San José, California, USA

"The flight today will be three hours and four fun-filled minutes."

I fell asleep at 12:30am (or thereabouts) and woke up at 4:26am (four minutes before my alarm was set to go off, also known as "before god early"). I was dreaming about arriving in New Zealand. In it dad was dropping me off -- we'd flown down together, and now he was driving me me to my hotel. He kissed me goodbye and I went in. It didn't look as good as the website, of course, and it turned out the price for 3 nights was $400 -- well above what was agreed. The clerk offered to get me acquainted, by which she meant handing me a menu of things happening at the hotel, including acting classes and an amateur production of "Clue" which may or may not have been starring Tim Curry (which wouldn't really make it amateur).



"If Houston wasn't in your travel plans, it is now."

I was seated behind a really... interesting family on the first flight. We have Young Grandma (YG), Young Mom (YM), Granddaughter (G), and Granddad (GD). YG and G showed up first, and G was plied with blankets, toys, and various other kid-er-phernalia. Then YM (I say young because she looked somewhere between 18-22) showed up, and they all sat down. Things were okay until just before the doors closed when YG half stood and started waving a piece of paper at the flight attendants. YM checked on something, then they sat down again. When the doors closed there was a panic -- something about GD, and is he on the plane? And he's in the gate! Can't they just open the door? YM started bawling and YG started praying fiercely. When he did get in, YG cheered.

G thought I was the most hilarious thing ever and spent most of the flight standing on her seat and looking/laughing/sitting down and occasionally handing me things (including drawings, a sticker from a banana, a dirty napkin, and a compass -- the kind you draw circles with)(it wasn't pointy like the compasses of my day). It was really charming for a while, and got really irritating around hour 2.

"We'll be through one more time to pick up any unneeded items: cash, unused credit cards, jewelry..."

Remember when I flew to Scotland on Continental and the food was okay? After taking a chance on what turned out to be the worst chicken nuggets, fries, and diet coke the world has ever experienced (Dear fast food industries: chicken nuggets shouldn't be soft), I was confident about throwing 97% of it away, since, as experience proved, the food on this flight would be halfway decent.

Y'all, how the hungry have fallen! Let's look, shall we?



Iceburg lettuce on the left. Natch. Peppercorn dressing (ick). And on the right? Can you read that?



"Crispy Pizza Crust Topped with Beef Steak, Green Peppers, Ranch Dressing, Mozzarella, Provolone, and Romano Cheese."

First of all, it wasn't crispy, and second, there is no one, anyone, ever, who could make that taste good. I'm pretty sure it was a dare, because I can't imagine anyone, boardroom or no, thought that was a good idea.

All the flights went well, though, and I managed to get my bag AND find the shuttle for the hotel. It was all going well until I opened the door to my hotel room -- okay, actually, I didn't much like the hotel, but whatever whatever -- I opened the door, and the bed was rumpled, there was a coffee mug on the sink, there were towels on the floor, and I wasn't totally convinced that the pile of blankets didn't contain a person, so I closed the door all fast, and booked it back to the counter. They were aghast and all got fixed.

Holy hell, y'all, I've been up since 1:30am here-time and it's 9:14pm now and I don't know how many hours or minutes or whatever it's been, but I am some kind of TIRED. I went to dinner with my aunt and cousin. We had Thai. It was good. Here, have a picture. I'm going to bed.



"Please keep your seatbelt fastened as we're taxiing. We've never had a passenger reach the gate before the plane and we'd like to keep it that way."<sup>1

1</sup> All quotes courtesy of one of the flight attendants this morning.

Philadelphia, PA, USA

Usually at this point I’m feeling mildly frantic, wishing the trip would just happen so I could stop thinking about it. I don’t feel that way this time. I don’t feel much of anything, in fact. Instead of racing around with a delightfully crazed look in my eye I’m playing solitaire, knitting, reading (not about NZ), and occasionally glancing at the pile of electronics, yarn, and books strewn over my bed. Also, I’ve done laundry.

