What a long strange trip, indeed

So, I'm here, at last. This will be a long entry because this is the first time I've had the internet in (counting...) about three and a half days. Once counted that doesn't seem like a lot, but trust me, the situation has been desperate if not in fact dire. No internet access and no TV makes Lauren feel quite isolated indeed.

Let me start by saying that I have not yet seen much of "London." Meaning, that what people think of when they think of going to London and all you can see there is not what I have seen. I've been too busy realizing what I'm really paying in dollars when the bus fare is 1 pound and 20 pence and trying to not get hopelessly lost between campus and my dorm to venture any farther. Let me also say that whomever claimed my dorm was only a thirty minute walk from campus is a big fat liar, and my feet will have no problem saying that to his face. Anyhow, if you're expecting or hoping for a lovely rundown of all the London sights, you might want to bypass this post for now.

So, to begin, again, I left Chicago on the 19th. My parents left me at the security gate, where I was informed I was specially selected for a special security screening! Yay me! So, I get tugged aside, have to remove half my clothes, and asked to spread 'em. This is where I learn I have a crotch of steel. Lady security guard waves wand around me, and everywhere I beep she has to pat. This wand is clearly defective and I am not only annoyed at this whole process, but now no longer feel safe as it accomplishes nothing. I beep in the middle of my back where it's just shirt and skin. Then I beep below the waist. We meet eyes. "Don't even think about patting me there," my eyes say. "I really don't want to anyways," say hers. I get a few more swipes with the wand, and we part ways, blushing. I gather my things, put my clothes back on, and I'm off!

I manage to get a better seat from the gate attendants. Once boarded and seated, the copilot informs us that this is our pilots final flight and so not to be alarmed because firetrucks will be surrounding our plane and spraying us with water as we taxi. What a strange tradition. "Congratulations! Your plane is on fire! No, just kidding." We takeoff, and I realize with horror that our inflight movie will be Herbie: Fully Loaded. Too late to turn back now! This continues to not bode well. I opt to spend the entire flight watching the flight map tracking the little plane graphic as it slowly creeps across Canada and into the blue. Did you know that outside the plane at 33000ft, it is -70 degrees farenheit outside? I didn't care either.

We land, and the lining up officially begins. It may be 6:30am in London, but it's never too early to queue! There are at least 1000 people from 20 different flights waiting to go through customs despite the time. When it's my turn, it takes about 30 seconds and I'm waved through. I grab my bags, and that's it! I'm in London!

As you walk out of the baggage claim area at Heathrow, there is a ramp where people waiting for you can meet you, since they are no longer allowed at the gate. Because of this, there are another thousand people waiting for the people still inside at customs: family members, boyfriends, girlfriends, drivers with signs. I can't tell you the feeling you get when you walk out into this, with wrinkled clothes, greasy matted down hair, runny makeup, sweaty and out of breath from lugging two giant suitcases behind you and realize that you are an enormous disappointment to 1000 different people who were all hoping you were their Aunt Mildred or "Mr. Johnson, Los Angeles." It's really...something.

I grab the Heathrow Express train to Paddington station, and sit next to some punk kid blasting "American Woman" by Lenny Kravitz on his iPod. So, I turn and marvel at the fact that there is a television on the train until I realize that it's primary function is to blast entertainment news and remind me that Yes, Lauren, Britney Spears Still Exists When You're In London. Quite disappointed, I lean back and close my eyes. Before I know it, we're at Paddington Station. I lug my bags to an ATM, get some money, call home and wake my dad up at 3:30 am Chicago time to tell him I'm there and sorry it's early, but I don't know when I'll be able to contact them again (and good thing, because it's two days before I manage to find another way to do so), go outside to find a taxi, and run smack dab into another queue. For a cab. I stand for thirty minutes in a line to get a cab. I have never seen anything like this in my life.

Once I get a cab, my driver is friendly. He insists on talking to me, although I can't really hear what he's saying from all the way in back. In black cabs, the seat is where the trunk should be, and there's floor space between you and the window behind the cab driver, so it wasn't just that I'm half deaf. He points out the church where he married his wife. He says it was either the "best" or "worst" thing he ever did in his life. Since I wouldn't hear what he answers anyways, I decline to ask which. He also points out the absolute best place in the city to get "Pyanmesh." Utterly confused, I look in the direction of where he's pointing and realize he means "Pie and Mash" from a restaurant conveniently called "Pie and Mash" and looks like it occupies a portion of a crackhouse. I haven't eaten there yet.

He drops me off at my dorm, and herein lies the next step of my journey, which will have to wait for a little bit. My fingers need a little break. And if you've read this far anyhow you are now my new attention-span hero.