It’s always hard to convince kids to go to sleep the night before Christmas as they’re hyped up on a combination of anticipation, sugar and loud-family-party energy, but you KNOW the next day will be so much better for all involved if they just get 8 hours of sleep.
Of course, the initial ‘wake up’ will be full of wonder and excitement, and if you manage to get them to pause amidst the wrapping paper whirlwind to stuff a piece of bacon and slice of toast in their mouth, it will last until at least 11:00 AM. But then? Oof. That post-adrenaline fog rolls in as you dully gaze at the cat wrapped up in discarded ribbon, the dog attempting to sneak off with a forbidden treat from a carelessly tossed stocking, and a shattered plastic clamshell that had protected a Barbie doll from realizing women can transcend the societal double standards imposed upon her and required two different pairs of scissors to open yet still resulted in one of those slit cuts in your finger that will sting for days when you do the dishes.
That same blueprint applies to overseas travel for us. We’ve done it 3 times now and the results do not vary. Newly 12 year old Josie was seemingly immune to my 35,000 foot ministrations of melatonin, sparkly sleeping mask and neck pillow with kitty ears. She melted in the shuttle to Bushey Heath, actually folding her body in half as she finally gave in to sleep for a paltry hour only to wake up groggier than before she stubbornly succumbed. Uni-tour Josie at 16 truly got her money’s worth out of her first class ticket by staying awake every minute in order to consume the prolific food, drink and video entertainment. Sure, she was later slumped over the table drooling throughout the 90 minute train to Bristol, but she’ll still tell you that cabin steward asking, “Fancy another bevvy?” was akin to a mesmerizing snake charmer.
That British Airways slogan, “Flying is magic,” was once again fully realized on Monday evening as we boarded for this current adventure. Different from the other times, we had maxed ourselves out prior to departure getting the house ready. Though we’re SO grateful the pet-sitting-renter situation came to fruition, it took herculean effort to essentially move out for it to happen. Getting our stuff packed into the garage and my bedroom as a lock-out space required days of packing and lifting and hauling and donating and packing some more—which you’d think would have us passing out from exhaustion on the plane. Nope. We both got about 4 hours of sleep before waking up to a cup of tea to accompany the turbulence as we came into Heathrow.
Honestly, leaving with NINE pieces of luggage—requiring Uncle Rick’s truck to get us to the airport!—had me thinking Terminal 5 might not be ready for us. However, it wan’t too terrible. First, the Brits offer those SmartCart luggage thingies free—is that just in the international terminal because they know excessive-minded Americans typically overpack?—so we piled them up and easily found our driver, Saïd, waiting for us in front of Costa Coffee. I wish Saïd could drive me everywhere for the rest of my life. Luxurious leather seats combined with an affable willingness to engage in conversation but not initiate it might be my new love language.
A 3 hour nap had us both a bit befuddled, but a lovely stroll in a rainy drizzle found us clear-eyed in the aisles of Tesco ready to grab a few breakfast items and snacks for our flat.
[I like the way that sounds, but it’s not the truth. Josie was groggy and grumpy when she awoke and did NOT want to leave the house. She wanted to have food delivered, but the rain had finally cleared and there was a bit of blue sky peeking through. I was determined that the fresh air would be good for her and then we’d both sleep well overnight and wake up all adjusted to the new time zone. In that whole hindsight-is-20/20 thing, I should’ve just let her keep sleeping through the evening.]
Me: Look at all that produce! 50p for that huge avocado? Wow!
Josie: I thought we were just getting a couple things.
Me: Hmmm….Milk loaf. Should we try this kind of bread?
Josie: I just want sourdough. Why don’t they have regular sourdough?
Me: What a fun selection of cheese! Should we try this cheddar with pickled garlic?
Josie: Why don’t they sell big bags of chips?
On our way out Josie was psyched to see a Maybelline box for recycling make up of any brand, a spot to collect donations of supplies for local cats (okay, I was the one excited about this), and a place to vote on an annual Tesco contribution to a local education initiative (she dropped her chit in for universal free breakfast).
After getting pretty soggy on the way home, Josie set herself to the task of ordering a pizza for delivery. That was our compromise earlier—a neighborhood walk for supplies in exchange for not getting all ready to go out to a restaurant. This was probably the fourth clue I missed on the way to meltdown: she could not get the online delivery option to work for the closest pizza place and had to call instead. The connection was bad, the accents were confusing on both ends, they didn’t have “real pepperoni” so she had to go with Ventricina spicy salami. Oh, and pick up was now required. After a £14 roundtrip ride in a taxi with a highly-opinionated driver who made me yearn for Saïd, we were genuinely excited to settle into the living room (which the AirBnB guy calls “the lounge” in his house manual), eat dinner and watch Love is Blind UK.
The couch was scratchy.
Bardha said no.
Ventricina spicy salami ≠ pepperoni
Tea with Chelsea 