This trip doesn’t feel real (I checked my plane tickets – it is). Maybe all the short trips I’ve taken lately have disguised the reality that I’ll be gone 3 months. Or maybe it’s because I’m going to California first, so it doesn’t seem like I'm actually going yet.

Either way it’s an interesting departure from the major dose of adrenaline I’m usually feeling now.

(Is it wrong that after feeling the cool fall air I’m a little disappointed to be heading into spring weather?)

I have 11 minutes before my computer dies since neither I nor the hotel have a converter that works. Will either update tomorrow or when I get home, whichever involves power AND internet AND time first.

Lots of pictures, though.

Hótel Hellissandur, Hellissandur, Iceland

At breakfast this morning they were playing the same damn song, still on repeat. I can’t imagine what it must be like for the people who work here.

Some cereal and gjetost¹ later we got into the car for the drive to Hvamm. Hellissandur is at the western end of the Snuffelupisberg² peninsula, and Hvamm is all the way around Hvammsfjord³. Directly it might be an easy trip. Going all the way around the fjord takes some time. Particularly when you’re stopping every few kilometers for a photo op.



Dad’s pretty taken with the countryside, but I find the colors dull and generally uninspiring. The mountains, while large, are so eroded that they look to be piles of dirt. Big piles, mind you, but piles none the less.



Which is not to say that someone who had a better night’s sleep might not feel differently. I’m pretty sure someone was moving furniture around the hotel until well after midnight last night.



The peninsula is deceptively long, and it took us nearly 2 hours to reach Bodahumfumfumfur⁴, one of the larger towns we would be passing. We were wondering, when we were maybe 45km away, whether or not we should try to make it all the way there. The drive had become tedious. Really tedious. After a delightful lunch of overcooked hotdog with suspect toppings and 2 pieces of decent apple pie from the local gas station (the pizza joint wasn’t open) we felt much better and continued on.



You have to put a lot of blind faith into these roads. First that just because it’s not paved doesn’t mean it’s not a main road, and second, that it really is wide enough for you and that car barreling in your direction.





First stop was Krosshólar⁵...



where Aud supposedly erected a bunch of crosses (she’d converted from Paganism to Christianity).



Now there’s a recently-erected stone cross that says something about her in Icelandic. Plans for translation are pending.





Then on to Hvamm – her settlement in Iceland – where there’s now a private farm and a sign with historical factoids (the last of which is completely baffling)⁶.



We took pictures,





scoured the ground for any very unlikely artifacts,



and took off back again.


(The uncountable islands)

Then to Kambsness (we think -- there wasn't a sign, though the map said it was right) where she'd lost her comb. It's now an airport so we couldn't get too close (though I'm pretty sure the security wasn't exactly rock-solid).



Finally we stopped to wander a black sand beach.



I tramped over some rocks and out onto a small cliff.


(Click for note)




(The view from the cliff)

We encountered some more arctic terns feeding their young. The adolescents would wait on the beach, and the parents would take off, find food, drop it in front of their babies, and head out for more. I’m sure human parents of teenagers can relate.



After some rest and relaxation we went back out to Olafswhatever ⁷ for dinner, noshed on some lamb and talked Aud (question: DID she take advantage of her stable boys after her husband died? Discuss). No “My Way,” but lots of 80’s American pop. Now it’s 8:30 and looks like 5pm outside.

Tomorrow, whale watching. Mmm!


¹ A caramel-flavored cheese that I never buy because it’s su-u-u-per expensive.
² Snæfellsnes
³ Hvammsfjör∂ur
⁴ Bú∂ardalur
⁵ ?
⁶ "Around the year 890 Unnur the Deep minded from Dögur∂ará settled the land between the outer edge of Hvammssveit and Skraumuhlaupsá in Hör∂adalur. She built her farm at Hvammur and for a long time after her kin lived there. Unnur was Christain.

The father of the Sturlunga-family, Sturla Þór∂arsson (1115-1183), lived at Hvammur. He was of the ninth generation counting from Unnur the Deep minded. His sons Þór∂ur, Sighvatur and Snorri were born there.

Ámi Magússon (1663-1730), professor and collector of manuscripts, grew up at Hvammur.

