God tur!

This is actually my third attempt at this epic of a blog post. This hotel internet keeps kicking my butt. My first version had this really detailed description of my luggage and the complex relationship I’ve been developing with it over the course of this trip. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to cut that stuff for the sake of time. Suffice it to say, I have earned some calluses on my hands and probably some improved back strength. Here goes …

7 August 2006

I arrive outside the apartment where my friends are house-sitting just before 5pm. Neither of them has arrived home yet, so I build a little fortress with my luggage and sit in the middle of it, waiting for them and watching the late summer scenery in Hyde Park. It’s a really beautiful day, and I’m sort of enjoying imagining people’s mental reactions to the presence of me and my lime green suitcases and huge backpack plopped down on the curb. City-dwellers tend to act like they’ve seen everything before; I imagine everyone gets pretty good at imagining a plausible scenario in which any number of strange objects might end up on the sidewalk. A single shoe. A red brassiere. Or me.

I saw Maureen coming from a long way off, and it made me really happy. I think she was happy too. That’s because she didn’t know how heavy my suitcase was going to be when she attempted to drag it up to the second floor apartment.

After dinner with friends and some general catching-up, I slept on this couch. The sun coming in the windows woke me up really early. I’ve been staying in bed until ungodly, uncomfortable hours all summer, so I loved it.

8 August 2006

Today, I began receiving well-wishes from all sorts of unexpected places. Some in my email, some on the phone, some from random U of C people I ran into while running errands with Esther on campus. Some on this very blog! It was difficult to be nervous on such a beautiful day, in a place where I feel so comfortable, and with particularly good company. That night, I had dinner with Ben and Megan and Esther and Maureen. I mention it because there are pictures.

9 August 2006

On very little sleep and after some emotional good-byes and unexpected surprises (Jeremy’s in town! We have lunch! Why didn’t I take a picture? Huh?), Maureen drops me off at the airport shuttle. I’m the only passenger aboard, so I spend the entire trip fielding at times rather personal questions from Fred, the driver. He tells me he has incredibly long eyelashes, and that his mom thinks he only dates girls whose names start with “D.” He also asks me if I’m always this laid-back. Pretty much, I say. But I’m tired. I promise to send him a postcard from Oslo in care of the company.

10 August 2006

It’s morning, and my plane is landing at Heathrow. It’s been a good flight; I slept maybe 2 or 3 hours, a personal best for plane travel for me. My contented air is only slightly disturbed by the announcement that the plane is having difficulty communicating with the terminal, and it may be awhile before we get a gate. And only a little more so when I’m told we’ll be gated away from the terminal and will be taken closer by shuttle. But I definitely become nervous when I hear we’ll have to go through immigration, reclaim our luggage, go through customs, and then check in again for our transfer flights. I was definitely not planning on having to handle my luggage between Chicago and Oslo. Little did I know …

Three or four hours later I am standing outside of terminal 4. An irregular line of people stretches in front of me, so far that I can’t make out what becomes of them at the end. Actually, I still don’t know. At least I’m four hours closer than the suckers behind me. But closer to what? Turns out, nothing. Once the airlines started cancelling flights right and left, the terminal became so congested that they diverted people to the drop-off lanes outside. You weren’t even allowed in until your flight number was called. At this point, I knew my flight was cancelled but had decided I wouldn’t leave that airport without knowing when I could go on to Oslo. I’m not sure why.

I didn’t abandon the line until a woman began distributing information on hotels and how much the airline would reimburse. I set out to find a phone. It’s my luggage that turned out to be the big problem, literally. It’s very difficult to navigate a crowd when you have two heavy appendages scraping along behind you. You bump into lots of old men and baby carriages. And for some reason, everyone in big groups and with carts wants you to move. And you do. Because you’re like that.

If I had thought a little about how important personal composure was in this whole incident, I might not have called my parents at this point. Because the sound of my mom’s voice melted my resolve a little too much. A woman who heard me crying and stammering next to her asked if I needed help, and I assured her that I was fine. I wasn’t fine, but, really, no one had the kind of magical powers required to fix this day.

Three hours or so later, I’m finally at a hotel. I shower and have some tea and get my internet revved up, so my family knows I’m safe. I order room service and watch Bradley get kicked of Project Runway. I think about how Bradley is adorable, and how I wish I had a crazy friend like him who made clothes that are complicated and cute.

11 August 2006

All I do is sleep. And eat a little. And rebook my flight for Saturday. Then I worry about the reports that Heathrow is still a mess. I don’t like my hotel. It’s too fancy, and everyone looks right through me.

12 August 2006

I am resolved! I go to airport determined to conquer all! My heart sinks when we are again told not to take the elevators up to the departure area but to go outside to the car park where we will wait in line across the street! Again! And it’s raining!

At this point, I laugh my head off. It is too absurd for words. All of it.

I spot a very tall man with a wild shock of blonde hair and a bag on his cart that says OSLO 678. Here he is, I decide, my new friend. But the little fucker is all agile with his fancy cart, and he’s running all over trying to glean information by ease-dropping because he’s Norwegian and actually asking someone would be way too forward. (I do not mock! I am describing my own strategy, as it were.)

I don’t spot him again until maybe an hour later. He’s briskly following an airline agent, so I tag along. Are you going to Oslo, I ask him? Yes, but it’s cancelled he says. Shit, I say. I can’t help it. Already he thinks I’m a vulgar American. He’s going to report back to all of them, I know it.

Anyway, it’s back to the hotel for me. But this time, I get one a little farther away from the airport. The desk attendant wishes she were home watching Bridget Jones in her pajamas. So do I. We bond. I’m in an area where there are shops and houses and people, albeit slightly weary looking ones, so I go to a little market and buy apples and orange flavored biscuits and yoghurt and a jar of peanut butter. It costs less than four pounds which makes me giddy.

So that’s where I am today. In my little hotel bed, actually. Tomorrow I’m going to try to venture out and see a thing or two. And then on Monday … I have no guarantees, but I’m going to try again. We’ll see what happens.

I am disappointed I’ve missed my concert with Simon and my time to cozy in to my new home. My niece asks tonight if I’ve hung her picture on the wall yet. I don’t know how to explain that I don’t have a wall. But, a little time to myself is very nice, too. And the chaos here makes Oslo seem very calm and safe. More to come. -Jenna

P.S. I have photos, but for some reason, my computer doesn't care for uploading right now. I'll tack them on soon, promise.