Heathrow, Here I Come

I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the journey home.

Don’t get me wrong. I desperately wanted to get home.

It was the getting there that I wasn’t looking forward to.

After weeks of travelling around Britain, catching up with friends and family, revisiting old places and generally exhausting myself, the prospect of spending the best part of two days travelling back to New Zealand wasn’t exactly filling me with enthusiasm.

Fortunately, I’d arranged a taxi to Heathrow.

At least that was one part of the journey I didn’t have to negotiate with a suitcase, a railway barrier or a train full of football supporters.

The taxi delivered me safely to Terminal 3.

And then the fun began.

Terminal 3 – Welcome to the Machine

Heathrow was absolutely heaving.

People everywhere.

Suitcases being dragged in all directions.

People looking confused.

People looking stressed.

People staring at machines as though they’d just been asked to launch a space shuttle.

And then I discovered why.

Self-service check-in.

Oh, wonderful.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m travelling halfway around the world, I quite like having an actual human being check my documents and tell me everything is in order.

Apparently, this is now considered terribly old-fashioned.

Instead, we were all expected to negotiate a bank of machines.

I waited for one to become available, watching other passengers struggle with the technology.

Eventually, it was my turn.

I started well.

Name? Fine.

Booking? Fine.

Flight details? Fine.

Passport?

Ah.

Now, I have two passports.

British and New Zealand.

As I was travelling home to New Zealand, I decided to use my New Zealand passport.

Seemed perfectly logical to me.

Unfortunately, the machine disagreed.

It promptly referred me to an assistant.

I joined another queue, where a very helpful member of staff went through all my details.

Everything was correct.

So what was the problem?

Apparently, nothing.

I was instructed to return to the machines and try again.

Using the same passport.

Right.

So I queued again.

Presented exactly the same information.

And this time the machine was perfectly happy.

Out came my boarding passes and luggage label.

Technology. Don’t you just love it?

Meet Debbie

As I was leaving my machine, I noticed a lady beside me struggling with hers.

Having now completed my advanced training in Heathrow’s self-service check-in system, I felt qualified to offer assistance.

We managed to get her boarding passes and luggage label printed.

I even showed her how to attach the label to her suitcase.

Look at me!

From rejected passenger to unofficial Heathrow employee in approximately fifteen minutes.

We ended up joining the bag-drop queue together.

Her name was Debbie.

We chatted as we waited, and by the time our bags had disappeared into the mysterious depths of Heathrow’s luggage-handling system, we’d become quite friendly.

We headed through security together.

Now, this was a particularly unusual experience for me.

Because I wasn’t selected for additional security screening.

Nobody wanted to pat me down.

Nobody wanted to inspect my belongings.

Nobody wanted to wave a mysterious instrument around my person.

Nothing!

I was through.

Just like that.

I was almost disappointed.

Being pulled aside for additional attention has become such a regular feature of my travels that I was beginning to feel rather neglected.

I don’t like change.

A Gin and Tonic and a Black Coffee

Debbie and I both had time to spare before our flights.

So we decided to find somewhere to sit and have a drink.

Debbie opted for a stiff gin and tonic.

I had a black coffee.

She very kindly insisted on paying.

We sat chatting until it was time for her to head to her departure gate.

And then, just like that, we said goodbye.

It’s one of the lovely little things about travelling.

You meet somebody completely by chance, help each other out, share a drink and a conversation, and then head off in different directions.

I was glad I’d met her.

And now I had to prepare myself for the next eight hours in the sky.

I treated myself to a new book.

If I was going to be trapped in an aluminium tube for the foreseeable future, I might as well have something decent to read.

Goodbye, Inflatable Seat. Goodbye, Boa Constrictor.

By the time I boarded the plane, I’d made some important changes to my travelling arrangements.

You may remember my preparations for the outward journey.

The inflatable seat cushion.

The neck pillow that resembled a boa constrictor.

Various other accessories apparently essential for surviving a long-haul flight.

Well, I’d learned my lesson.

All of them had been abandoned.

Not permanently, you understand. I hadn’t left a trail of inflatable equipment across Britain.

I’d simply decided they weren’t worth carrying and juggling through airports.

This time I was travelling light.

My essential survival kit consisted of:

• My new book.
• Headphones for music or an audiobook if the book turned out to be rubbish.
• A few muesli bars.
• My power bank.

The power bank, of course, came with its own special rules.

It had to remain accessible in the seat pocket.

Apparently, this was in case it suddenly decided to spontaneously combust.

Which was comforting.

Nothing says relaxing long-haul flight quite like carrying a small electrical device that the airline apparently considers a potential incendiary weapon.

I tucked my little bag beneath the seat in front of me and settled into my carefully selected, paid-for aisle seat.

