And so it begins.

After a wonderful pre-flight meal (mushroom polenta!) at Cowboy Ciao in Sky Harbor International’s Terminal 4, we head to the gate to find a mob of people waiting to board a 747. Because a 747 can hold a mob, a mob is what we find.

We board. We’re not exhausted and disillusioned yet, so we march down that really narrow aisle to our seats, hoist our carry-ons into the overheads, and settle into Coffin Class.

Because that’s what it is. Only smaller. I’ve seen coffins, and there’s way more elbow room in ‘em. On a cabin configured as 3-4-3, we’re in that first 3, and Dad, Interrupted has the window seat and I have taken the center. The gentleman next to me is very nice, very fit, and about the size of a mountain. A very nice, fit mountain. His shoulders are in my ears.

Now, I travel regularly on domestic flights, and have found them to be restricting, for lack of a better, less-obscene word. I had entertained the now-vain, now-hilarious hope that an international flight would be a little roomier, because well, they’ve got you on the plane for something like ten hours and to do otherwise would be insane and inhumane.

Seasoned travelers are now asking: was I born this naïve, or did I have to study? The answer: born this way. This trip will, among other things, be an exercise in blasting pre-conceived notions out of my tiny little brain.

The plane hasn’t left yet, and me, the lover of small spaces, is starting to have a panic attack.

But Mountain Guy is extremely pleasant and conversational, and as the plane heads off into the night we’re actually having a good time. No one cares if anyone has to go to the john; we all stand up and go together, or at least, we head to the back of the plane together. (It could be argued that I stand up because the two men I’m sitting with are dragging me up as they stand, but it’s a moot point.)

A few days later, we will tour the Tower of London and see a torture device called The Scavenger’s Daughter, which was so horrible that it was only rarely used. It was the exact opposite of the more famous rack; it compressed the victim into thirds until blood came out of their nose and ears. Knowing that we have to fly coach back to the States in mere days, we are unable to look at it for long.

And then a miracle occurs. Jeremy, the flight attendant, has an issue because Mountain Guy is an actual hazard to navigation. Mountain Guy can’t control it; he spills out into the aisle. People are tripping over him, and more importantly, they can’t get the drink cart past him. Jeremy remedies this by getting him a different seat with some leg room. And, (and this is the key part) doesn’t bring anyone back to take the vacated seat.

I am now a big Jeremy Fan. If Jeremy needs a kidney, I am all over that like a cheap suit.

Dad, Interrupted and I now have what I always call Poor Man’s First Class: three seats, two much happier people.

The flight is uneventful. It’s a bad sign that I have to translate for Dad, Interrupted when our very British flight attendants ask simple questions like “Do you want ice and lemon with that gin and tonic?” and “Would you like chicken curry?” I knew this was going to be an issue; every Christmas we watch Love, Actually with subtitles because DI doesn’t speak British.

Eventually, after about ten hours of flight time, we land at Heathrow. It’s about 2:30 in the afternoon, London time, but for us, blinking like moles in the sunlight, it’s 6:30 am. We walk miles through the airport, meet a lovely Border Security agent who is an ardent Washington Redskins fan and who is a little surprised that he is part of my bucket list. To be precise, I hadn’t articulated specifically that I wanted to meet a British Washington Redskins fan, but I’m checking off the bucket list here in Heathrow and he’s sitting smack in the middle of it.

We actually/miraculously/improbably manage to work the Underground through a transfer to get to our HomeAway flat, and not accidentally wind up in Scotland. We do not perform this navigational feat independently. No, we set a precedent that we would fall back on every day on this trip: relying on the innate kindness of British citizens, who very politely wait for us to walk away before they collapse into laughter. While kind, their forbearance is unnecessary; Dad, Interrupted wouldn’t have understood anything they were saying anyway.

Note: everyone keeps telling us that winding up in Scotland by accident is impossible, but I don’t think they understand how thoroughly we could screw everything up.

We stop at The Heron, a pub next to our flat’s complex, to wait for our host. The bartender sadly informs us that DI was probably not going to be able to order his beloved Smithwick’s anywhere in London. Spoiler Alert: he was right.

We get settled, we walk to the local Waitrose to buy groceries, and marvel: eggs are not refrigerated. Chips are called ‘crisps.’ French fries are called ‘chips.’ We have to buy our grocery bags; if we don’t, we’ll have to stuff those room-temperature eggs into our pockets and wander gingerly home.

At the end of this trip, I will be buying snacks in the airport and the cashier will ask me if I need to buy a bag. I will pull one of those Waitrose bags out of my purse and proudly say, “Never.” She will be delighted with me.

And so night closes on the Strangers in the Strange Land. The next day will be a big one: Mom, Interrupted meets Westminster Abbey. If anything is the symbol of what I wanted out of this trip, the Abbey is it, the magnet that has pulled me across The Pond with a longing that I cannot fully explain or describe.

No pressure.

© E. Stocking Evans