see London up close.

Walking the City

The weather was uncommonly warm, with a brisk blue sky and no wind to speak of. What a contrast to Seattle, and here I was expecting "sideways rain", a dark European characteristic everyone told me to expect. Paddington was clearly the site for those working in offices and other white-collar jobs. I felt at ease with all the sharp black suits and hurried stances, not because I felt peerish (my elevated status as American student, pah), but because not knowing where I was on the good side of town was better than the alternative. I walked by Union Canal, which looked like a regular driving range given the amount of pale algae on the surface, cab stations, Indian restaurants, parks, squares, and bus stops quite at ease. Considering how much panic I'd had in the last 24 hours alone, I believe my constitution did not allow for worry that I would not find the flat. I had, after all, the address memorized; I knew it was between Paddington and Notting Hill Station, in the city of Westminster. So I set off in the direction of Notting Hill, doing my best to blend in.

Two years of living in Provo made me warier of traffic here. But these pedestrians seem to be older, more mature, more conceiving of death as a possibility than BYU students. Most drivers here are cabbies--experts at navigating narrow roads and gormless tourists trying to cut them off. I discovered that I naturally "look right" toward the flow of traffic (and have probably done so for years without knowing it), but cars on the wrong side feel like my glasses are askew and I can't fix them. It's apparent that most countries feel this way; even on the airport's moving sidewalks, there are signs that say Walk Left, Stand Right. Silly. I wondered whose idea it was to begin with.

After considering two bus stop maps and not seeing Palace Court anywhere, I was forced to start asking the locals. One mod cloth shop revealed no knowledge. But next door was a Real Estate agency; I was right to ask there. The lady on her lunch break gave me solid street directions and told me I was just a few blocks away. Herefordshire...Moscow Road...these backstreets did leave the hustle and bustle of Westbourne Park and I walked alone rather uncomfortably. But with Palace Court looming in the distance, I began to get legitimately excited that this long journey was finally over.

BYU London Centre

At last, 2:15pm, I found the flat. Two workers were painting outside and I couldn't help but greet them a little manically. I rang the bell twice--it's an old-fashioned brrrrrring! like a school bell. Dr. Tate's sons hurried to the door and I thanked everyone Upstairs that someone was home to let me in. I was a little sunburned, my backpack (full of textbooks) was cutting into my shoulders, and the blisters on my feet were only getting bigger. The directors greeted me first. Bishop Shuler asked what happened, and I told an eager Dr. Tate and his wife the story. Relief all around, not to mention exchanges of "are you all right?"

Dr. Tate sat me down and gave me things already passed out in orientation--syllabi, house rules, class schedule till Saturday. My room is about the size of the pantry in my BYU apartment, but the solitude is exactly what I needed just then. I emailed my folks, settled into my room, and pulling out the overnight kit conveniently given us on Business class, I showered and reluctantly put the same clothes back on, grateful for toothpaste and soap. Hopefully my bag will arrive tomorrow.

The evening passed in a blur; I told my fainting story half a dozen more times to the Seelys, Dr. Bird, and several other girls who asked why I was late. After dinner of fajitas and pico de gallo, the girls set off in different directions--some to Hyde Park to complete some assignment no one told me about, some to go shopping for adapters or other necessities, and a gang even went to see the Lion King. I sat jealously on the stairs, entirely disenchanted by the idea of putting my shoes back on. Eventually I went to check my email and bank account, and the Tate boys came to visit me. They saw I was surfing Drudge report, and just about had a seizure of camaraderie. We spent several happy minutes abusing the President, the mosque, the healthcare bill, government spending, gun laws and Harry Reid. Eventually they left to do math homework, and I sat alone to blog until it was high-time to go to bed.

It's odd to look out my window at rows of flats and cabs hurrying to their destinations. It hasn't really sunk in that I'm here, and I think even a visit to Buckingham Palace wouldn't dispel that disbelief. Perhaps while this trip is recorded and considered, the vacuum of such an existence will be replaced with an anchor of experience shared by dozens of others. Although my little adventure just getting to the Centre makes a great blog entry, the real adventure is only beginning.