whattajourney

Heathrow Friday 17th December 2010

The alarm goes off at 3am, I look out through my half drawn blinds, noting with satisfaction the clear and crisp early morning air. Great, I think, looks like a good day for flying. Completely worry-free, I log on to Skype, and even at that last-minute hour, I chat casually to a friend overseas. "Wish you a safe journey and a wonderful time with your family", he says. I beam back at him in agreement - little did I know the journey which lay ahead would be the most memorable one to date. 

And not for the right reasons.

Addison Lee's reputation as a reliable cab company is not unwarranted. By the time we tug our somewhat over-sized cases out of the front door, I've already received a total of 3 texts and a phone call announcing the driver's arrival . The journey to Heathrow's Terminal 1 is quite uneventful except for the faint smell of puke wafting around the car…. I believe a legacy of the previous customer (admits our embarrassed driver). Never mind, I think, visions of exotic India and a grand re-union with my parents taking over my mind. Nothing can spoil this moment….. 

Or can it?

My daughters and I are bound for India, the remote north-eastern part to be specific, an area sandwiched between Bangladesh and Burma called Mizoram - land of the hills, the free-spirited and of beautiful souls. Lufthansa, for economic reasons rather than personal choice, was chosen to be our carrier. The sectors involved are London - Frankfurt - Calcutta, with a 2 hour stop-over at Frankfurt. Next in the schedule is a night's refresher stop at Calcutta before the last leg of our journey - a flight the next day to Aizawl, the Mizo capital. Sounds pretty uncomplicated. 

We make it well on time to the airport for a relaxed and stress-free check-in. Just what I need for a great start to a great holiday, I think, a smile spreading across my face. Even so, I streak ahead in eagerness, leaving my two barely awake daughters to play catch up. Then I stop dead on my tracks. 

"What the f….." blurts out Zoi, my older daughter, her amazement at what she sees taking precedence over her normally controlled language. Zone K, the check in zone for Lufthansa, resembled, what can only be described, as a cattle market on a super busy bargain-sales day. Travellers in their hundreds milling around, bumping, shoving, queueing, blatantly flouncing rules, some sprawled on the floor. I look around in vain for airline or airport staff directing and assisting people. But, from where we stop to gape (as it was impossible to move further) we can only see the faint line of red jackets of the check-in agents behind their desks - their images masked and hidden by throngs of people. No signs explaining the situation either. Nothing.

"Are we in the right zone?" Remi's mouth is agape in bewilderment. I look at my younger daughter, but am speechless. Getting them to wait with the luggage, I battle my way through the crowds towards a harassed looking staff member, and enquire what we needed to do to check in. I'm fully conscious of the absurdity of my question - checking-in is a very straightforward procedure, even my daughters often travel alone and have checked-in independently tens of times before - but the disorderly crowds and chaos in the hallway cast self doubts on my ability to carry out this simple procedure…. I needed clarification. The staff member points to a line which looks far too long to enable us to make the flight, but realising there is no choice, I dart back, join the queue and await our fate.

Chatting to my fellow sufferers-in-queue I discover that several flights to Zurich and Frankfurt had been cancelled the previous night and early this morning because of severe weather conditions in Europe. Many of these droves of people are actually weary travellers who have been forced to spend the night in the airport, hoping to latch themselves on another flight, namely my own. I cast my head down in shame, acknowledging that I had not bothered to read any news the past 12 hours which would have put me in the picture and prepared me better. Ah well. 

Mercifully, the queue moves extraordinarily quickly. At last I'm seeing signs, finally, of German efficiency, I remark to my girls in relief. 

Later, much later, I laugh at that remark. 

"Is the flight on time?" I enquire of the Lufthansa agent as she hands us our boarding passes for the London - Frankfurt and Frankfurt - Calcutta sectors. 

"Yes", she beams back at me, "enjoy your flight". 

HA

We happily cruise through immigration and security, shrugging away a few further minor queues, which is not unusual for Heathrow. After a satisfying breakfast and some dutiful duty-free shopping, we land up, supercharged and raring to go, at gate 5a. 

Never could we imagine, at this stage, that this is to be our camp for the next 7 hours.

To start with, we did not board on time. The first warning sign. We did not board an hour later. I start to get worried. What of our connecting flight to Calcutta?

"No planes can land on or depart Frankfurt" assures the staff member to whom I directed my concern, "your connecting flight is most probably delayed too".

Grudgingly I return to my seat. Our 7am flight is already hours late, estimated departure time ambiguous. The clock ticks past 10am, we are still in Gate 5a. We have a serious problem now. My mind darts ahead to our final connecting flight to Aizawl from Calcutta, scheduled for the next morning. Tickets in this sector are gold dust in this season and chances of getting our flights changed last minute are as thin as my present patience.

I cast a worried look at the girls, but they appear more resigned than I - reading and gaming on their I-phones. Thank goodness for youth and their ability to accept lightheartedly what is beyond our control. My parents call every half hour and I tell them what I know - zilch. The lack of information is appalling, but when meal coupons are announced at 11, I realise with a sinking heart that we may not be flying for a while yet. 

Finally taking a leaf from the girls' books, I sit back for the first time since we arrive at the gate, pick up my copy of the Economist and attempt in vain to loose myself in the power struggle between USA, Europe and the emerging markets - a topic which would normally engross me, but even that cannot hold my concentration, as I constantly glance at the clock and scrutinise the movements of the staff for any giveaway signs which may reveal how close we are to boarding.

We finally fly at 2.05pm, exactly 7 hours after the scheduled departure time. A quick check before boarding reveals that our connecting flight has indeed departed Frankfurt - without us.

Ah well. At least we are one step closer to our final destination.