Homeward Bound, Part III: Through the Stansted Portal… Almost
Do you remember the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland? That was me. Only instead of clutching an elegant pocket watch and shouting, “I’m late! I’m late!”, I was armed with a smartphone, a power bank and Google Maps, mentally calculating exactly how much delay I could still survive.
Against all odds, our driver somehow managed to claw back a surprising amount of lost time. Whether he knew every shortcut between London and Stansted or had quietly negotiated with the travel gods, I’ll never know. Whatever the explanation, I silently thanked my earlier self for making one last-minute decision that afternoon: purchasing Fast Track security.
Normally, I’d have considered it an unnecessary luxury. On this particular day, however, it looked less like an indulgence and more like divine intervention.
One thought kept crossing my mind as we raced towards the airport. Why are British motorway speed limits so painfully sensible? The one day you desperately need to barrel down the motorway at 220 km/h, everyone suddenly becomes passionately committed to public safety. Perhaps I’ve spent too long living in Germany.
Despite the urgency, the coach had become an entertaining little United Nations on wheels. The Italian couple in front of me debated snacks with operatic enthusiasm. Behind me, two ladies were already discussing contingency plans and whom they should call if everything went spectacularly wrong. A German toddler had understandably reached the end of his patience, while his mother appeared to have reached the end of hers. Somewhere nearby, the Swedes were discussing something I only half understood. Being a polyglot while travelling can be wonderfully entertaining. You never intend to eavesdrop; your brain simply refuses not to translate.
Thanks to Fast Track, I almost breezed through security.
Almost.
Naturally, the one day I was in a hurry, both my backpack and handbag were selected for additional screening. The chief suspects turned out to be a bottle of Mexican salt—the glass apparently attracted more attention than the salt itself—and my rather impressive collection of camera batteries.
The security officer couldn’t have been more pleasant. Nothing was confiscated and, after a brief inspection, she simply suggested that next time I spread the batteries between my bags so they would show up more clearly on the X-ray. I was already mentally preparing to flash my press credentials, but thankfully it never came to that.
It was perfectly sensible advice from an airport security perspective, but it also struck me as rather contradictory. Airline guidance generally recommends keeping spare lithium batteries together in your hand luggage, protected against short circuits and easily accessible, rather than scattered between bags or tucked away in checked luggage. Once on board, that bag should remain beneath the seat in front of you rather than in the overhead locker because batteries are considered a potential fire risk. Spreading them around might make life easier for the X-ray operator, but it seems slightly at odds with the safety advice passengers are routinely given.
Eventually, I gathered my belongings, took a deep breath and looked up at the departure board.
Flight delayed.
No gate announced.
After everything that had happened that afternoon, I found myself doing something rather unexpected.
I laughed.
For the first time in hours, there was absolutely nothing I could do except wait. Since fate clearly felt it owed me a small apology, I wandered into a juice bar and ordered a strawberry and ginger smoothie called Calm Down.
I accepted the advice without argument.
Sitting there with cool music drifting through the terminal, smoothie in hand, I realised the frantic rush had finally subsided. It reminded me, rather unexpectedly, of the peaceful moment on yesterday’s Ferris wheel overlooking Cornwall. Different surroundings, different emotions, yet somehow the same welcome sense of stillness.
What superhero is supposed to reside in London? At this point I’d happily borrow their wings, jetpack, flying vehicle, or whatever mode of transport they happened to have parked beneath an invisibility cloak somewhere in the sky. At this stage, I’d even settle for a Nimbus 3000 if it could get me to Lisbon.
Well, I wanted adventure. I should probably have been more specific. My Human-to-God broadband connection appears to be glitching today. My mother always used to remind me that when you pray for something, you need to give God clear instructions. He’s busy enough without having to guess what you meant.
For now, though, there was nowhere to run, nothing to fix and no queue to join. Just one last quiet moment before bidding farewell to the Island.
FrogDiva Thoughts 