Priest would remain at Hvammur. Since the Reformation until 1944 only 15 priests held the position."
⁷Ólafsvík

Hótel Hellissandur, Hellissandur, Iceland

Slept just fine, though woke up at 11:45 to a repeating rolling and banging crash. I first discerned if I was awake (yes), and figured out what the sound was (fireworks) and by the time my foot hit the floor to check the view it had finished. Bastard fireworks.

I woke up in the morning with two phone calls – the first from my dad at some early hour asking if I was ready for breakfast (I declined and went back to bed), then later saying that the Hertz car guy was there to pick us up (I directed him to my parents and went back to bed).



After eventual brekkie and re-packing we packed into the car and went back into center city. I picked up a slew of yarn for full-on cheap and we hit the settlement museum. It’s way high tech with table-top touch screen computers with ghostly figures wandering through old longhouses and clobbering seabirds (really).


(A mini longhouse)

It was culture day (which explained the fireworks) and there was a marathon going on. Cars got stuck at the crossroads where the runners were crossing and had to either wait or do u-turns.


(I just don't get running)

We bought some burgers from a grill set up on the sidewalk and started the drive up to Hellissandur. Some wrong turns, weaving roads and roller-coaster hills led to landscapes that I can only call “Colorado plus ocean.” Stark, yes; desolate, yes; charming, oh, you betcha.



The roads can be tricky – animals aren’t shy about, well, sitting smack dab in the middle. We nearly smacked into three sheep who decided that it would be very good, thank you, to pass right in front of our car.


(Sheep in the road)

Then there’s a stretch of road – with a warning sign, mind you – on which arctic terns like to chill. Their nests must be nearby and they must really enjoy the feel of concrete beneath their little toes, because they gravitate towards that road like it’s their job. And they’re not so good at getting out of the way of cars, unfortunately.

(not shown)

Finally we arrived at one of the tinier towns you’ve ever seen. Hellissandur, and its neighboring town Rif, containing a whopping 580 people. Total. There’s one hotel in Hellissandur which contains the one restaurant. We were checked in at the desk by a woman with a buzz cut save a tuft of hair fountaining out the back.


(Our very charming hotel)

We walked along the beach, though some fields for a while before returning back to our sparse rooms.


(The edge of Hellissandur)

Drinks and dinner in The Restaurant, where the gentleman serving us was charming, and they played the same song over and over again. One song. “My Way.” Played poorly on the piano. Over and over and over. It was impossible to tune out and made us laugh (with some hysteria) every time it re-started.


(I'll give you three guesses as to why that cliff is white-splotched. Click on the picture for the answer).

Now I’m in my room, watching the sun setting slowly over the sea (at 9:30pm) and watching “The Matchmaker” on TV (there are a whopping four channels and no paid movies).



For the record, in this tiny little Podunk town in Iceland I get full cell phone reception. No wireless internet here, though. Pah.


(The town of Hellissandur. The whole town of Hellissandur.)

IcelandAir Hotel, Reykjavík, Iceland

Up late this morning (comparatively – 10 am is rather late for my parents), then off to center city Reykjavik.


(Mom and Dad)

I’m in my room and exhausted, and watching some bizarre British show in which women complain about things. Shopping with their teenage daughters, coffee shops, “Saturday girls”¹… I don’t get it but I love it. Now they’re talking about muffins and the fact that they’re huge. Damn you, muffins! Kids these days! You get off my lawn!


(Me)

Brekkie at a pub where they played jazz and Bob Marley. We wandered up the main shopping street (you know it’s the main shopping street because it has a sign that says “main shopping street”), all of us jet-lagged and tired, and just staring dazedly at all the clothing stores. It’s almost all clothing stores.


(Dad on the main shopping street)

I managed to find a few yarn shops, which pleased me more than a little bit, but didn’t find much else.


(Now I'll always know how to tie a tie.)

Oh! These women like gardening! This show is completely delightful.

