I'm Smiling at You

I watched the people running through the terminal.  And through the tubes.  Yes, the tubes.  The multitude of tubes that make up Heathrow.  Out of every window, I could see tubes.  And people running through them.  We had tried to run through the tubes, but didn't make it.
We had already missed our plane.

England looked like England should from the plane.  Green.  Little stone houses.  Farm lands with distinct borders.  Heathrow looked like England too.  Orwell's England. 

We had to wait five more hours to get to Ireland.  We all laid on the expansive couches that lined the tube, an obvious sign that no one made their flight there.  I slept quite well.  I had left my house an hour after leaving school on Friday to board a plane to Boston.  I spent the morning eating lobster and looking at old things, then flew overnight to London, sure that the connection would be flawless, even though we only had an hour layover after our plane sat on the runway for an hour in Boston. 

I was becoming complacent at Heathrow, feeling way too at home.  I woke up on the couch, desperate to piss.  As I walked bleary eyed to the bathroom, the bathroom that I knew how to find as if it was in my own home, I realized I was unzipping my pants as I walked, though I was in public.  Then I went back to sleep. 

It was still daylight when we got there.  We drove out in to the country and stayed at a lovely place with dogs and horses.  Time was blurring.

It's pretty there.  Really green.  Normally, many countries look just like the U.S. from the air.  It's disappointing.  There are exceptions.  The minarets in Istanbul pierce the sky as you land.  And Ireland is very green and pretty.

"The cavers had to tunnel turdy or farty meters before they found the stalagmite" the cave guide informed us.  I felt about five when I found myself giggling.  I don't want to be in some turdy or farty ass tunnel.

It was coming to an end too fast.  Left hand driving, exploring, Guinness drinking.  We stayed in castle our last night in Dublin, just for fun.  I was polite and refined as I signed the paperwork and carefully fielded the big question.

"So, as it is Good Friday, will the bars be open at six, or not at all?" I asked kindly. 
"Madame" the concierge answered, "the rules apply for the public, residents can...."
"Do whatever they want?" I finished.
"This is your castle" he answered.
Damn.  I need to hear that more often.

After enjoying our castle, we geared up for another connection in Heathrow.  We barely made our plane, but skillfully handled the connection, buses, trains and tube running inside the airport, even having time to spare for drinks.  And then the plane was delayed.

And then, it was cancelled.

Two hours later, after re-claiming our bags, multiple retinal checks and suffering through offiicial UK entry, the place we really had no intention of going to, we made it to the re-booking desk.

"I can get you on the 11:00AM tomorrow" the agent informed me.
"What time does that arrive in Boston, Eastern?"
"1:30"
"We'll miss our connection"
"Well... you'll have to call Delta and hash that out with them when you arrive".
"Listen.  I pre-paid a hotel in Boston that I won't be in and am going to get jacked by Delta.  I am losing a lot of money.  BA needs to step up".
I was surprised when the hamster wheels of Heathrow started turning.
"I can put you straight through to Atlanta at three, arriving at seven turdy Eastern and put you up in our best hotel, meals included".

Emma and I ran through London the next morning.  Fuck the meals.  As we played around, looking at the Thames and houses of parliament and ran through the official Tube, checking out Queenie's place and that big eye Ferris wheel, it seemed odd that I was actually supposed to be at work the next day at seven turdy, Eastern.  

And I was there this morning.