The Question Procession
I have never really been the kind of person to ask for assistance. I tend to focus on the task at hand and persevering despite any problems I may come across as quickly and effectively as possible. Usually my independence marks me a strong person, capable of whatever I set my mind to, but when life threw me a curveball and I ended up in a situation unlike any I had ever imagined, my day-to-day routine of keeping to myself and working through problems alone was no longer an option. A few minutes into my initial arrival, my world began to change.
Bree, my friend since forever and companion on this life-changing experience, had flown from just outside of our home town to Chicago and then London with me. It was both of our first international flights, and our fear for arrival had been on both of our minds. What would happen when we got to customs? It seemed to us that customs had carried some kind of negative connotation for as long as we could remember. We thought of towering, indignant men and women searching our baggage, throwing out items we felt were necessary, and sending us home before our trip had even begun. When our plane finally did touch down, our worried minds began to run rampant, filled with the horrors of what was to come.
There appeared to be two pathways for us to walk down after exiting the plane. The first of two appeared to be some kind of hidden, secret entrance that we could not imagine was the way to go. Not only was no one heading that direction, but the signage indicating what was through the doors was nearly completely lacking. What images we could make out were small and unclear, leading us to figure that, since we were still in an english speaking country, it would only make sense that we, english speakers, should be able to comprehend. Alas, our lack of time spent at airports and misunderstanding on a most unfortunate level led us to the second of the exits where the masses were leading. Our (flawed) underlying logic: if a friend jumps off a bridge, we should too. The passengers we had spent the last eight hours with in a confined space fulfilled the "friend" position, and the hall leading elsewhere became the bridge. And let me just say, jump we did.
Bree and I ended up in a relatively barren hallway that was, only slightly, more clearly marked than before. A few signs indicated the beginning of customs and what we should have available to show them. One of the signs mentioned how if you were a student coming abroad for the sole purpose of studying, as we figured we were, you were meant to get a stamp from a customs officer rather than simply scan your passport and, I suppose, avoid said stamp. Knowing ourselves to be students on a study abroad trip, we got in line, passports in hand, and waited to talk with the customs agent.
They called us up one by one, but Bree and I chose to approach this intimidating experience together. We verified with the customs agent that we were in the right place, the area that would soon connect us to where we would wait out the next few hours until our connecting flight to Vienna, but her main concern was that we had a letter confirming our study abroad plans. Knowing full well I had nothing of the sort, I whipped out my letter confirming my insurance while abroad, and the lady, rolling her eyes, gave Bree and I the stamps, complaining and lecturing us about how we needed a letter when we returned. Bree and I apologized, then once again asked the woman where we should go for our connecting flight, and begrudgingly, she sent us down the steps behind her.
We emerged in an area that looked much more like the exit than the entrance to the next adventure, complete with baggage claim, more signage, this time indicating nearby hotel stays, and yet other symbols implying where taxis were available to take someone to their next destination.
Immediately, Bree and I knew something was overtly wrong.
We scoured the area for someone, anyone, preferably an employee who knew what they were talking about, and yet, our search appeared futile. For whatever reason, perhaps the fact that it was, at this point, after midnight, the airport was almost completely empty, housing only a few other straggling, sleeping, likely soon-to-be passengers.
Suddenly, we noticed a pair of men wearing what appeared to be airport employee garb, and we approached them as quickly as possible, telling them our story of woe and how we had no idea where to go from here. they pointed us in the direction of an even further exit, making us basically completely leave the building. Lucky for us, before practically the last set of doors, we found one more man we could ask for help.
He appeared to be some kind of security guard, manning the area in case of any middle of the night conflict, I suppose, but in our case, he was the man with the answers. Describing the order of events that had taken us to this dismal endpoint, he concluded that we had, paraphrasing for the sake of appropriateness, "messed up" very badly. He laughed at us, pitied us, and regretfully insisted we find each other, as well as himself, a beer to savor for the next few hours in the one coffee shop that remained open in this portion of the airport.
Sighing as we finally found this landmark, we settled in for the approximately six hours left until our morning flight. Sipping coffee, and struggling to understand the order of events that had led us to this point, we Facetimed our parents and friends and killed time until the sun began to rise.
Several hours into our stay, we decided to begin searching for our next destination, and yet again we were stumped. If this was the exit, where, then, was the entrance and how were we to board our next flight? After searching for almost an hour, ending up in places that maybe we should not have, and scouring the airport for a place we knew had to exist, a friendly civilian pointed us OUTSIDE to an entirely separate building. Thank God chivalry isn't dead.
