I was hit on the head by a falling duffel bag on my first train of the day. It could actually be considered my second train, as my original was cancelled seemingly within minutes of me booking tickets 48 hours earlier. The booking has moved into the vague state of ‘refund processing’, which likely means I won’t ever see the money again.
As I am waiting for train number 2, (or 3, or even perhaps 4 as I had an earlier connection missed with train one), I make the mistake of checking the reviews of my hotel for the night, the Heathrow Central Budget Ibis. Booked because it was just about £100, the cheapest option outside of someone’s spare room, and to ensure that I make it to the airport early enough for my flight to Cyprus in the morning. Ibis being a name I recognised, and 3 stars not seeming to be too shabby, I booked without paying much attention.
I also seem to have become suddenly nervous of lifts, which I will need to use with my 40-pound suitcase. The lift in the last hotel I stayed in was small, and on one ride up to our room, the doors refused to open at the correct floor. I was squashed in with my husband and in-laws and managed somehow to calmly press the button to take us back down to Reception, where the doors decided to work again. I insisted we take the stairs for a day after. This time however, I am a solo traveller, at least for the first 18 hours or so.
The next day at 9am, I will meet a friend at Heathrow to continue the trip together. She will be arriving there straight fresh from the flight from Ireland. She is a much more accomplished traveller than I, so I have been happy to take her lead every step of the way. The Budget Ibis however, is all my own fault.
I only learned where Cyprus was two days ago, when I looked up our journey online. I had always known my geography was bad, but it took several minutes of scrutinising Greek Islands before I realised that Cyprus was not in fact it’s neighbour. I stared at it, nestled between Egypt, Turkey, and Syria, and felt truly, truly dense.
I am not afraid of flying in the traditional sense. Reading about what causes turbulence does nothing to quell my fears that I might have a medical emergency at 30,000 feet. DVT, heart attack, sudden anaphylaxis due to a suddenly acquired peanut allergy. What I am most nervous of is that we don’t have assigned seats. I might find myself stuck in hypochondriac panic without my travel guru. I have already apologised to my friend, that she is flying with someone of the equivalent worldliness of a member of the Amish community on Rumspringa, but she just laughed.
By this point I have checked my passport 3 times already, but it remains stubbornly in my bag.
In trying to ensure myself and my suitcase don’t take 2 seats out of commission on the train, I accidently take up 4 seats. Once the train starts moving, I am stuck, avoiding all eye contact with those around me. Luckily most are already avoiding the woman with the suitcase, glitter bum-bag, and paint smeared dungarees. It occurs to me that I will be eating alone in the restaurant at the hotel. I have eaten alone in a restaurant exactly twice before, outside of McDonalds, both times at Wagamama’s. It is not as bold or sexy as it seems. But maybe that’s Wagamama’s fault, not mine. Perhaps at a Budget Ibis it will be better.
The train stops on the Southwestern to Waterloo line are so marvellous, I make a note of my favourites. Martins Heron. Sunningdale. Virginia Water. A lady gets on and starts talking to me about my suitcase. I know it is in the way, so I make moves to adjust it, even though I can’t hear exactly what she is saying through the Archers Omnibus pumping through my borrowed noise cancelling headphones. She flaps her hands to stop me moving, and talks more, but I still can’t hear her, so I just smile, and she seems happy with that.
When I get off, I alight at the wrong stop on purpose and quickly find that I have to walk a quarter of a mile to the taxi pickup point. The driver looks like a male model fresh off the runway, and his BMW boot opens hands free. We drive a route that looks half familiar. My grandfather used to work for British Airways, who we are flying with on this trip. I have actually only ever flown with British Airways. Privileged, I know. Something about the connection to my grandfather gives me more confidence in BA than Jet2 or easyjet. It may be a false confidence, but I cling on to it all the same.
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