The Right Foot

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  Oxford, England, United Kingdom
Saturday, January 10, 2009

When getting out of bed, starting a
task, or embarking upon some journey, one always wants to start out on the
right foot. Or so the phrase universally goes. The last three days, on the
other hand have been entirely contrary to this commonality. Granted,
international travel is supposed to be the most challenging part of the
process. It most likely is the quick and easy way of eliminating homesickness.
By the time one arrives, they are so grateful to be there, that home no longer
seems appealing. In any case, all of my best-laid plans went horribly and
irrevocably wrong.

To be fair, the Nashville Airport
was, as always, fabulously hospitable and simple. My two incredibly overweight
bags were never weighed and simply whisked off to the appropriate plane. I was
sitting pretty at my terminal less than a half hour from when I arrived, having
undergone even the tricky international security check. The hour and a half
flight into Detroit was fairly simple, causing no more than mild nausea, which
is easily fixed with a few harmless herbs and a bottle of sprite. This is
perhaps a little bit too simple. I made my last few phone calls in Detroit, bid
farewell to the United States and boarded Northwest Airlines Flight 68 service
to Amsterdam, Netherlands. Once on board I took a Tylenol PM and instantly fell
asleep, purposefully avoiding the effects of jet lag, only to wake up to the
voice of a flight attendant over the intercom 2 hours later, and blurrily
realize that instead of being somewhere over an ocean, my plane was still
motionless on the Tarmac. I shook myself awake to listen to what the captain
and his attendants were saying. "... Engine 1... Mechanics...Stay put... More
later." The Indian lady in her orange sari next to me, who couldn't understand
a word I spoke, looked perplexed. Poor woman. From what I could gather, the
plane had broken down before starting up. Good thing we hadn't tried to go
anywhere first.

I decided to forego sleeping for
the time being and watch more of my movie while waiting for further news. 25
minutes later we were informed that the mechanics' first attempt at fixing our
engine had failed and they were going back to diagnostics. Guests were invited
to deplane if immediate emergencies existed, although we were warned that no
other flight to Amsterdam existed that night. Several bitter passengers
departed. Rumors about children in comas and other disasters ensued. A little
while later, we were informed that the mechanics had begun on yet another repair
of the engine, but their estimated completion time was still more than an hour
away. The flight staff advised passengers to de-plane to grab dinner and then
re-board with a whole new general boarding call. The juices that make my
computer run were quite low by this point, so I opted for food and electricity
over more hours in a cramped airplane seat and hence un-boarded the plane. I purchased spinach and artichoke dip
and made a few phone calls while I waited for more news on the undecided
departure time of our massive plane. I figured I might as well take advantage
of my last few hours of nearly free phone service before weaning myself from
cell usage. At 10:00, now 4 ½ hours from the original departure time, we were
informed that the plane was irreparable. A new plane was going to be necessary,
but we were likely going to have to wait for a new one to arrive that we could
commandeer for the flight. The new estimated departure time: 12:15AM. Sighing, I shifted gates to await the
new plane, and sleepily passed out on the floor. A kind man awakened me later
on saying that the plane was finally boarding. I gratefully grabbed my carry-on
bags and boarding pass, hurrying through the line only slow enough to catch the
new departure time at 2:55AM. So much for midnight. Liars.

I settled back into my seat by
unnamed foreign lady and fell asleep leaned on the window. I was wakened only
for a drink and lunch and slept heavily for the rest of the eight hours,
promptly dashing all my brilliant plans for dodging the clutches of jet lag.
Now it was 4 in the afternoon when the plane landed... probably not a good time
to be asleep. As we excited the plane we were promised that all 300 passengers
had been rebooked on a connecting flight either tonight or tomorrow and to calmly
check in at the nearby self-help kiosks to discover our flights. A very
gullible plane full of people fidgeted in three lines for the supposedly
miraculous kiosks. I was not rebooked on the miniscule flight from Amsterdam to
London: Heathrow and was sent to the Terminal 3 customer service desk only to
stand in an even longer and more impatient line of people while I watched the
flight information screen flash images of departing Heathrow flights without me
on board. I comforted myself with the thought that at least this way my baggage
could follow me. 2 ½ hours went by before I was standing before a nearly
understandable representative who informed me that my flight left in 30 minutes
for Heathrow, that my baggage would definitely be on board and that I would
arrive in London at 7 o'clock. Trusting, I headed off armed with a 5 minute
phone card to call my study abroad representative and my trusty carry on bags
(which both weigh well over 20 pounds for those wondering). Unfortunately it
took 15 minutes to get to the free red phone and 3 to connect to my
representative, leaving me just enough time to mumble out the words that I was
delayed, stuck and most likely not going to make it to Oxford, England by 9
that night before sign-in, and our chance to retrieve out housing addresses and
keys, ended. The phone cut off promptly as she began to speak. Perfect.

