Day Nine: Departure

Michelle's alarm clock screamed for several minutes at 6:30 this morning. I hate alarm clocks. We got our bags, said goodbye to Jess and went to the tube station.

First bad sign of the day: We got lost trying to find the right line. My arms were already sore from carrying Rugged Gear all over the tube station. We got to Victoria Station.

Second bad sign of the day: The Gatwick Express sat on the tracks for twenty minutes. Time is running out. We have a plane to catch here. I fell asleep for the half hour commute to the airport. We ran off the train and headed to our terminal. We'll be fine. I've made it to my gate in less than an hour before. Plus, we checked in online last night. They won't leave without us.

Third bad sign of the day: Why are there no signs in this damn airport? We rode an escalator to check-in. Because there were no signs telling everyone where to go, there was a pile-up at the top of the escalator. People and suitcases jammed together forming one mass of confusion. I clawed my way out and Michelle and I headed to the gate.

Now the shit hit the fan. An hour early, we joined the line at Continental. Two girls, who were also on our flight to Newark, were asking a petite British woman with tightly wound hair where to go at which point she screamed across the room, "We got four more here!" She then snobbily informed us in a nasally voice that we would have to rebook our flight. WHAAAAAAAATTTTTT. That can't be right. Eyes widened and expletives flowing freely, we tried to figure out how to get on that plane. Short of rushing the security booth (which would have only resulted in tasering and a beat-down) there was nothing we could do. I hate Gatwick.

We stood in line seething with anger. We were told we'd have to fly standby to Newark and standby from Newark to Boston. Cursing loudly we gripped our new standby tickets and re-entered the check in line. I wanted to punch the overly peppy British woman who thumbed through my passport making sure I didn't accept any bombs along the way. We had to be rushed to the front of the check in line because the next flight to Newark was being closed. What is wrong with Continental? They should really notify travelers of this policy. We were two of six people forced to fly standby because we just missed the line.

After checking in, we hustled to security and briskly walked through a maze of Duty Free shops to our gate. Gatwick is the dumbest airport I've ever been in. It took us fifteen minutes just to get from check-in to our gate. The designer must have been on Valium when he drew up the blueprints.

Airport employees methodically boarded rows based on row numbers as we sat on the floor outside our gate silently hoping we'd be on the flight. A stern voice came over the loudspeaker informing all standbys to make themselves known. We got up to make ourselves know when we heard a woman calling out names. After three names we heard it. "Jordan. Franceschelli."

YESSSSSSSSS.

Our name was on the loudspeaker again! This time they did a much better job of pronouncing my last name. Michelle and I were very excited. We stood behind other standbys in line for tickets. Michelle told the woman her name. I told the woman my name. She handed me my ticket. I told her I loved her but she didn't respond. That's life. We boarded and I decided I don't hate Continental. I just hate Gatwick.

It is definitely time to go home. Michelle switched seats with some Asian man and is now sitting next to me. We are in an exit row so we have a lot of leg room. Sweet. It's been a rollercoaster of emotions with Continental. My nerves are shot. I'm going to sleep. I hope I don't wake up until Newark.