Tuesday noon: leave for SFO, little to no traffic, get there by 12:38
begrudgingly submit two checkin bags--Thanks to the Nigerian Bomber, TSA devised a brilliant security measure limiting each passenger to exactly one carry-on, as opposed to, for example, the more logical restriction of wearing underwear. Point being, for women, this means no purse.
airport employee signals me to come closer--a secret's a foot? not quite. She is accepting my 28 kilo (approx. 60+ pounds, so more than 10 pounds over the persmissible limit) bag because, ''I just want to get you out of here fast.'' --First impressions are apparently my forte.
the next three and half hours pass--next time you find yourself in the SFO international airport with time to kill, I'd recommend the pinball machine and jade sculpture exhibits.
papa miraculously witholds tears as I say goodbye and enter the security line--equally miraculous is how TSA didn't confiscate my bag of mulit-colored, unlabeled drugs (iron, headache, omega-3 fish oil pills), or a large ziploc bag of mysterious white powder (laundry detergent)
I board at 5, due to an hour delay and am able to sweet talk some ladies into switching seats so that my friend, Cristina (who's also studying abroad in England) can join me on the opposite side of the plane--hooray! for friendship
I watch a censored (sans Galifianakis nudity) version of The Hangover, and Post Grad--needless to say, movie selection was limited, especially with regard to the latter.
We land at 11:30 a.m. on Wednesday, at which time a voice explains that it will be at least an hour before we can deplane, as fewer planes have departed from Heathrow than have arrived in--a symphony of gasps, moans, groans, and as if on cue, a baby's cry ensue.
2 and half hours later we're off. I find my shuttle driver, Brian and he kindly offers to drive Cristina, who's missed her own university's shuttle to the center of London--I get to see London sooner than expected, but am now an hour, or so headed in the wrong direction.
As Brian expected, we hit a bit of rush hour, and an auto accident amounting to a 30 minute delay--during which time I find out Brian doesn't drink, doesn't much like futbol, and has several goats and sheeps for pets (not exactly your average bloak)
I arrive on campus at 6p.m. with an hour to spare before the study abroad office is to close. Brian helps me with my bags to the information desk--To my surprise, the information desk is unfamiliar with the study abroad office, and thus all the more amused to find out that the coordinator's name is Julie Andrews.
A burly security guard escorts me to the study abroad office, and offers to take my largest bag...which is on wheels, while I carry my overstuffed duffel and a cumbersome hardcase--my right palm is now bruised.
I get my key and Julie Andrews says she will take me to my room, but first must get a campus map because she doesn't know where my building is--to my surprise, again.
''Everything from the student center spreads uphill,'' Julie explains as I have to drop my bags for the sixth time to regain feeling in my forearm--Julie Andrews is correct in her observation
Julie Andrews explains that my building, indicated by the number 8, is not shown on the map and fetches the attention of a passerby, who then runs down a snowy hillside to verify that we are in fact looking right at it.
Julie Andrews is creating a path as wide as my luggage piece, as Julie Andrews drags my bag through 3 inches of snow--also noteworthy, Julie Andrews is wearing high heels.
Upon entering the building, Julie Andrews quickly brings to my attention that there is no lift, and explains it's best to take my bags up the three flights of stairs in trips--Julie Andrews does not do stairs.
It is only once I am at the top with all my bags that a person emerges from inside. One of my flatmates, Pauline (French, 20 years old, law student) offers to help. At which time, another flatmate, Vanessa (Swiss, 19 years old, but looks 30, studying government ) greets me.
It is approximately 7p.m.
We then took a short bus ride to a Tesco, which was most basically described to me as a grocery store, but it's so much more than just a grocery store. Aside from your standard market fare, Tesco offers electronics, linens, housewares, alcohol, and even a separate, albeit, small gluten-free section--yea, I guess you could say it's England's version of (shudder) Walmart, but I've been told it's the place I will most frequently visit while I'm here, so I'm wholeheartedly embracing it whilst telling myself it's nothing even remotely like the aforementioned, notorious, national conglomerate.
So far I have yet to take any pictures or video, whoops.
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