“What you do sounds so fun!” (An exact client quote…)

My “so fun” experience in London started on Thursday.

I was busy doing laundry and preparing for my trip—complete with a messy house and scary hair. I planned to work in the barn and shower just before leaving. So when I spoke to a friend I hadn’t heard from in some time, I had a hard time turning her down for lunch (even though she suggested my house). I scrambled around to clean up the sty and shower so she would not be frightened away. Needless to say, by the time I needed to leave, I was frazzled.

I forgot my cell phone, and had to come back to get it.

And the saga begins:

Thursday, 5:45 pm
Arrive at the airport. Realize I forgot my power supply and decide to either use my boss’ or try and find a store in the airport in Chicago that will sell them (I have an iBook, so they are not as easy to find).

6:15 pm
Arrive at the gate, ready to check in. Review some last minute files. Say a prayer of thanks for giving me the sense to wear comfortable clothes.

6:45 pm
Expect to start boarding. Instead, hear an announcement that we will be delayed until 7:30. Begin to get a little nervous about catching my 9:55 flight in Chicago to London.

6:50 pm
Fight the urge to slap the flight attendant when he told me he couldn’t check on my Chicago connection because he was “just a flight attendant.” What, instead of a damn wizard?? Check in the computer, moron!!!

6:51 pm
Resign myself to paying for a wireless internet connection in the airport to visit the American Airlines website so I can check the status of my connecting flight. It is showing an on-time departure.

7;30:00 pm
Board the Tonka-sized aircraft and wedge my butt into the seats.

7:30:30 pm
Wipe sweat from my brow after wedging my butt in and then prepare to wipe tears as the captain announces that we are going to be delayed by at least an hour, but “I am going to ask that you stay on board the aircraft (and they use that term loosely) so, should we get the go ahead to take off, we won’t miss the small window of opportunity."

7:31 pm
I call B and ask him to check the status of my outbound connection at O’Hare. Still on time. The flight attendant comes over and seeing that I am on the phone with B, recommends that I ask B for the American Airlines customer service number to call and book myself on the next flight. I ask B for permission to really take this guy out. B denies me permission citing several FAA regulations and federal laws prohibiting the bitch slapping of flight attendants. I threaten divorce, but still, permission denied. He loves me and wants me to stay out of jail.

8:35 pm
We take off. I begin to pray, as I hate flying.

9:45 pm
We arrive at O’Hare and they tell me my gate is not that far, and I can still make it on time for my 9:55 flight. Of course, they give me no directions, just a gate number. I am torn between getting back on a flight to Des Moines and attempting to sprint to catch my flight out of spite. I choose the latter and set off.

9:55 pm
The time my flight is schedule to leave. I arrive at the gate, to hear my name on a list of passengers who have “2 minutes to board the plane.” I do so, and the door closes behind me. It occurs to me that my shoulder is actually bruised from running with my lead bags.

9:57 pm
I find someone sitting in my seat. She tells me we can sit anywhere, that the plan is virtually empty. I concur, as I look around and consider that I am likely the last one on the plane. I choose a bank of two seats, and hope that I get them all to myself.

9:59 pm
We taxi to the runway, with me snug in my own two seats. I contemplate the fact that they would have had to really hurry to get my bag on the plane…

10:59 pm
We are still on the runway. I KNOW they have had enough time to get my bag on, and I hear them thumping around underneath the plane.

11:15 pm
Takeoff. Once again, I find religion.

12:00 am Friday
I revel in the fact that I have 2 seats, 2 blankets and 2 pillows to myself, place my black satin mask over my eyes, my earplugs in my ears, and I drift off to sleep…

1:15 pm GMT
We land at Heathrow. Miserably late. I have 45 minutes to make it to my pre-conference meeting with the hotel staff and my boss.

2:00 pm
My boss and the hotel staff are beginning the precon. I am standing in line to make a claim for missing luggage.

2:45 pm
I leave for the hotel. I take the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station.

3:00 pm
I arrive at Paddington Station and ask for directions to my hotel. Someone suggests that I take a bus, and hands me a map and tells me where to catch it. I stumble outside, in the rain, to the bus stop and buy a ticket.

3:10 pm
I board the bus and ask the driver if it stops at my hotel. He says I have the bus going in the wrong direction. I leave the bus and step in a huge puddle, soaking my shoe. I see the bus I need speeding down the street away from me. I cross and wait for another bus.

3:20 pm
I board the right bus, and attempt to put my ticket into the appropriate looking slot near the driver. He screams at me, “What are you doing!!??? Just go find a seat!!!” I am humiliated, and I pretend that I don’t speak English. I take my seat with my bags that weigh as much as a small adult (but not my suitcase).

3:40 pm
I realize that you have to push a button when you want the bus to stop. But, since I don’t know where my stop is, and I can’t really see outside of the crowded bus, I decide to get off and walk. In the rain. With a squishy, wet shoe.

3:55 pm
I arrive at the hotel, where they look at me with skeptcism with my wrinkled clothes, smeared makeup, extensive eye-baggage and wet hair (oh, and squishy shoes). Their skepticism is confirmed when I attempt to use an expired credit card to pay for my room. (Why did I keep the expired one even after I put the new one in my wallet? I resolve to shred it when I get home.)

4:00 pm
Go to my room and check email. I see that my boxes have not yet arrived. I call the DHL representative, who tells me that there are taxes that need to be paid. She needs a check. In UK funds only. No dollars. No credit cards. No company checks. In 30 minutes. My boxes—along with my lost suitcase—contain all of the meeting supplies.

