Thursday, June 5

I have arrived in London! Terminal 4 of Heathrow was quite familiar to me from my visit last year and I had no problem making my way through immigration and baggage claim down to the Tube. I had a bit more trouble using my Oyster card. I forgot how it worked and tried to use it the way it’s done in Japan, by slipping the card into a slot that shoots it out the other end as you walk through the gate. I tried bumping it a few times against a depression in the front of the machine that looked like a slot. Obviously it didn’t go in, and I basically reenacted part of my trip to Spain last year where our Madrid hostel manager showed us very carefully that we were to use our keycard only for our room, not the outer door: “Like this!” *swipe* “NOT like this:” *tap tap tap against the solid wood*

A worker had to help me locate the huge yellow buttons at each gate. Right.

Once I made it through it was just a few steps further to the waiting train. However, the train looked pretty full and I was not at all certain of my luggage-wrangling abilities, and I preferred for any embarrassing struggles to be enacted in front of the fewest people possible. The board also said the train was leaving in two minutes, which I took to be not enough time for me to heave my stuff on board. Wrong. Two minutes when you’re waiting for a train to depart that is full of people staring at you is the longest time in the world. No one could understand why I wasn’t trying to board the train. A worker came up and pointedly told me “That’s your train.” “Ah, yeah, I know,” I said. “I’m . . . just going to wait for the next one.” Oh, the weird looks and elaborate shrugs people can give you. I turned aside and started rummaging in my purse just to have something to do. Boy did I rummage.

At last, at last, the doors closed and that horrid train left. The next one was near empty and I had plenty of space to position my massive luggage in a good spot and nab a seat right next to it. See, it was all part of the plan. The train departed just about 8:15 a.m., which meant . . . just in time for morning rush hour! As we continued along the Piccadilly line more and more people piled on, forcibly squeezing themselves around my luggage. Awkward. I was getting really nervous that I’d never be able to get through them all to get off, but the three stops directly before Russell Square are Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, and Covent Garden. That took care of nearly everyone, much to my relief.

I was not so relieved to gaze upon the impressive set of stairs at Russell Square. I began to haul my suitcase up one agonizing step at a time. I’d only made it a few steps when the next train arrived and a crowd of people filled the staircase and once again I was the star of the show. My saviors were first a woman and then a man, who both stopped and asked if I needed any help. Oh, I love people. With their assistance I made it to the street, and from there it was just a test of endurance to drag my things to Megan’s a few blocks away. I nearly thought I would die, and my hands got calluses from gripping the suitcase handle, and the steep narrow stairs to Megan’s 2nd floor flat nearly did me in, but I made it at last.

I collapsed on the couch, stared blankly into space, and I was in England.