It’s a cool morning as I stash away the last of my belongings. Standing in the door in pajamas, Jon and Al see me off, and I wonder when and where we’ll next meet. Jon tells me I’ll arrive in plenty of time, so I worry about getting bored at the airport.
I’m pleased to find the train ticket to Gatwick more reasonable than that from Stansted, and am doubly pleased when I catch a train leaving conveniently from the other side of the platform, though it’s not suggested in my online itinerary. But when I stride into Area B of South Terminal, I find myself ensnared near the end of a mind-bogglingly long line and try to shake myself of it to seek out Air Transat. I follow a Canadian family with the appropriate luggage tags around, but they eventually find their way to priority check-in, leaving my to fend for myself again. Finally, a staff member directs me to the very line that was in my way when I first came in. It’s easily over a hundred people long. I remember Chip’s comment about the Brits' fondness for queuing. I decide that this is my final cultural experience.
The regulations at Gatwick are even stricter than at JFK, so I stow more things away as I wait, amazed that they all fit into my almost carry-on-sized red luggage. Half an hour later, I think I’m near check-in, but beyond the double doors a line of equal length appears. As it zigzags, I get a look at the people queuing behind me. In general they are less dressy; you can pick out the Londoners from the North Americans. One lavishly dressed woman draped in a bright yellow woolen scarf is wearing delicate three-inch designer pumps. I wonder who she wants to impress on the plane and whether her feet hurt.
After an hour of queuing I am at the security point, which takes another fifteen minutes. There is a spare currency donation bin in line, at the worst possible place as everyone tries to squeeze their purses into their carry-ons according to the “one bag only rule” and otherwise stresses over draconian security measures. I find the bin’s unfortunate placement a bit offensive; who relegated it there and how am I going to donate my spare change now?
After a quick dive into the Clarins boutique (an exciting discovery for me), the tacky Harrod’s gift shop (curses that they also sell tea there), Ted Baker because I didn’t know it was a line of clothing and accessories, and a busy coffee shop for fruit salad and an all-natural juice (ingredients: apple juice, vitamin C), I am hurrying to my gate and arrive just as passengers start boarding. So much for arriving three hours early and being bored.
The Canadian staff is open and friendly in a matter-of-fact way, and I relish hearing yet another accent after all I’ve heard this summer. The drink service is too infrequent, however, and when I ask passing flight attendants if I can buy a drink, they only tell me yes, and when I find another attendant in the back, he’s taking his lunch and says he’ll come by in five to ten minutes, which he never does. I resolve to put my extra currency towards the Canadian Children’s Wish Foundation, for which we’re all given envelopes, rather than allow Air Transat to profit off my thirst.
Although I must admit I’m very tempted by the Inniskill ice wine, sold by the bottle or miniature bottle, offered in-flight. This is the Canadian way to fly.
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