Nashville-Newark-London-Johannesburg
Simple enough, right?
Oh so very wrong.
When you switch flights so many times something is bound to show up just in time to throw everything off.
Cut to scene of myself and my teammates sprinting through Heathrow, probably diminishing any amicable feelings the British have for Americans.
As we stood panting in front of the clerk at the desk to pick up our boarding passes we realized that the plane that was leaving in 20 minutes did not care if we were on it or not.
This is how I spent 8 hours in London.
Let me rephrase that.
This is how I spent a very uncomfortable 8 hours trapped in Heathrow watching person after person sit across from me talking about their “bloody days”.
No Big Ben or Abbey Road in sight.
I’m not very good at being patient. In fact, I’m bloody awful at it. I feel like God was teaching me a fantastic lesson I would need to ultimately survive my trip. I’m guessing He just threw in all the accents for comedic relief.
Africa began to once again feel so far away. Around the 7th hour I decided that I would be eating fish and chips for the rest of my life.
Of course we eventually got to board the plane leaving for Johannesburg. But not a minute before I had learned my lesson. While sitting in my tiny space in the world I had time to contemplate everything that was waiting for me. To let myself dissolve into a new routine that would consume my life for the remainder of the trip.
Sound overdramatic?
Maybe.
But I’m grateful for my time spent in Heathrow.
I’m also grateful that I can pronounce “scone” without sounding like I’m throwing up.