At this precise moment that
intercom informed me that Emily ford was now delaying her flight to Heathrow,
at which I bolted back towards my gate, and slid into my seat onboard the next
flight at just the right moment, with only a few glares by airport security
guards and northwest airlines passengers. Finally, a stroke of luck. And for
those of you who don't know England like myself, Amsterdam is an hour ahead of
London, allowing my 50 minute flight to drop me off in Heathrow at 7 after
leaving at 6:55, and I do not recommend asking anyone at the airport for it
simply degrades your intelligence level and geography knowledge. Another
interesting fact for those geographically challenged like myself, Norwegians
(where Amsterdam is located) speak Dutch, not Norwegian, which is not a
language. Just a handy mental travel note to help you out. Also, the juices on
a European flight such as this are significantly smaller than the miniature
wine and beer bottles offered, to such an extent that they measure no more than
a shot glass. Note taken.

Upon joyous arrival in London, I
found myself in yet another train of lines, this time immigration check for the
UK, where the lady caught that my admissions letter to Oxford was dated in
October in approximately 10 ½ seconds and proceeded to grill me on every
unknown detail about my stay in their precious country. I smiled wearily,
courteously nodded and agreed with every word that came out of her mouth and
somehow proceeded onward to baggage claim. Go figure. At baggage claim, I
discovered the claustrophobic bathroom stalls. Apparently everything is smaller
in England. Cans, stalls, suitcases and even the people seemed shrunken. Maybe
it was that biting cold threatening just out a door or two. I clutched my scarf
and coat a tad bit tighter, and watched as all the other passengers retrieved
their baggage, including the few from my also delayed flight. My eyes yearned
for the two identical, gleaming cranberry suitcases that contained more or less
my life. The warning light mockingly winked at me, signaling the unloading
processes conclusion and snuffing all hope of my suitcases arrival. Yet again,
I believed the airlines lies. I can be such a naïve sucker sometimes. I trudged
to yet another line in front of the missing baggage desk where a lady smiled
sympathetically as she handed me paperwork to fill out and promised that the
bags would be delivered in the next 24-48 hours, as they were certainly located
as abandoned in Amsterdam.

I exited terminal 4 at
approximately 9pm London time, eliminated all hope of making it to the nearby,
but ever so evading Oxford. I withdrew colorful Great British Pounds from the
Cash Machine and then stopped for the first time in 2 days, uncertain of where
to go or what to do. Attempting to negotiate my way around a hostel fee on top
of everything else, I took the lift (another, not so creative, but very British
term for an elevator) to the 2nd floor where the Departures gates
were located and determinedly walked to the KLM/Northwest desk, where the
unfortunate ladies with the late night shift listened to my sorrowful tale.
Under their motherly care I was sent along my way grasping a hotel voucher, and
two one way bus tickets.

I talked to two airport security
guards at Platform 1, while waiting for the free express ride to terminals 1,
2, and 3 and the central bus station with service to the hotels. I also
connected with Fernando, a Brazilian man, also trapped in the airport overnight
and on his way to the IBIS hotel, just like me. We boarded the train, walked
several miles to the bus stop, rode a frequently stopping overly packed bus to
the IBIS, and waited in the millionth line to check in at the hotel. Fernando,
who was directly in front of me, was turned away as the hotel was full up
tonight. I stood waiting, fearful and uncertain as he picked up all of his bags
and stood a distance away with a familiar perplexed and pitiful look upon his
face. Where to Go? Miraculously, my voucher guaranteed my spot somehow, and a
signed for my free dinner, room and breakfast with great relief. I guiltily bid
farewell to Fernando wishing him the best of luck, and took another lift to my
room, which in true English fashion was small and non-descript, but complete
with a bathroom, un-working TV, and two full beds. I sat down on the bed and
stared at my incredibly frizzy image in the mirror, unable to shake the
desperation of Fernando from my mind. I looked guiltily at the second bed and
images of sleeping on welcoming hosts' homes as I drove across the states and
promising myself to be that way later on flashed through my mind. Thoughts
without actions are fleeting scribbles. 'God what do I do? This is me... you
can't possibly expect...?" The prayer trailed off and I grabbed my purse and room
key and skipped back downstairs, resolving that if he was still there, I would
offer him the bed. There was no one in the lobby, and I spun searching for his
dark, curly-haired figure. Almost relieved I turned to head back before
spotting him standing alone by the road with his breath evident in the chilly
night air. I ran up stating simply, "There is another bed in the room. Do you
want it for the night? I leave early, but at least it's a few hours of sleep."
His eyes grew huge and he explained how he had been praying to God only moments
earlier for some sense of direction and aid.

He thanked me at least six times on
the way up to the room, perpetually giving God thanks for the gift. I offered
my God my own simple prayer for peace and safety. In every way, this was out
the ordinary for me, but then God tends to work in mysterious, uncomfortable
ways and I hesitatingly submitted. That night we had dinner downstairs,
complete with tiny shot-glasses for apple juice, and squishy cake-like apple
tarts. We swapped photos, stories of family and friends, and our faraway homes,
and haltingly attempted to improve each others knowledge of the others'
language. Exhausted, I fell into bed and perched on the very edge away from
where he slept, willing myself to sleep at the appropriate time in England. The
next morning, I left the hotel armed with a yellow, Brazilian t-shirt, an
invitation to visit Brazil anytime desired, and the knowledge that listening to
God is so much greater than following your heart. This was going to be a
fantastic trip.

