August 1, 1984
London, England, United Kingdom
Somewhere between Frankfurt and Brussels, we were hit by another round of clear air turbulence. The good news was that we'd finished breakfast; the bad news is that the sausages were lying in an unmoving blob somewhere in the depths of my stomach, and every lurch of the airplane sent a wave of mild nausea over me. This is the most basic reason I dislike nonstop, long-haul flights so much -- the shaking of the plane as it goes over mountain ranges or plows through weather disturbances. Blargh.
It is here, while in German airspace, that the flight captain informs us that our ETA is 0545H, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. I sit up, forgetting my discomfort, as I realize that the captain is also apologizing for getting us into Heathrow several minutes early, as those who have arranged transfers from the airport will now have to wait instead of being able to go directly to their destination. That's a new one in my books...it's more common for the captain to apologize for being late.
The landing was perfect, the rear wheels making contact with the runway with barely a jolt through the plane. Given that my usual seat on trips abroad is right over the rear wheel carriage, this makes it easy for me to determine just how well the pilot knows his plane and his runway.
Getting out of the plane and getting into the baggage claim area was a breeze. There was an interesting moment while Ma and I were walking through the immigration hall -- this Filipina woman who had been sitting about two or three rows in front of us, was on the phone talking very loudly to the person on the other end. Loud enough for people's heads to turn and wonder why she needed to be almost yelling at nearly six in the morning. Even the airport seemed half-asleep at that hour! Ma and I were wondering if the woman wasn't some sort of jilted mail-order bride or something fanciful like that, while we stopped briefly in the washroom and tidied up before facing the immigration officer.
Immigration was fine, the officer looked at us, looked at our passports, reviewed our forms, and stamped our passports. He almost smiled at us when we thanked him, but of course he had to see to the next person in line. Guess he wasn't expecting such cheerfulness at that hour of the morning.
According to the tour brochure instructions, we had to look for the A3 bus from Heathrow's Terminal 3, and ride it into Central London. The sun was up -- yes, there was sun! -- and it looked to be a glorious day of sunshine. The bus driver was so nice about helping us up with our bags, and also with making sure we stopped at the right place.
When people back home found out we were heading to London, there were many prophecies of doom, to the effect that the British are snobs. Hah, I know all too well that snobbery is not limited to the British -- anyone who has spent time as a transferee into an all-girls convent school where your classmates have not only known each other since the cradle, but their *mothers* were batchmates as well -- as I say, anyone in that position can tell you a thing or two about how the art of being a snob is practised in the upper classes.
My first impression of the British is that they're formal, more than snobbish. They don't run up and kiss you and throw open their doors within the first ten seconds; they're more of the Emily Post "how do you do" type. Not better or worse, just *different*.
We're going to be here for ten days. I can tell that we are going to have fun!
The Royal National is our hotel, and we're in Room 4032. I'm feeling a bit ditzy, and I don't really feel the jet-lag, despite having just arrived from a long-haul flight. Once the bags were up, and Ma felt rested, we embarked on a walker's workout -- from the hotel on Russel Square, past the British Museum (insert wide-eyed gaping here), to Oxford Street, where we walked up and down its length. Our eyes have seen Marks and Spencer, and it was good.
Upon our return from orienting ourselves to the shopping district, we discovered the Barclay's Bank just around the corner from the hotel, in Woburn Place. The dollar-pound exchange rate is good, and we are thankful.
There are many, many Filipinos living in London. Most of the senior staff at the hotel is Filipino, in fact. The Filipino population here seem to have adapted to British life very well, and as far as attitude goes, they come off better than Fil-Ams. Or maybe it's just me? So far the Fil-Ams of my acquaintance have this air of "I'm an American and you're not," as if earning American citizenship is such a wonderful thing. ::wrinkles nose:: To renounce your citizenship in a Third World country in order to become a citizen in one of the richest nations in the world, so that your children will have opportunities their peers can only dream of in your former country -- that I can understand. To be "in your face" about it...*that* irritates me.
But I'm in Europe to enjoy life and soak up the culture, not get all University-radical ::grin:: about things. Let's see what tomorrow brings!
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