Travel Log One: British Air, If You Dare

It is unconstitutionally early when my mother shakes me awake. The awful feeling of pending movement swells inside me that which besets me when it is dark outside and in my room but the light from the hall bleeds in like a blinding stain. Evidently I eventually arise, gaining speed as the impetus of dozens of invaluable items yet to pack fuels my sluggish motions. Into my oblivious brothers' rooms I scurry to kiss their sleeping lumps goodbye, one last whimper and stroke doled out for my bewildered cat, and then we are miraculously off in a cranky, rattling, graveyard-shift taxi. None of us speak very much for a while as we stew in our adrenaline and dreadful excitement; though a small part of us each is monotonously praying that the taxi, now bucking and lurching like an angry Italian cook, will remain intact until we reach the terminal. As if on cue, the driver puts down his cell phone and calls dubiously back to us:

"Vhat tkegmeenal?"

"What?" says my mother, startled out of her reverie.

"Tkegmeenal, tkegmeenal!" he says loudly. There's a Russian mafia too, right? my brain deadpans unhelpfully.

"Oh, terminal! British Airways."

"Vot?"

"Bri-tish Air-ways."

"Jket Bloo?"

We in the backseat exchange glances of jovial unease. Wow, I think. I'm going to be in Reader's Digest.

"No, no," says my mother, calling over the crackling radio and clang of the tires. "Bri-tish Air-ways. British. England!"

"Ohh,ohh! Hok-hay."

The same discourse is repeated at least twice before we swerve up to British Airways curb at JFK, though by then we are hardly in a position to complain about conversation. The driver unloads our three massive valises and our three stomachs collectively drop as we realize that he is quite barefoot.

Barely containing our hysterics, we stumble into check-in and encounter British Queue #1. We stand in line for at least half an hour, hushing our voices and imagining that even feeble whispers reverberate around the eerie silence of the early morning airport. We are joined in line by several fascinating character studies including American Collegians (Tee-Shirt Skirt and Alpha-Guy), Brits On Holiday (Chic Chick, Token Sister and Random Mum) and of course a Chassid. Finally, we are briskly and rudely checked in by a woman reminiscent of McCarthy plus a questionable accent and get through the Infernal Metal Detector where major procedural dilemmas face us; basket or bin? Separate mini-crate for keys? And what about earrings? Should my mother take off her shoes?

(The answer to that was a grunted "mmuh" from a grumpy official, so my mother had to walk through barefoot.)

At last declared legal, we stroll a bit through the airport shopping (which is pitiful, but that's a luxury you loose at JFK Departures) though we still manage to stock up on batteries and Certified Kosher M&M's. As we prepare to board, my mother makes her last calls on an American cell phone for two weeks (I think she might have set a velocity record.)

Our seats on the flight are three by a window, which I dolefully request as I slide surreptitiously into it and barter for with empty assurances that I will switch soon with my sister, wedged (as she so often seems to be) in the middle. But her resentment switches imperceptibly to well disguised smugness as the American Collegians slide into the seats in front of us. She gets Tee-Shirt Skirt. I get Alpha-Guy, who immediately and without a hint of courtesy pushes his seat back to its limits, and then forces it at least another inch through sheer brutality.

Charming.

The flight, once I adjust to having less legroom than your average amoebae, proceeds relatively smoothly. Our kosher meals come without incident, a comfortingly vile concoction of chicken and peas, at barely nine o'clock EST. A careful combination of crossword puzzles, popcorn novels and watching half of "Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World" (tragic and difficult to follow, but rather enjoyable) greases the hours sufficiently enough.

During landing, I notice that the girl behind me, whose reflection I am watching in my window, is still listening to music. I can feel the percussion through my seat, and it irritates me so that I focus my attention on Tee-Shirt Skirt, who engrossed in a full-flow, one way discourse with Alpha-Guy dissecting what I soon decipher is the despicable Tom Cruise. To my surprise, I fully agree with her. Well, I think, there is really no accounting for taste.

At Heathrow airport, we scurry down several flat escalators and receive our first lesson in British Law: On any mechanical distance spanning apparatus, those who wish to remain stationary must stand to the right, and leave the left side clear for those who wish to facilitate the speed gained from the mechanism by walking upon it. My sister is silently rebuked by a stony faced business man for leaning on the left; between that and the signs posted every two feet "Please Stand to the Right," we manage to catch on.

We then stand on British Queue #2, for Customs, a process that, love England dearly as I do, I have no desire ever to repeat again. It was impassibly long, moved in inches, and was so deafeningly silent I felt as though I was acting out some deviously designed piece of satirical social art. Finally stamped, visually scoured and sanctioned, we hasten to retrieve our luggage- by some divine mercy, our pieces came trundling around within a short span of minutes. We then use both a currency machine and a human vendor to exchange a relatively small amount of dollars for even fewer pounds (approximate exchange rate: $2 = 1 £) during which we study the aforementioned Chassid being collected and carried off by his compatriots.

This done, we purchase tickets to the Heathrow train to Paddington Station and wait for quite a while for the train to arrive, during which we are instructed several times to "Mind the Gap" and stand behind a yellow line positioned at least three feet behind the track. (There was, incidentally, significantly more room in the Forbidden area of the line than behind it.) On the train, we are joined by two women tittering in French and a clod of boisterous Irish businessmen- one of whom picks up my overlooked sweatshirt as we disembark and hands it to my mother, grinning that I had "forgotten my cloak."

After running pell-mell around Paddington Station looking for the exit (in British, Way Out) and a taxi (we pause for a minute to grin ruefully at several large banners urging Londoners to "Back the Bid" for the 2012 Olympics, knowing full well that London doesn’t have a chance) we wait on British Queue #3, the taxi line. Also preposterously long, though it moved somewhat more quickly, and at least we were allowed to talk.

The hotel was twenty minutes away, and my mother is in a state of purest bliss. It is her first time in London, and even in the dark through tinted windows, she can't get enough. She was so excited, I was concerned she would suggest touring right then and there- thankfully the hotel room (which my mother and my sister fell thoroughly in love with) proves a solid enough anchor to keep us indoors, at least until dawn.

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(Don't say I didn't warn you...)