And I was lucky.

The middle seat was empty!

Wonderful.

A little extra space.

Or so I thought.

The Lady Who Adopted the Middle Seat

The lady sitting by the window made it quite clear from the beginning that conversation was not on the agenda.

No eye contact.

No friendly smile.

Absolutely no indication that another human being existed beside her.

Fair enough.

Not everybody wants to chat on a plane.

She then proceeded to adopt the empty middle seat as an extension of her own territory.

I half expected her to plant a little flag in it.

PROPERTY OF WINDOW SEAT. KEEP OUT.

I left her to it.

I had my aisle seat, my book and my headphones.

Everybody was happy.

Well, I was.

I couldn’t really tell about her because looking in her direction seemed to be against the rules.

When we eventually landed, I noticed she was struggling to retrieve her bag.

So I offered to pass it down.

Partly because I was being helpful.

And partly because I wanted to see whether the no-contact rule extended to luggage retrieval.

Apparently, it didn’t.

Success!

A brief diplomatic exchange had been achieved.

Dubai – A Quick Visit to Civilisation

We arrived in Dubai during the breakfast hours.

The airport was already bustling.

Bright lights.

Shiny shops.

Duty-free displays full of things I had absolutely no intention of buying.

I made my way through the terminal with just enough time to visit the loo before boarding the next flight.

And I was particularly grateful for that.

Because the next leg was the big one.

Seventeen hours to Auckland.

Seventeen hours sharing an aircraft with hundreds of other people.

And a collection of tiny toilets that would be visited approximately a million times before we landed.

I was determined to make the most of a proper airport bathroom while I had the opportunity.

Then it was time to board again.

The Northern Irish Couple

Once again, I had an aisle seat.

This time, the middle and window seats were occupied by a Northern Irish couple.

They were heading to New Zealand and Australia for a cruise.

Lovely!

We got chatting.

Well, I mainly chatted with the lady.

She then relayed anything important to her husband.

A sort of in-flight translation service.

They mentioned that their cruise would be stopping in Dunedin.

Well!

That was something I could help with.

I told them about places to visit and things to see, and offered a few suggestions for getting the most out of their time ashore.

It was nice to talk about home.

And it passed some of the time.

Because there was an awful lot of time to pass.

The Great Red Wine Incident

About eight hours into the flight, my travelling companions decided to visit the facilities.

The gentleman went first.

And somewhere along the way, he also managed to acquire additional liquid refreshments.

Two glasses of red wine.

Now, I should explain that these weren’t proper glasses.

They were those little plastic airline glasses.

Which, when full of red wine, are apparently designed to test the coordination of anyone attempting to carry them through a moving aircraft.

He returned to our row and began negotiating his way back into his seat.

With both glasses.

I watched.

He manoeuvred.

The glasses tilted.

And then…

SPLASH!

Both of them.

Straight over my seat.

And my shoes.

Oh, for goodness’ sake! – or perhaps it was something stronger!

There I was, halfway around the world, eight hours into a seventeen-hour flight, sitting in what had suddenly become a rather expensive red wine tasting session.

Except I hadn’t tasted any of it.

The flight attendant came to investigate and very kindly supplied me with a spare blanket to sit on.

Which was lovely.

Although it didn’t do much about the smell.

Or my shoes.

I tried cleaning them with my little packet of antibacterial wipes.

But by this time, the cabin was in night mode.

The lighting was dim.

I couldn’t see what I was doing.

And there was only so much I could achieve with a damp wipe the size of a postage stamp.

Eventually, I gave up.

I settled back onto my blanket-covered seat.

And continued my journey smelling like I’d spent the evening in a rather disreputable pub.

Not bad for somebody who can’t drink a drop of alcohol for medical reasons.

I wondered whether customs would ask me to explain why I smelled like I’d been on a three-day bender.

The Great Vegetarian Food Mystery

Now, let’s discuss airline food.

More specifically, vegetarian airline food.

Because I really don’t understand why this has to be so complicated.

I don’t eat meat.

That’s it.

I’m not asking for a philosophical debate.

I’m not requesting a meal prepared under the light of a full moon by monks who have taken a vow of silence.

I just don’t eat meat.

Yet airline meal options seem determined to make this as difficult as possible.

There was Indian vegetarian.

Which is fine if you like curries.

I don’t.

Then there was Jain vegetarian.

Now, Jain dietary traditions involve avoiding harm to living creatures and generally exclude root vegetables.

Which is an interesting philosophy.

But I couldn’t help imagining a kitchen where nobody was allowed to pull up a carrot in case they disturbed a passing carrot fly.

At this rate, I was beginning to wonder whether I’d be served a plate of air.

So I chose vegan.

And unfortunately, the meals were not particularly pleasant.