4:30 pm
I have convinced the DHL rep to send me the boxes. For an additional $175 “special delivery charge.” They are scheduled to arrive “sometime tonight.”

5:00 pm
American Airlines calls to tell me that my suitcase will be on the 10:30 pm flight and they will have it couriered over immediately. I arrange for a call from the concierge to call me no matter what time the luggage arrives.

5:10 pm
I tell my boss the good news. He’s impressed by my string of luck. He asks if I want to have dinner with him and his family in the hotel restaurant. I politely decline, instead choosing room service to avoid being mistaken for a transient by the looks of my clothes.

5:15 pm
I head out to the London Apple Store to find a power supply. £55 later I am the proud owner of the gadget, however useless it may be to me in my home country.

7:00 pm
The boxes are delivered and I begin stuffing packets and preparing what I can for the meeting.

11:00 pm
I decide to go to bed, and am incredibly thankful that the hotel the group has chosen is posh enough to provide a complimentary terrycloth robe to all guests. I decide that it will make a fine nightshirt. I am sure to turn the A/C waaay up.

12:03 am Saturday
I am startled awake by the concerige who cheerfully chirps that my “case has arrived, Madam.” I utter something incoherent, to which he replies, “Pardon me, Madam, I will ring you back in the morning.” I come to my senses and say, “Wait wait wait wait wait! Bring it up!! Many thanks!!”

12:04 am
The clothes I was wearing are now so nasty that I am practically chasing them around the room to get them on before my bag is delivered. Plus, I am in a jet-lagged stupor. I can’t remember much, I only hope I was decent when I opened the door. I didn’t even tip the guy, I was so out of it.

5:30 am
I wake up refreshed and ready to go (NOT!). I start the day, and it goes quite well, actually.

11:30 pm
Bedtime

5:30 am Sunday
I wake up and go downstairs. The main meeting’s official starting day.

9:30 am
Reviewing the day’s events, I realize that en route, I received an email to confirm dinner plans for that evening. I decide that it’s a good time to review them for any last minute notes, directions to the place, etc. We are going to the London Eye, and having dinner at Chez Gerard afterwards. I have arranged buses for the trip. I notice in the official looking confirmation that they have made a typo on the dinner time, our ride is noted as 6:30 pm (correct) and the dinner is noted at 12:15 pm (very incorrect). I also noticed that our buses need special passes. So I return to my room to call the London Eye to get this straightened out. When I called, the woman was very pleasant, and emailed me the bus passes. However, she said that the time had always been 12:15, and they were expecting 115 people for lunch. WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? I was physically ill. How could I tell those people that there was no dinner, and that the time had been miskeyed!? I begged her to try and fix it, to call the restaurant, etc. She said she would, and would return my call in 5 minutes. That was the longest 5 minutes of my life. She returned the call, and said she didn’t know anything definite, but it would likely be okay. She had spoken to the chef, and he was awaiting final confirmation from the manager, who was coming in at 10. She would call me. Once again, I found religion.

10:15 am
My contact from the London Eye called me back. She said the manager said it was okay to have 115 for dinner! A wave of relief came over me, and I decided I had better stop crying before returning downstairs to tell my boss. I decided he would probably wonder why I had instantly gone gray and was missing hair, and smelling like vomit, so I thought I should just be upfront. His comment to me? “Good catch.” Yeah, just another good catch. No sweat.

4:30 pm
Panic sets in. What happens if extra people come to the dinner? What happens if the manager is really angry with me? I decide to call him. Peter. Peter the superhero. I thank him profusely, even moreso after I find out that the restaurant normally closes at 5:00 on Sunday, but he will open the restaurant just for my group. I swear to him that I would marry him on the spot if I was not already married. (no, I did NOT really say that, I’m just trying to convey my gratitude) He asks if I will be there, and I tell him that I will indeed, and will be the desperate looking thankful one. (I really DID say that.)

5:30 pm
The buses are late, but finally show up and we are off.

6:30 pm
We are atop the London Eye. My boss is smiling, the attendees are happy. I am guardedly optimistic.

7:15 pm
We enter the Chez Gerard and I kiss Peter (yes, I did, the European kiss-kiss way, you know…). I tell him he is my hero, and that I am forever grateful to him. He tells me it was nothing, but I remind him that he is a young man, and young men are not happy at 10am on a Sunday when they find out that their normally short workday will now be 12 hours long. He acknowledges that he was not pleased when the phone rang, but that he is over it and is happy to help. I make a note to give him a big tip. We eat, and all is well. I drink lots and lots of wine. Our president asks me to call for the buses, and I have to get up and do so. I nearly fall from drunkenness, but decide that I will not make a fool out of myself at this point, since I have avoided doing it so until now. I get it together, and make the call. The driver tells me that it is earlier than he expected, and that he does not know where the other driver is. I decide to have faith, and they return to the restaurant a few minutes late. I can hardly contain my giddiness as we return—it’s almost over!

As we disembark the bus, one attendee thanked me for the arrangements and complimented how smoothly it had gone. If he only knew…

6:15 am, Monday
I wake up and leave for home sweet home! The day and flights were so uneventful that I can’t even find anything funny to say about it. It’s so good to be home.

Oh, I was asked by B to bring him some Cadbury. I brought him 9 pounds of chocolate in the duty free store. He was pleased, as only a chocoholic could be.

Here are some photos. Some are from my hotel window and others are from the London Eye. Click on the photo for a slideshow.