Travellers journey with layers of protection, undetectable to the naked eye, but there nonetheless. They are there to protect from the unknown and unpredictable and, like hair, they thin and recede with age. My layers used to be so thick that I could ride for 14 hours on a frigid bus, and then sleep in a 50 cent hotel on a straw mattress. I would happily awake the next morning, drink a cup of bitter tea for breakfast, and, not even changing my underwear, hike out of town to a remote location, thumb a ride, and carry on with my journey in the back of a truck piled high with freshly slaughtered pigs.
Then I had children and my layers thinned and sluffed away until I now question my ability to tolerate a lumpy mattress or a hotel without a pool. I have begun to suspect that I am one of THOSE travellers.
We left the steamy Middle East on a Thursday, steadily swimming our way through the humidity and heat of a 125 degree night, and boarded a British Airways Boeing 777 in the midst of a lecture from Silas on the assembly of this particular fleet member. "They drop the middle piece between the front and rear pieces and then glue them together!" Glue? Honestly, I could hardly hear what he was saying for the muddle-headedness that comes with the combination of high temperatures and lack of sleep. As we stumbled to the departure hall in Muscat, I also realized quite suddenly that I was grossly outnumbered, three to one. Good-bye travel layer one.
In spite of the staggering odds stacked against me, we not only made it onto British Air Flight 72, we also disembarked the plane in London without excessive whining, wet pants, or lost or misplaced items. Before exiting Heathrow Airport, I had acquired a map of the Tube, one of London bus routes, a pre-paid mass transit card, and NO extra children. Man, I was on a roll.
Here is where the travel layers really begin to crumble away in quick succession.
Travel layer two went when we encountered the Arctic air mass that surrounds England. Silas swore he was about to lose a limb to the chill the minute we stepped out of the warm confines of Heathrow. Tian unpredictably kicked off her sandals and began to prance about the sidewalk in front of the airport, shrieking, "Brrrr! Oh my gosh! It's freezing here!" Tehva saw this as her cue to also peel off her sneakers and try it out. I mostly just stood and stared off into the distance, pretending I did not know my own children while Silas tried to reenter the womb in an attempt to warm himself.
Travel layer three succumbed to our hotel situation. We had three small people, four enormous bags, and a hotel purported to be "a good bit of a distance away". The nice man at the airport information desk recommended using the 150 bus since not only is it free but "it will drop you right in front of the hotel." I lugged all four bags onboard and, in the calm of the Heathrow Station, marveled at the efficiency and convenience of public transport. The bus ride was pleasant, we enjoyed a private coach, and, just as the nice man had said, we were dropped right in front of the Sheraton Hotel. Unfortunately it was the wrong Sheraton Hotel.
As I digested this wrong hotel news, Tian pampered her bears, Tehva grabbed her crotch and danced, and Silas hung on my sleeve, looking frantic at this unexpected turn of events. The concierge eyed our four enormous bags and three relatively small children with an ill-concealed smile, and then commented, "I could call you cab but it will be quite expensive." He paused and then added, disbelievingly, "Did you really make it all the way to the hotel from the bus stop all by yourselves?" All that had required was crossing a car park, but he seemed impressed by this, so I nodded enthusiastically, hoping that feat would impress him enough that he would bundle us into his personal vehicle and transport us the unknown distance to our real hotel. This did not come to fruition and, instead, we found ourselves back out at the bus stop, waiting for a different bus.
Real hotel reached, travel layer four began to disintegrate as I received the surprising news that we would not be able to check in until much later in the day. However, the hotel magnanimously offered use of their public toilets so that we could "freshen up". Not so surprisingly, I could not find my tooth brush or deodorant to freshen up, Silas got frantically lost on the way to the toilet, and Tehva came rushing over to tell me, "I just peed in my pants a little."
Travel layer five, I am pleased to write, never left me because, after this, events took a turn for the better. My ability to navigate the Tube came back quicker than you can say, "Steak and kidney pie" and we were in Central London by mid-morning. We fought the crowds to see the changing of guard, the climbed on the lions in Trafalgar Square, played in St. James and Green Parks, walked down Pall Mall, heard Big Ben ring, and rode a "double checker bus" (thank you, Tehva).
We visited King Henry VIII at Hampton Court Palace, ate pub food, tested the temperature in the Thames, looked the wrong way when crossing the road, and ate Pringles and bread and butter sandwiches in front of the hotel TV. We got caught in a frigid rain, ate bad Indian food, visited the British Museum, removed Tehva from the British Museum when she threw a tantrum, visited the Tower of London, chatted with a costumed interpreter for an hour, threatened to lock Tehva in the Tower of London, and learned that London Bridge and Tower Bridge are NOT the same thing.
We oggled the Globe Theater, tried to sneak into a performance at the Globe Theater, hit too many gift shops, desperately searched for a toilet near Westminster Station, peed at the base of Big Ben, and fell asleep on the Tube. The kids petted every dog that happened across their path in the five days we were there and, had I taken a photo of every dog petting incident as Silas had wanted me to, I would have filled our digital camera's card on the first day.
That trip done, I am happy to say that I retain one travel layer which I am saving for next summer's outward jaunt. Care to join us anyone?
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