I started today with a certain sense of anxiety, as I always do before any flight. What’s my route? Where’s my passport? Have I packed everything? When should I leave? I have packed everything, right?
Adding to these usual worries were the worries of changing countries. It seems to me that one of two things will invariably happen when you leave a country: either you will run out of money, or you will have more than you need. I never have exactly enough. I thought I was in the latter category, until I opened my wallet earlier tonight, in France, and discovered a 5 pound note. Oh well, I’ll have a layover in Heathrow.
Besides the pre-flight jitters, I also had time to burn between check-out, at 10 AM, and my flight, at 2:50 PM. Serendipitously, the Portobello Road Market was open in Notting Hill, a quick walk from the hostel (the hostel might even technically be in Notting Hill, but who knows?). I had never heard of the Portobello Road Market, but who can refuse a street fair, especially one that bills itself, “The world’s largest antiques fair?” I can’t, that’s for sure.
The Portobello Road Market is, in its particulars, exactly the same as every other street fair. There is a line of stalls, each selling different goods at cheap prices. The usual suspects were on sale: clothing, vintage clothing, music, food, books, marijuana-themed goods (excuse me, hemp), etc. But the Market distinguishes itself in scale. It is probably six or seven blocks long, full to the gills. When I saw cars trying to muscle their way through, I wondered what bonehead was placed on this earth, to try and get his way through this. You can’t go some other way, buddy?
As I hiked up the road, I noticed an old man in a tweed blazer, simply standing in an empty parking space, holding pamphlets. He was entreating us, in a soft, timid voice, in the name of Jesus Christ. No one paid him much mind, not even to politely refuse.
By contrast, the Scientologist up the road got more attention. He had an actual stall, mounted with that doo-hickey machine and “Dianetics,” L. Ron Hubbard’s masterpiece. It made for a stirring sight with its raging volcano on the front. The Scientologist was younger, and had a Spanish accent, and so people at least politely refused him. On a whim, I allowed my stress levels to be tested. I suspected that this test, which is supposed to convince me to join up, would be rigged. Shockingly! I would be found to be needing the comfort of Scientology.
A few moments after I consented, people began watching. The majority were walkers, customers. One, however, was not. A large Indian man, he stood a few feet behind the table with arms crossed. He seemed to be supervising the test.
The test began with the Scientologist asking me to grasp two hollow metal bars which were connected to a machine reminiscent of a seismograph. He explained that when I felt stress, the needle would jump to the right; otherwise, it would stay level on my natural level of stress. Mine at that moment was, apparently, about a sixth or so from the leftmost position.
Then he asked me to think of friends. The needle didn’t budge. With an air of a man checking off steps on a list (because it is the way), he asked that I think about stressful incidents in my life. And, shockingly(!), when I thought of stressful things, my stress meter went up! That, my friends, is why you should convert to Scientology: stressful things are stressful.
No, I’m making too much fun. Immediately after my test concluded, he attempted to sell me the book; I refused, but another man in the small audience looked at the book and put it. As I left, the audience dispersed too. The interested man asked me how much Dianetics was. Eighteen pounds, I responded. Oh, he said and continued walking. Salvation, but less at less than eighteen pounds, thanks very much.
After some more wandering about, I left for the hostel, where I would pick up my suitcases (they allow you to store your stuff for a few hours after checkout). As I returned, I saw a church advertise itself as, “Open. Prayerful. Relevant.” [emphasis mine]. The best sign of your irrelevance is if you have to insist otherwise. There’s another church that I wandered by, a few days back, that had an article posted up about the disrepair of parish churches. That and the sign seem of a piece to me. So in some ways, the Scientology guy is doing quite well, considering the environment.
I made the fateful decision on Friday to go to Heathrow via London Underground. I chose this because it was cheapest. What I didn’t consider was the number of stairs in every Underground station, even between transfers. Also, my larger suitcase is the SUV of suitcases, and European paths just aren’t built to handle it (later, in Charles de Gaulle, I will apologize several times because of its size.) Not that I dislike my SUV—I can fit so much in it, it looks great, it makes me feel safe, and I know if I get in a collision with another suitcase, mine’s winning.
Besides lugging the suitcase up the stairs, the other problem with this specific trip in the Underground (because generally the Underground is great) was that the line that serves Heathrow is one branch of the Piccadilly line. Hence you need to take the right Picadilly line train. The other branch serves a bunch of suburbs. So what are the first three trains? The ones out to the ‘burbs. Seems to me to be a bad rationing system.
Once on the proper train, everything went smoothly to the airport. Got a look at London’s suburbs, decided there wasn’t much to it. The Underground cars are clean, and the electronic voice very helpful, so I did not feel in the least bit confused.
So everything was going smoothly when I hit the airport. Things continued to go smoothly with a quick electronic check-in and an unusually fast line. But, because something had to go wrong, I found out about something new.
“So how many bags are you checking?” the woman behind the counter asked.
“Two,” I said.
“You are aware that we only allow one bag to be checked?”
“No.”
“There’ll be a fine of sixty pounds if you take the bag with you.”
What could I do? I took out my Visa. The ticket woman started punching things into her computer.
“Never mind. You won’t have to pay.”
I have a few theories as to why this might have happened:
a) Stupid American: The Stupid American cannot figure out the rules. We will give him a break. Seems very unlikely, but who knows?
b) Scare Tactics: British Airways’ actual policy is like every other airlines’. However, they want to pack less, to save on gas costs. Hence, to put the fear of God into you, they almost fine you—so you’ll warn other people and not do it in the future. Seems somewhat roundabout and excessive.
c) Empty Space: As it turned out, the flight was significantly below capacity. I took someone’s space. This seems very plausible, especially in comparison to my flights of fancy, but then, how would she have known that there would be empty spots an hour and a half before the flight was scheduled to take off?
