London, England, June 30 and July 1, 2005
I only had a few hours of sleep. I remember sitting in the hotel business center until the wee hours of the night (I didn’t yet own a laptop), emailing my family and friends about the delay.
When I made it up to my sketchy room, I found the linens on the bed to be so gross, I opted to stay in my clothes and only took my shoes off to sleep.
I drifted off after watching some TV, only to wake bright and early around 4:00 a.m. to return to the airport. I decided not to shower since the room was so unclean.
Once I arrived at SeaTac, I endured the typical post 9-11 hell for ‘dark-skinned’ travelers and had my bag searched. Of course, there was nothing in there that would cause alarm, but it’s never a good feeling to be targeted, especially since I had passed through the same security line with flying colors just a few hours prior.
Anyway, I get to the terminal and see that my flight is delayed 30 minutes. I wasn’t too worried because again, my connection to Heathrow was at least 2 hours apart from my arrival in Canada.
I leaned back to try to relax and someone spotted my @U2 staff shirt (the one I’d now had on for about 24 hours).
“Oh, my, God! Are you Tassoula???”
I thought to myself: Really? This is when fame finally finds me?
With apprehension I replied, “Yes.”
In the next 30 minutes I learned that one of our passionate readers was coincidentally on my flight to Canada, she was a big fan of some writers we had on staff and she really, really wanted to talk.
I was fighting a headache and trying not to be impolite, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sort of relieved when our flight was cancelled.
Turns out there was fog that wasn’t going to go away, so they just cancelled the flight and promised seats on later departures.
The trouble was: the later departures were too late to get me to my connection to Heathrow, so back to American Airlines I went.
Plan C was to get me to Atlanta and put me on the last Heathrow connection there, which had one seat left. I told them to do it. I didn’t care how I got there, I just needed to get there.
So I went to wait for my Atlanta flight, which wasn’t due to leave for a few hours.
Long story short, the Atlanta flight got delayed too, so I would’ve missed that connection. In tears, I returned for the fourth—yes, fourth—time to the American Airlines counter to try to find a solution.
The agent who helped me this time wasn’t as kind.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t get you to Heathrow for about four days. There’s a big concert happening there.”
“Um, yes, I know. I’m going to that concert. My sister is flying in from the east coast to meet me there.”
“I could get you to Paris.”
“Um, no.”
“Edinburgh?”
“Try again.”
“Gatwick?”
“DONE!”
“Well, you better start running because the connection to Gatwick is in Dallas, and the flight to Dallas is currently boarding.”
At this point, I became a bit of an Olympian and ran as fast as I could to the terminal. I barely made it.
Once in flight, I realized I had called my U2 boss to update him, but neglected to call my own mother before leaving. I hoped she wasn’t worrying too much, but then again, she at that point thought I was still in Canada.
On the Dallas flight, I sat in between the Obligatory Screaming Child™ and the Grumpy Old Man Who Wanted to Talk™. And yes, I was miserable.
We landed and I ran for a pay phone (didn’t bother with my cell because I didn’t want to pay ‘global’ charges once I got to England). I called my mom and told her I was in Texas en route to an airport that was nearly an hour from my London hotel. She was so used to my travel drama, she barely flinched.
Instead, she told me of my sister’s excitement of arriving on time to London, checking in to our hotel and realizing that she left her handbag in the airport cab.
My poor mother.
Thankfully, the cab driver returned her handbag later that day, and in a matter of minutes, I was safely on my way to Gatwick. My mother would update my sister on my drama when she checked back in a few hours later.
When I arrived, I ran for the train that takes folks straight to London and watched it pull away as I made it to the platform. This was, ladies and gentleman, the story of my life. Meanwhile, I knew that in Hyde Park, just two blocks from our hotel, U2 was having their sound check with Paul McCartney. I choked back tears.
I sat down and read all of the newspapers I could get my hands on. My eyes were blurry with exhaustion, but it did help pass the time.
What seemed like an hour later, the train arrived and I was one of the first to board. When we started moving, the drink cart came through and before the gentleman could offer the beer, I had my hand on one.
“Rough day?” He smiled.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I replied.
Once we arrived, I was too tired to walk the eight blocks to my hotel so I jumped in a cab. It was the best money I’ve ever spent.
My sister was smiling and sitting on a couch in the lobby when I arrived. I was so glad to see her.
After laying down for about half an hour, I showered and changed for dinner.
We ate some sort of pizza that night, then went on a spirited Haunted London walking tour.
I remember our guide being very liberal and snarking about Margaret Thatcher for most of our journey. I have no recollection of the ghost stories, though I know a few creeped me out.
My sister and I took the Underground back to our hotel, and I filed this blog post on @U2.
It’s a wonder I could even spell my name.