Today looks to be the end of the longest travel nightmare. I am physically and mentally exhausted. I have bags under my eyes and haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week. I am struggling to avoid depression. However, two remarkable things happened recently that help to reaffirm my faith in others. 

Yesterday, my friend Jen and I made the long and troublesome trip out to Heathrow Airport, also known in the papers as a “third-world refugee camp” (no joke). Stranded passengers inside the terminals are lying on plastic cots and wearing these reflective silver blankets that make them look like aliens. A Salvation Army truck is outside handing out hot beverages and food trays. Two large white tents house other travelers. The majority of people outside are queuing to get inside. It is chaos, and one needs a boarding pass simply to be allowed through the doors. 

At first, the security guard refused to let Jen and me pass inside because we had no boarding cards, even though we tried to explain that we came only to collect our luggage. Luckily, the second security guard we approached was more sympathetic and allowed us entry. Once there, we asked a Heathrow transportation official where we could retrieve our bags. She directed us to customer service at Virgin Atlantic, where a young man told us that not only were our bags not at the airport anymore, they were being stored at a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Unless we wanted to wait 45 days for the airline to ship them home, we would have to trek there ourselves. I was absolutely furious. Fucking Virgin Atlantic. Fucking Heathrow. I seriously wanted to punch the guy in the face. They stuck me in an airplane on a runway for seven hours, made me pay for extra baggage, and now were making me find my way to a warehouse to get the baggage they refused to give me on Saturday? Jen pulled me away before I could argue any longer. 

We made it to the Tube station with no idea of how to get to this warehouse, and asked two Underground workers if they knew where it was. They didn’t, but kindly directed us to a nice man who had a Blackberry and “google-mapped” it for us. Less angrily, we took the Tube to Hatton Cross. There, the Underground worker told us to take bus 243 to Green Lane. We walked outside, and bus 243 was approaching! Finally, something was going right.

Ten minutes later, we emerged from the bus into a street lined on the right by houses and the left by sketchy-looking warehouses. (Keep in mind that it’s dark and we are two girls walking alone.) I am scared. I clutch Jen’s arm in fear. The warehouse looks completely deserted. We soon find out that we are on the wrong side of the building. The other side is open and a few people are queuing at the door. It is good news though. We both find our luggage within 15 minutes, and are making our way out when a nice British man asks if we are going to Paddington, having overheard our conversation with the staff member on duty. We say yes, and he offers us, and all of our luggage, a ride there. I quickly survey him. He looks like a normal, kind gentleman. Okay, we say. Thank you so much.

His car is small, and he works hard to pack our luggage in. We barely fit. I have my camping backpack shoved on my lap and Jen is surrounded on four sides by baggage, but we are off. He is very interesting, and shares stories of traveling across the states by Amtrak when he was younger. He frankly explains that he feels caught in the rat race, somewhat trapped by his obligations now that he has a family. He loves bicycles, and keeps many in his painting studio, away from the eyes of his wife. He loves her too, of course. His stories are captivating and inspiring, and the hour-long drive passes quickly. Kindly, he lets us off right in front of our hotel and unloads our bags for us. Before he departs, I get his address to send a thank you card, which is done immediately. 

Thinking back, that man’s act of kindness to a total stranger helped me get through what had been an utterly horrid experience at the airport. 

  

Today, after a pleasant (but expensive) taxi ride, I pushed my luggage trolley up a steep ramp to Virgin Atlantic’s departure lounge. This was Gatwick Airport, which far more resembled an orderly airport than a chaotic camp for refugees, and everyone looked more relaxed. I made my way to the first open desk to drop my bags and get my boarding card. The friendly Virgin staff member smiled at me and asked what flight I was on. Las Vegas, I said. Can I see you passport? He said. Yes, I replied, pulling it out. Here. 

How many bags are you checking? He said. Three. Have you paid for any of them yet? No, I answered. Can I pay here? No, he said, pointing at a booth far away. You have to go to the ticket booth and pay there, and get a boarding card there. 

Okay, I agreed, heaving my overweight bags onto the scale. My flight looks good, yeah? Yes, he said. You’ll be getting home today. I smiled. When the last of my bags was weighed and on the moving platform, he looked at me. Did you book this flight first, or was it a second flight? I looked at him. I booked this one two days ago, I said. My flight on Saturday was canceled… I waited on the runway for 7 or 8 hours. Oh, he said. Let me just check your flight history. 

He examined it for a while, so long that I feared he was going to charge me for the overweight bags. Finally, he looked up. I’m going to do you a favor, he said. US Airways is going to charge you for your bags when you get to Las Vegas. I won’t charge you. He ripped up the charge forms vigorously and glanced at my booking again. I see you have a bad seat too, he said. You’re in seat E, which is a middle seat. Do you want to switch to an aisle or a window? He switched me. 

I was so overwhelmed by his kindness and thankful to be going home. Suddenly, I just started crying. He peered over, and with traditional British reserve, said, Are you okay? Yes, I sobbed. I’m just so glad to be going home. 

He smiled. Well, get yourself over to departures then. Let’s just get you to zip through. I nodded, and could do nothing more than walk away. 

Now I am through security and waiting for my gate to get posted to the departures board, which it won’t do for another hour and a half. Although I am extremely tired, I can’t stop thinking about the two men who went out of their way to brighten my day. I am but a stranger to them, but both thought nothing of helping me out. I wanted to document their kindness to me before I get catch up in the holiday festivities of sunny California, praying that today is the day I leave this land behind. It is not so much a nightmare anymore.