We hit the National Museum of Iceland and scoured around for information about Aud the Deep Minded (which, by the way, is why we’re here). Didn’t learn much new, outside of that I pronounce her name so wrong that the museum worker didn’t know who I was talking about. She said it slowly, and there was a “th” sound and a rolling r in there that I just couldn’t quite make happen. There was spit involved. On my part. Accidentally. I am totally classy.


(Also, I am totally a viking.)

Now. The guidebooks had implied that the electrical outlets here were the same as those in the UK. For the record, this is a big fat lie. They’ve got two round pins. So, when dad’s camera battery died we trolled the shops for an electricity converter. Not finding one we went back to the hotel where I checked the converters I’d brought. The good news was that I had one with the two pins! The bad news is that their outlets are circular and recessed, and my adapter was rectangular and, um, not good for recession. The good news is that they had a converter at the front desk that we could use. The bad news is that we can’t take it with us. Which is also good as it weighs about 20 pounds. Which isn’t much of an exaggeration.

Plowing through a buffet dinner (YES GOOD BLUE CHEESE), I went to the pool and sauna², and now I’m spacing out. Tomorrow we head out to… Snufflesburg³.

Nothing too exciting.

¹ A young girl who works in a clothing shop only on Saturdays who traditionally knows nothing about the store in which they work. And doesn't care to know. And hates you.
² While I was lounging in the hot tub (ish? Thing? It was a shallow rectangular pool with jets on the long sides) watching wrestling on tv (it's what was on) the pool... guy? watcher-over-er? came by and warned me to watch the steps as some drunk young men had broken the tile. How you would break a tile in a hot tub is beyond me, but we both agreed that boys and alcohol don't mix. And then he turned on Charmed for me.
³ Snæfellsness.

2:53am, IcelandAir Hotel, Reykjavík, Iceland

The worst damn airline food I've ever had. The brownie was good, though. Click for notes!

I don’t think I’ve ever had so much trouble getting from airport to hotel. We’d made the plans through Icelandair (via a travel agent) and our itinerary said we’d have a “meet and greet” at the airport. Maybe this is just American presumption, but I thought that “meet and greet” meant there’d be someone holding up a sign with our names on it. Not so much. It meant, rather, that we had to go to the information desk to find out that we had to go to the Iceland Excursions desk to get our vouchers for the bus to Reykjavík.


(Canada?)

Side note: you have to go through security again upon entering Iceland. Curious.

We were feeling a little snippy at this point, but we’d bought two bottles of wine at the post-flight-security Duty Free, so there was at least something to look forward to. Sandwiched between an Icelander chatting with some Canadians and a boorish American boy who would sometimes talk? As if everything was a question? By raising his tone? At the end of his sentences? And coughing liberally and phlegmiously, covering his mouth about 60% of the time. It was about an hour trip, offering plenty of opportunity to plan his untimely demise.

Finally, after a perplexing stop at the bus station, we arrived at the IcelandAir Hotel. Purportedly four star, though… not so much. It’s decent, but not four star by any stretch.

I walked into the room and, leaving the door open a crack, flipped the light switch. Nothing. I flipped it a few more times. Nothing. I walked in farther and flipped the switch on the bedside light. Nothing. There was a hum coming from the tv so I knew there was electricity SOMEwhere, but how? Switch under the tv, no; other lamp, no; hallway light again – yes! But why? And why is pressing the bottom part “off”? (Alternately, why is flipping an American light switch up “on”? Discuss). Either way, more than a little bizarre.

A minute later I realized… there’s no clock in the room. No clock. At all. This pains me. There’s a mini fridge and no clock. There are two q-tips in a tiny baggie, but no clock. A TV with 24-hour porn, and no clock. Remind me again how that was possibly a good idea?

Additionally, while the woman at the AT&T store assured us that our phones should work here the truth is that they don’t. This pains me severely, and not just because I use my phone to tell the time. I checked on the internet status and they do have wireless ($100KR/15mins, $300KR/hour) it’s only on the first floor. I’m on the second. No contact with the outside world. I’m feeling twitchy.