None of these theories is satisfying at all, and that’s because no explanation was offered, and I wasn’t exactly eager to test my luck.
The line for security in Heathrow is very interesting. There’s a line to what looks like a hotel’s reception: a desk with three people waiting behind it, with a square, lit, opaque brick of glass behind them, obstructing the view beyond. For all I knew, heaven or hell lurked beyond. At either sides of the line are neon-vest uniformed agents who bark at people who seem to be contravening some regulation or another.
That last sentence might seem as if I have some sympathy with the people in line. I really don’t. The vast majority of the lawbreaking is stupid stuff people should know about. You know, don’t have a Swiss Army knife keychain off of your backpack; you shouldn’t try and carry your suitcase onto the airplane, stuff like that. That and cell phones at movie theaters and regular theaters. This is obvious stuff, people. And yet everyone thinks they’re an exception: but this liquid is for my chapped lips! I need my cell phone on to talk to my cousin Millie! I didn’t know about the one bag rule! (and thanks for no fine!)
So, no, I really don’t have sympathy for these minor rule-breakers. Are they silly, unjustified rules? Sure. But are you going to change them with your water bottle? Don’t be sillier! Of course you won’t. Stop wasting everyone else’s time with your complaints, too.
After the lobby receptionists (who just check your boarding pass and passport), I was directed to the real enchilada, security. It was an imposing sight. There were garages, really, in the walls with examiners, for example. Ahead of me, there were these cubicles with those rolling things to the side. I was mystified as to the procedure of the British inspections.
I quickly found out. I was selected ‘randomly’ (in the same vein of everyone thinking they’re an exception: everyone believes they’re purposefully selected) to receive a search in the cubicles. This sounds more eerie than it is. First, I did the normal things one does before submitting to an X-ray at the airport: belt off, melt out, shoes off. The cubicle is designed thusly: there’s a closed square, like a photo booth that is visible from the security line. Behind the closed square is an open square enclosure, like a bathroom stall. That’s for the searchee. The searchee is to stand in various positions until the man (in this case an Indian man who mumbled as if through an ice pack) is satisfied. The eerie part, actually, is that the machine acts without sound. The amusing part is the positions: you face away from the closed square and hold up your arms and move about in various permutations of towards and away, arms up and down. The convenient part is that, for your troubles, you get to move ahead of all the other shlubs in the x-ray machine. I think it shaved ten minutes off my waiting time.
Then it was a wait in Heathrow. The terminal that I was in earlier reminded me of a 70’s office building. This is not the case with this terminal, terminal four. It has the aesthetic of one of those restaurants that leaves the guts of the place open for inspection. So I could see the bare fans, the ducts and so on and so forth. I refused to be distracted by the array of duty-free shops and other luxury stores (Harrods makes a nonamusing appearance), and went straight for Starbucks. Perhaps the most peculiar thing I saw on my way there was a Caviar bar. To be clear, I never saw one of these while in London proper, and I went through some pretty posh/tony/(other euphemism for ‘rich’) neighborhoods. So it was a bit odd to see one in an airport.
Blah, blah, blah. Flight. They give away a lot of stuff in British Airways: food and newspapers. What is this, the 90s? No, the exchange rate’s too awful (Paul Krugman argues that the dollar may yet see a Wily E. Coyote moment, i.e., it will look down and see there’s nothing there, it ran over a cliff. Thanks Paul. And, Dollar. If you dare to have this moment while I’m in Europe, I will kill you, Dollar. Just absolutely murder you. I know where you live.) Anyway, flight, blah blah blah. Hey! No Customs! Score!
RER time. Stepping onto an RER train, after having been on the London Underground, is a shock. The Underground is after modern clean chic; RER could generously be described as going after 70’s plush colorful chic. Actually I think they’re lazy. London’s electronic voices ask you to mind the gap; no one does this in Paris (the gaps are worse in Paris). London advises you by voice and with the printed word. Paris uses these two methods and adds a third, childish cartoon characters. I’ll be sure not to stick my hand into a closing door now, because I just saw a pink bunny do it.
Further comparisons: the Paris suburbs just south of Charles de Gaulle are much more run-down than anything in London. The graffiti is an infestation on some parts. Uh, nothing else. I got in too late to really do anything.
I’m living in the Fondation des Etats-Unis, a dorm that’s a part of the Cite Internationale Universite Paris. Here’s a good mental image: take a hotel. Now make it an art deco, 1930s hotel. Now make it a dorm. Whatever elegance it has, it should be faded. Now make the furnishings spartan. There’s the Fondation, and there’s my room. It’s a single, which is awesome, and larger than my hostel room (oh the magic of low expectations). I’m quite satisfied with that aspect.
What is less than satisfying is the neighborhood. Let’s just say that it appears to be a very residential area, without much in the way of food. At least according to my very preliminary explorations. I was planning on spending most of my time in Paris proper anyway, thanks!
The thing I had the most anxiety about, before leaving, was the language actually. I like to joke that not speaking French in Paris is not a big deal; they all speak English. This is true. What’s a problem about this, however, is that the conversation will almost always switch to English, no matter how earnestly you’re trying to communicate in French. Oh well, I gave it an effort and even managed to fool (er, communicate) with a few French people.
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