Originally written August 8, 2010
Sitting at Heathrow Airport at 11:53 p.m. seems as good a time to write as any. It actually seems like the perfect time to write because I am afraid to go to sleep. Imagine the nightmare I’d go through if I missed this flight…. Geez. No. I am going to stick through it.
Well, let me give you a scenario update. I am currently sitting in the Special Assistance area of Terminal 3 surrounded by weary travelers like myself. Across from me sits a man watching his laptop. To the left is a young man lying on the ground listening to an iPod. And behind me, there’s a conversation between three British men, two older and one appearing to be my age (and he’s fit!), discussing sailing, yachts and deliveries. And then there’s me.
It will be another four hours before the gate, which I’m not sure its location, opens up and I can check on my massive olive-green sidekick. That feels like an eternity for this traveler. In the last three days, I’ve stayed at two different houses and will spend my last night here. I just want a bed that’s my own. But even when I go home, I’ll still slip into a bed that’s semi-foreign to me. It’s strange the things that turn out to matter the most to you. When I think of home, I think of my bed in Chico with the black comforter and blue sheets. Bless.
More travelers have joined us. I wonder why they got here so early too. Well, I suspect I won’t find out. Normally, being social is important to me, but at this hour, I think we are all going to keep to ourselves.