I arrived back at the terminal 4
Northwest airlines desk, where I was told to present myself for some form of
aid in the transportation department, only to be informed that Northwest's
obligations ended at London, where our contract had completed itself, and that
I was now on my own. Unabated, I headed back to the train to repeat my journey
towards the central bus station and Oxford. Overconfident, I squeezed myself
onto a immediately departing train on Platform 2 only to discover myself
traveling quickly in an unfamiliar direction. A conductor walked down the aisle
requesting tickets and I confusedly explained that I simply wanted the free
trip to terminals 1,2, and 3. He shook his head, sighed, and informed me that
I'd missed it. I was now quickly flying toward the Downtown London Padwick
station. They would simply have to send me back. He commanded me not to move
from this spot, and wait for him to come and get me. I couldn't decide if I was
being treated like an unwanted, soggy kitten being put back on the street, or a
wandering child out of the reach of her much more intelligent parental
supervisors. In any case, I had managed to land myself in the wrong place yet
again, and was being returned to sender.
I silently agreed to his command and settled in to marvel at the dull
London sun shining on picturesque townhouses, sheep, dirty walls, and small
cars whizzing past the train. Who could believe that I was getting a free train
ride round-trip tour of London? Totally worth the wrong turn, and lost 30
minutes traveling time. He did indeed send me back to the terminals, where I
met up with a bus to at bus stop 14A to Oxford.

Reading off my two page instruction
sheet from Stephanie, my study abroad representative, I told the bus driver
taking our luggage that I intended to dismount at "Glouchester Green" (the code
name for Oxford City Center). The slightly too responsive, energetic man
cheekily responded, "Gloster". I looked confused, so he repeated, "Gloster". I
wearily shrugged. "Oh, Whatever." Unabated, he corrected me yet again. "No. Not
Whatever. You are in England now missy, so I get to teach you real English."
Whoops. Clearly, the wrong man to cross on that one... apparently H's are not
pronounced in true English. My bad.

After the bus ride I took a lime
green taxi to Hertford College Porter's Lodge in stunning, historical Oxford,
where I picked up my orientation packet, called the airport to provide them
with my airport, and returned to the taxi, where the driver took me what seemed
to be a roundabout way (dirty little cheat) to 3 Riverside Road, Oxford - my
new address. It is a quant little lodging, with a blue door, lots of small
rooms, and a messy thicket of a garden as our backyard. I have my own room
adjoining the common room with a view to the back, and there is a gloriously
large and truly fully equipped kitchen as well. I even have a miniscule
washroom on the bottom floor. After hurriedly looking through the house, I
noticed a page in my orientation packet informing me that I was currently
missing 75% of my orientation to Oxford. Shocked, I reached for the hand drawn,
and entirely too simplistic map in the packet, and courageously ventured into
the strange, cold English air determined to find my way to St. Catharine's
College and the meeting room where my colleagues were currently learning loads
of information I would never know. In true tourist fashion, I held the map in
front of me and chose lots as to which direction to head at first, walking
straight until I hit a recognizable road. I made it to St. Cat's rosy cheeked,
but safe and just in time for their final coffee break. I welcomed the relieved
hugs of fellow APU scholars and answered all the concerned questions of the
program directors. I was finally home: tired, but happy. After the brief
concluding lecture of orientation informing me of where to buy groceries, the
seemingly countless numbers to dial to call people, and the passwords necessary
to connect my laptop to the internet, me and my four new roommates headed back
to the warmth of our home and I finally got a real tour of the house. Later, we
ventured back out into the sparkling snowflakes to a pub where the group was
meeting for dinner. The streets were frustratingly narrow, forcing me to bump
into a speedwalking Brit every few steps, and the cars determinedly traveled in
all the wrong directions, putting my life in my hands every time I crossed the
street. The cobblestone was soggy, the buildings towering and the people
incredible hushed. The whole place seemed surreal and magical. I had made it,
and I was going to study here for a whole semester. My brain reveled in the
glory of that thought.

So with that said, I am sincerely
sorry for the length of this first real post. I just feel like every moment in
the last 4 days is well worth documenting, and there is simply not enough paper
to contain the images. At a later, more defined date, I will go into much more
detail about my home, and Oxford itself. For now, I will only say that it is
bloody cold, fantastically incredible, and constantly perplexing. I am certain
that I have offended a great number of Brits accidentally already. It is
gorgeous, snowy, intimidating and I absolutely couldn't be more excited.

And so my dear friends, the only
real conclusion I can make at this point is that I have learned my first,
all-important lesson in the UK. It seems that in true English fashion, the
appropriate foot to start upon is not the right, but rather the left.

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