Meanwhile, all around me, the meat-eating passengers were enjoying perfectly ordinary food.

Croissants.

Omelettes.

Chocolate cake.

Real cheese.

REAL CHEESE!

Apparently, the airline hadn’t considered the possibility that a vegetarian might enjoy an omelette.

Or a croissant.

Or a piece of chocolate cake.

Or cheese that had actually come from a cow.

I was beginning to feel as though I’d been punished for not eating meat.

I made a mental note to mention this in the inevitable airline customer satisfaction survey.

Dear Airline,

I am vegetarian, not allergic to breakfast.

Are We There Yet?

The hours dragged on.

And on.

And on.

I read.

I listened to music.

I attempted to sleep.

I rearranged myself on my wine-scented blanket.

I watched the little aircraft symbol on the flight map inch across the globe.

I wondered whether we were actually moving.

Perhaps we’d been circling somewhere over the Indian Ocean for several days and nobody had thought to tell us.

Seventeen hours is an extraordinarily long time to spend sitting in one place.

Particularly when that place smells of red wine and the food has left you contemplating the nutritional value of the seat cushion.

But eventually, at long last, the captain announced that we were approaching Auckland.

NEW ZEALAND!

Home soil!

I could have cheered.

Actually, I probably did cheer internally.

I didn’t have the energy to do it out loud.

Auckland – So Close, Yet So Far

After landing, I was absolutely delighted to get off the plane.

To stand upright.

To walk.

To move my legs in something resembling a normal human fashion.

I made my way through the airport and then enjoyed the fifteen-minute walk between the international and domestic terminals.

Fresh air!

Space!

The ability to move without asking somebody to lift their tray table!

Wonderful.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite home yet.

I still had another flight to catch.

And a wait of more than five hours.

Five hours!

So near.

And yet so bloody far.

I found somewhere to eat and ordered a halloumi wrap.

Because apparently, in New Zealand airports, halloumi wraps have become the official food of vegetarians.

Still, I was very grateful for it.

After the airline meals, it tasted wonderful.

My suitcase had been checked through, which meant I was finally free of the responsibility of dragging it around.

I went to the bathroom and made a determined effort to restore myself to something vaguely resembling a human being.

It was not an easy task.

I looked as though I’d been travelling for approximately six months.

Which, to be fair, was how I felt.

The Waiting Room Torture Device

Eventually, I settled into the departure lounge.

And started falling asleep.

Now, if you’ve ever tried to sleep in an airport departure lounge, you’ll know that the seating has apparently been designed by somebody who strongly disapproves of unconsciousness.

Low backs.

Hard seats.

Nowhere to rest your head.

Absolutely no possibility of getting comfortable.

I would begin to drift off.

My head would fall forward.

I’d wake myself up.

I’d rearrange my position.

And then do it all again.

It was like being subjected to a particularly tedious form of sleep deprivation.

By the time boarding was announced, I was barely functioning.

I limped onto the plane and found my seat.

And apparently fell asleep almost immediately.

Because the next thing I remember was a flight attendant waking me up.

I hadn’t fastened my seatbelt.

Oops.

I did as I was told.

Put my headphones on.

And disappeared again.

The Final Flight

I honestly don’t remember much of the flight to Dunedin.

I’d put on some music by Wardruna, whose atmospheric Nordic sounds I find wonderfully calming.

The music shut out the aircraft noise.

And, finally, I slept.

Properly.

Or at least as properly as you can while sitting upright in an aircraft.

No football supporters.

No self-service check-in machines.

No exploding power banks.

No red wine.

Just music and sleep.

And then we were landing.

Dunedin.

At last.

Home

I collected my suitcase.

The same suitcase I’d dragged around Britain, wrestled through railway stations and negotiated through airports.

We’d both survived.

Although neither of us was looking particularly presentable.

And then came the final journey.

Fifteen minutes.

That’s all.

After travelling halfway around the world, I was just fifteen minutes from home.

No more boarding passes.

No more security queues.

No more airline meals.

No more airport departure lounges.

No more wondering how many hours I had left before I could lie down in my own bed.

I arrived at the house.

And there it was.

My front door.

I was absolutely exhausted.

My body didn’t seem to know what day it was, let alone what country it was in.

I smelled faintly of somebody else’s red wine.

My shoes had survived an unexpected soaking.

And I was fairly certain I never wanted to see another aircraft again.

But none of that mattered now.

I was home.

I opened the door, stepped inside and finally put my suitcase down.

Forty-eight hours of travelling. Thousands of miles. Three flights. And one very tired human being.

I’d made it.

And at that moment, I didn’t want another adventure.

I didn’t want to see another airport.

I didn’t want to go anywhere.

I just wanted to be home.

And I was.