Then, as if the universe feels compelled to remind me thatmycareer isn’t the only one on the line, Maya texts during our taxi to the gate.
Maya: How was the flight? Are you safe and sound on the ground yet? Did you get any sleep?
Me: I didn’t, but it’s fine. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
And I will.
And hopefully, I’ll get to carry this binder disaster to the grave with me.
I can’t tell Maya the truth. At least not right now. There’s nothing she can do to fix the problem, and sharing the bad news will only make her even more stressed out than she is already.
No, this is something I have to carry—and problem solve—on my own.
Inside the terminal, Heathrow Airport greets us with all the warmth of a maiden aunt who never wanted children, the passages chilly and nearly abandoned, even though it’s not quite seven o’clock.
I shuffle through Passport Control, trying to look like a sane, professional human being despite the ink stains and coffee splatters.
Still, the immigration officer eyes me suspiciously. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I say, a little too aggressively, as if I’m trying to convince us both.
He arches a dubious brow, but eventually grants me a stamp and opens the gate. “Right then. Welcome to London.”
Baggage claim is where my travel dreams often go to die, and tonight is no exception. My infamous bad luck with bags is why I always pack spare outfits in my roll-on, but still! A red sweater with dress pants, underthings, a single pair of pajamas, leggings, a sweatshirt, and the suit I’m currently wearing are not nearly enough to get me through several weeks in London!
I watch the carousel turn, willing my bag to appear. Around me, everyone else reunites with their luggage like long-lost lovers while I stand there, increasingly alone, watching the same lime-green suitcase go around seventeen times.
Finally, I have to admit that my Big Blue Baby isn’t coming.
The Stella McCartney dress I couldn’t afford but bought anyway. My happy Christmas holly skirt and matching sweater. My entire capsule professional wardrobe. They’re all missing in action, lost to the aviation gods who hate me nearly as much as the technology ones.
The baggage attendant hands me a claim form with the pitiless gaze of someone who deals with despair so often she’s grown numb to human suffering. “We’ll text you as soon as we locate your bag. If you haven’t heard anything in a week, feel free to call customer service.” She gestures vaguely toward the bottom of the slip. “Be sure to keep your claim number handy.”
A week. Great.
If they’resayinga week, it will probably be two, and that’s if it turns up at all.
Looks like I’ll be doing some shopping I can’t afford as soon as the stores open tomorrow.
I briefly consider popping into the airport bathroom to change before my evening meeting with Belinda, the florist, but it’s looking sketchy out there—dark and blustery with plenty of snow. I don’t know how backed up traffic will be in this kind of weather, and it seems best to get to where I need to be first and worry about the Smurf murder/coffee stain situation later.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to change when I get to the pub, and if not…
Well, punctuality is more important than appearances.
Right?
The taxi ride is another qualifying event in the Travel Drama Olympics, as my cabbie careens wildly along the slick streets in the driving snow. London cabbies are usually the safest, classiest drivers in the world, but this man seems determined to keep my fight or flight response fully activated.
Still, I can’t help admiring the view as the city streaks by.
London is even more charming in December. Every building is draped in strings of lights, and Christmas markets and tree stands seem to pop up on every corner. It’s everything the movies promised—garlands wrapped around lampposts, shops full of nutcrackers and Father Christmas figurines, and the smell of roasted chestnuts somehow penetrating through the closed windows.
This is the Christmas I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid. All my favorite holiday movies are set in London—Bridget Jones’ Diary, Love Actually, The Muppet Christmas Carol, with honorable mention to The Holiday, even though it pops back and forth between the U.S. and the U.K.
If I live through the night, I’m looking forward to wandering the streets in the daylight, soaking up the incomparably festive atmosphere.
But the way this ride is going, living isn’t something I’m taking for granted.