We had some wine and granola bars that my mom had stashed, and chatted away about crappy places we’d stayed before. Dad speculates that this will be a “character building” trip. I’m starting to think he’s right. We’re staying in 3 and 4 star hotels. If this hotel, with its lumpy pillows and bathless bathrooms (AND NO CLOCKS OMGWTF) is the 4-star standard I’m a little concerned about what 3 stars will bring.

Adventure indeed.



P.S. Must find out use for ashtray in "non-smoking" room.
P.P.S. Turns out that TV, while on, displays the time. Also, while on, emits low-level hum designed for absolute misery.
P.P.P.S. In the morning, the phone worked. Why?

11:38am, JFK Airport, New York, USA.

We left the house this morning at a little after 8, and as tradition goes, since we allowed a ton of time there was no traffic and we breezed through security. I think this trumps all other early arrivals, though: this go-round we were four (OMFG FOUR) hours early.

The only glitch so far is that they only allow wooden knitting needles through security, and, naturally, all mine are metal. The only benefits are that 1. I figured this out BEFORE getting through security, and 2. since it meant I had to check my duffel (now with harmless needles!), I no longer have to lug it around. So it could be worse. I guess. In retrospect I should’ve thought of that eventuality.

I do wonder when airline security will realize that knitters are much less dangerous with their knitting than without it.

I’ve wandered the terminal, and entertainment consists of 1. coffee stand, 2. book/magazine shop, 3. another book/magazine shop, 4. some restaurants (only one of which is sit-down), and 5. a duty free shop.

On my right there’s a metal bar with electricity outlets and an Ethernet port for “complimentary high speed internet access.” Keen, I naively thought! I bet they have wireless!

And they do! For a mere $8. And do I have an Ethernet cord so I could take advantage of the purportedly free plug-in internets? No. Fantastic!

In the meantime, we board at 1:30. Two hours to go. Maybe I could go wander the duty-free shop again. Or maybe the magazine stand. Mm.

Philadelphia, PA USA

Tomorrow my folks and I leave for Iceland. My parents picked up three (3!) guidebooks and every few hours we pick one up and browse through it. The only problem is that we can only pronounce about one place/person name in ten, which makes for very tricky communication.

"Well, we're going to be in... hhhhhhh... Snuffelupagus¹, right? So that's where... Bredafjorder?² is. And there's Helgafell near -- oh for the love of god³."

It's been very entertaining.

Meanwhile it's going to be a high of 50-some degrees Fahrenheit during the day (down to the forties at night) (plus mostly cloudy and maybe rainy!), so I'm stocked up on woolens.

We're spending 2 nights in Hellissandur, which, with its neighbor Rif have a whopping population of 580 people. According to Lonely Planet: Iceland it has a petrol station, a post office, AND an ATM. And a maritime museum.

Sweet! Love those maritimes.

Itinerary for tomorrow:

Ass early: Wake up, shower.
7am: Dogs to boarding kennel.
8am: We get picked up.
Forever: Drive to the New York airport.
2pm: Fly to Iceland.
Forever: Continue flying.
Some horrible hour: Customs etc.
After that: meet up with Iceland Air person who should hopefully be there to meet us and get our rental car.
A freaking hour later: Arrive at hotel in Rakey-a-vik⁴.

(Though to be sure there's no easy way to get to Iceland from here).

¹ Snæfellnes
² Brei∂afjör∂ur
³ Stykkishólmur
⁴ Reykjavík.

Winston-Salem, NC, USA

Two very classy people have observed to me how nice it must be to have a daddy who funds big trips.

Yes it would be, I would respond if I were a quicker thinker, except that I'm paying for this myself. (also, I might add, why couldn't it be a mommy who funds a big trip? Huh? Huh?).

And then, since we're in dreamland, I blow a big ol' raspberry in their face, kick them in the shins, and settle comfortably into smug superiority. Suckers.

A lot of people have told me that I'm so brave for undertaking this big trip alone, and what I try to explain, and what they don't care to listen to, is that for me, trotting off on some big trip is MUCH less scary than the thought of staying somewhere for longer than, say, a year at a time.