Long story short, never ask questions at the London Heathrow airport in the middle of the night when everyone is just as tired as you and clearly has no idea what they are talking about. Maybe I have never been the kind of person to ask questions, but maybe it's because people tend to not have the answers I was looking for in the first place. I'd much rather stumble into a helpful piece of advice anyway. Thank you again, random man from the airport. You will not be soon forgotten.
Bree, my friend since forever and companion on this life-changing experience, had flown from just outside of our home town to Chicago and then London with me. It was both of our first international flights, and our fear for arrival had been on both of our minds. What would happen when we got to customs? It seemed to us that customs had carried some kind of negative connotation for as long as we could remember. We thought of towering, indignant men and women searching our baggage, throwing out items we felt were necessary, and sending us home before our trip had even begun. When our plane finally did touch down, our worried minds began to run rampant, filled with the horrors of what was to come.
There appeared to be two pathways for us to walk down after exiting the plane. The first of two appeared to be some kind of hidden, secret entrance that we could not imagine was the way to go. Not only was no one heading that direction, but the signage indicating what was through the doors was nearly completely lacking. What images we could make out were small and unclear, leading us to figure that, since we were still in an english speaking country, it would only make sense that we, english speakers, should be able to comprehend. Alas, our lack of time spent at airports and misunderstanding on a most unfortunate level led us to the second of the exits where the masses were leading. Our (flawed) underlying logic: if a friend jumps off a bridge, we should too. The passengers we had spent the last eight hours with in a confined space fulfilled the "friend" position, and the hall leading elsewhere became the bridge. And let me just say, jump we did.
Bree and I ended up in a relatively barren hallway that was, only slightly, more clearly marked than before. A few signs indicated the beginning of customs and what we should have available to show them. One of the signs mentioned how if you were a student coming abroad for the sole purpose of studying, as we figured we were, you were meant to get a stamp from a customs officer rather than simply scan your passport and, I suppose, avoid said stamp. Knowing ourselves to be students on a study abroad trip, we got in line, passports in hand, and waited to talk with the customs agent.
They called us up one by one, but Bree and I chose to approach this intimidating experience together. We verified with the customs agent that we were in the right place, the area that would soon connect us to where we would wait out the next few hours until our connecting flight to Vienna, but her main concern was that we had a letter confirming our study abroad plans. Knowing full well I had nothing of the sort, I whipped out my letter confirming my insurance while abroad, and the lady, rolling her eyes, gave Bree and I the stamps, complaining and lecturing us about how we needed a letter when we returned. Bree and I apologized, then once again asked the woman where we should go for our connecting flight, and begrudgingly, she sent us down the steps behind her.
We emerged in an area that looked much more like the exit than the entrance to the next adventure, complete with baggage claim, more signage, this time indicating nearby hotel stays, and yet other symbols implying where taxis were available to take someone to their next destination.
Immediately, Bree and I knew something was overtly wrong.
We scoured the area for someone, anyone, preferably an employee who knew what they were talking about, and yet, our search appeared futile. For whatever reason, perhaps the fact that it was, at this point, after midnight, the airport was almost completely empty, housing only a few other straggling, sleeping, likely soon-to-be passengers.
Suddenly, we noticed a pair of men wearing what appeared to be airport employee garb, and we approached them as quickly as possible, telling them our story of woe and how we had no idea where to go from here. they pointed us in the direction of an even further exit, making us basically completely leave the building. Lucky for us, before practically the last set of doors, we found one more man we could ask for help.
He appeared to be some kind of security guard, manning the area in case of any middle of the night conflict, I suppose, but in our case, he was the man with the answers. Describing the order of events that had taken us to this dismal endpoint, he concluded that we had, paraphrasing for the sake of appropriateness, "messed up" very badly. He laughed at us, pitied us, and regretfully insisted we find each other, as well as himself, a beer to savor for the next few hours in the one coffee shop that remained open in this portion of the airport.
Sighing as we finally found this landmark, we settled in for the approximately six hours left until our morning flight. Sipping coffee, and struggling to understand the order of events that had led us to this point, we Facetimed our parents and friends and killed time until the sun began to rise.
Several hours into our stay, we decided to begin searching for our next destination, and yet again we were stumped. If this was the exit, where, then, was the entrance and how were we to board our next flight? After searching for almost an hour, ending up in places that maybe we should not have, and scouring the airport for a place we knew had to exist, a friendly civilian pointed us OUTSIDE to an entirely separate building. Thank God chivalry isn't dead.
Long story short, never ask questions at the London Heathrow airport in the middle of the night when everyone is just as tired as you and clearly has no idea what they are talking about. Maybe I have never been the kind of person to ask questions, but maybe it's because people tend to not have the answers I was looking for in the first place. I'd much rather stumble into a helpful piece of advice anyway. Thank you again, random man from the airport. You will not be soon forgotten.
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