Pandemonium in the UK

And Trumpets sound throughout the Host proclaim
A solemn Councel forthwith to be held
At Pandaemonium, the high Capital
Of Satan and his Peers . . .

-- J. Milton, Paradise Lost

Travelling overnight or in the predawn hours – anytime that normal people are asleep – is challenging at the best of times. Often times, it’s a nightmare. The logic of not wasting a day travelling is all but negated by the fact that if you do manage to get some sleep, notwithstanding the fact that you’re a God among men, it’s cramped, interrupted, hazy half-sleep that still leaves you disoriented. If you can’t handle sleeping in an upright and locked position in between two other people, then you’re just going to be in the same disoriented haze, except that you’re overdue for a huge energy crash.

So, here we are. Flying out of St. John’s last night around 10:00, after a day of running around like a decapitated chicken at the University and the mall for a paperback copy of a Wilde play and a cheap watch that still somehow cost 40 bucks. Such is life. The flight had all the elements of being excruciating – no sleep (literally, no sleep), aching muscles, and an attempt at watching Dinner for Schmucks that I had to pull the plug on halfway through – but there’s no respectable, non-whiny way to say, “Ohhhh, my flight to London  for a three month vacation was sooo terrible, I can’t understand how people can live like this! My wallet's too small for my fifties, and my diamond shoes are too tight!”

Plus, seeing a black sky turn into a light shade of blue over the plane wings, and watching as the lights of one of the biggest cities in the world suddenly appeared as we passed through a thin veil of clouds, was pretty spectacular.

By that point, it was 6:30 am, GMT. Not much more than a late night in St. John’s. As we touched down, I stopped for a minute and really wondered what day it was, and if getting picked up with my luggage on Freshwater Road happened on the same day, or maybe in a completely different month (hint: at that point, it had been about 8 hours ago). It was also about now that one of our fearless leaders, Mary Walsh – a Canadian icon by all rights, but a genuinely funny, down-to-earth Newfoundlander all around – noticed she was sans passport. Having flown into Heathrow as well as Deer Lake in the span of the last week, I’ve noticed there are some differences between the two; at one of these spots, it’s ok to have a misplaced passport. The other one is in England.

Pandemonium ensued.

 Or Pandamonium. Possibly worse.

We couldn’t go on, we couldn’t wait in customs, we couldn’t leave their stuff on the baggage carousel, even though we didn’t really know what it looked like. Anyway, I took matters into my own hands, and I’m now safely in a nice, quaint English prison for the next few nights.

Not really. Though I did learn a valuable lesson about customs officers; namely that when you’re studying abroad without a visa, when you’re asked if you’re working, the right answer isn’t, “No, I . . . well, yeah actually, kinda.” They don’t get impressed, especially when you’re not sure exactly why you have this student position, or even what your job is (so far, it’s been to carry a duty-free bottle of rum on board our flight. I could have told her I was in the rum running business to pay for my tuition, but I think, think, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about tuition then).

Anyway, turns out the passport was on the plane, we made our bus, and took the hour long trip in the left-hand lane through the English countryside, to Old Harlow in Essex County. It was the kind of mild, foggy day that you could almost have misplaced on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean if you weren’t careful.

The rest of the day played out like a much smoother, albeit furiously jetlagged, first day. Room assignments, meet and greet, nap. It was only 9:00 am in Newfoundland, but it felt like it was the end of a long, long day (probably because, as far as waking hours go, that's exactly what it was). No time to stop though; trip to Tesco, the grocery store – with a self-check in machine and everything. If Buck Rogers could only see this – taking out English pounds that don’t quite fit in our North American wallets, a home-cooked supper, and a jaunt to a nearby park to throw a Frisbee around.

Pictures will come, since everything around us is either taken from Coronation Street or Narnia, of both. Jaysus, what a spot to spend three months.

 I stole this one from MUN, since apparently I do want to end up in jail at some point. Our residence is the Maltings, the stone building there in the front left

Sleep comes first though. It’s been a long day.

Cheers,

rb