Eleven years ago today I made my first trek across the pond to England. John was living in Scotland at the time, and I was in America. The plan was for me to fly into Heathrow, sight-see in London for a few days, and then venture up to Scotland and Ireland. I was more than excited. I had never been out of the country except for a brief sojourn across the Mexican border into Juarez way back when one didn't even need a passport.
It was a long trip. I left my home in North Augusta at 3:30 a.m. to drive to Columbia sixty miles away. From Columbia I flew to Washington D.C. where I was awarded for my early awakening and punctuality with a lengthy layover and a delay. Finally, I boarded the flight for London. I spent the first hour or so getting "comfortable" and enjoying my spectacular airline produced gastronomic feast. After a bit of wine to calm the nerves, I adjusted my frame into a shape not unlike a pretzel attempting yoga and tried to forget the vast ocean beneath me.
I did not sleep. I tried drinking alcohol. I tried Benadryl. I tried endless episodes of mindless sitcoms. I tried reading. I tried drinking more alcohol. Nothing worked. I knew the flight was only eight hours, but it seemed like eighty. Thousand. And the more I tried to get comfortable, the more miserable I became. My entire relationship with John was suddenly in jeopardy. I had to decide if I loved him enough to continue making transatlantic crossings just to see him! England sounded really great until hour five of this ridiculous tour bus on wings. Complete with port-a-potty and funky smells.
Just as I was beginning to think I had ended up in some alternate reality HELL, the flight attendants started making preparations to land. We "freshened up" and enjoyed a bizarre concoction they called a full breakfast. In fact, when asked if I wanted a full breakfast by the flight attendant, I struggled with the concept. Why would I want a partial breakfast? Is that her way of encouraging me to cut back on calories? Fortunately I was bleary-eyed and sleep deprived enough that I just nodded in confusion. Lucky me. Apparently full breakfast means they take a perfectly delicious and acceptable breakfast and add pork and beans and black pudding. Right. I also thought it strange they served us breakfast at it was now nearly 8pm in England. Obviously I had to get accustomed to way more than a funny accent.
Anyhoo, after choking down all but the black pudding - you really didn't think I was gonna eat that crap did you? - we opened our window shades to see if in the dark we could catch a glimpse of England. I nearly had a heart attack. Just as I was patting myself on the back for not crashing into the Atlantic, I realised in horror that England was ON FIRE! All the way to Heathrow were hundreds and hundreds of fires! And nobody but me seemed concerned one bit! For a split second I thought I must possess weird powers that allowed me to see fire when no one else could. Good LORD I needed sleep. I was nearly to the point of swearing off alcohol forever, when I overheard the man behind me explaining to his seat mate about Guy Fawkes Day. I had arrived in England on November 5, which is the day England celebrates Parliament being spared from being blown to smithereens by some guy named Fawkes. In 1605.
Apparently the way in which the English celebrate that guy's failure is to build ginormous bonfires. And march around their very old, and in the case of Rye, very wooden towns with gas soaked burning rags tied on large wooden sticks. Because it totally makes sense to celebrate an institution being spared from a fiery destruction by risking the fiery destruction of an entire country. Turns out I wasn't experiencing any previously undiscovered super-powers or alcohol induced hallucinations. What I was seeing from my flying tin can was hundreds and hundreds of bonfires all across the English countryside.
They really should warn the Americans.
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