Paying a mortgage? Getting a pet that lives longer than six months? Having some variety of career? No, no, no. No thank you. I will take my rented apartment, my temp job, and keep my browser on travelocity. Yes I will.

So I might have some issues with long-term commitment. The concept of owning a house is both terrifying and more depressing than I'd care to contemplate. I'm hoping I'll eventually break out of this.

I still don't know what I'm going to do when I get back. It's looking likely that I'll come back to NC (if for no other reason than my friends just might kill me if I don't). My great plan, you see, is that while in NZ I will have an epiphany (did you know you can plan them? I have decided that you can) as to the best career direction ever. Then, when I come back to the states, I can get working on it.

That is my plan. It's foolproof.

Also, today I purchased my plane tickets for California. Oddly enough it was cheaper to buy three one-way tickets than it was to book a multi-destination trip. Go figure.

Winston-Salem, NC

Yesterday I turned in my three weeks' notice. Last week I bought some of my plane tickets.

I should maybe start at the beginning.

The plan, post-Scotland, was always to get away again. Everything I did was temporary -- 6 month rental agreement, temp job, lackadaisical housecleaning habits (I might move at any minute!). Then somehow I'd been working at my job -- my mindless, sunless, corporate, well-paying job -- for a year, my driver's license said I was a NC resident, and I didn't have a damn clue about where to go next.

Because nowhere sounded interesting. Well, that's not entirely true. I was excited about the prospect of going to France, briefly. And then Italy, briefly. Enthusiasm waned -- I wanted somewhere warm, and at the end of it all nowhere sounded exciting.

Really. Nowhere.

I'd stayed in one place too long, my job drove me crazy, and I was depressed. Am depressed. I've been swing dancing once in the past six months (outside of my trip to Scotland) (this may have more to do with the quality of Greensboro dancing than my mood). I still contra dance every Tuesday, but I sit out plenty of dances (it helps that we haven't gotten many exciting bands lately). Lately I've even stopped answering the phone for most people.

While Greensboro felt dull and confined, I couldn't find anywhere else to tempt me. Finally I just settled on New Zealand. My grand reasoning was that I knew it was beautiful landscape and with the immediate searches coming up with 24 hours worth of plane rides to get there, there was absolutely no way I'd be going for a week's visit.

I emailed Lizza, who was spending a year abroad there. I emailed a Kiwi knitblogger. I browsed Lonely Planet. I'm still not excited.

In the end I knew I just had to pick somewhere and go. And so I am. New Zealand, fine. Tickets, fine. I don't know where I'm staying -- or even in what city. And that's fine.

(Though I am feeling nervous).

Yesterday I turned in my three weeks' notice and announced to the litigation support staff that I was leaving. The reaction was mostly shock, sadness, and envy. Since everyone else has families, pets, and houses they can't really pack up and leave for four months.

To be in NZ longer than 3 months you need a visa. I'll be there 87 days.

I am afraid of:
-Not having enough money
-Being out of touch with people (it's a 12-13 hour time difference)
-A 12-fucking-hour plane ride
-Making friends that I won't be able to easily visit
-Heights.

I don't know:
-What to do about my driver's license
-What the fuck I'm doing when I get back.

I'm excited about:
-Sleeping in
-it being springtime when I get there
-Sunshine.

Current plan:

August 11/12: Leave NC for Philadelphia.
August 16-23: Iceland with my folks
September 16-21: California
September 21: Leave for NZ.

Spend some time in Auckland. Visit Wellignton and Christchurch, pick a place to live.

December 19: Return to CA
December 20: Back to Philly.

January: Back to NC?

Quality.

Chapter 2, in which I actually leave!

I went home, had a screwdriver, and slept. My phone rang. I looked at the number, which started with +46.

Herrang!

I picked up the phone and leaped out of bed. Phone calls are better standing up. Shut up, they totally are. Especially at 4am. Yes, oh yes, it was 4am. I should be at the Stockholm airport. Oh god, they're probably at the airport waiting for me. They didn't get my message!

The woman on the phone was very kind and asked if I was still coming. Yes, yes, I said. "I emailed! I emailed. And the rain! Oh, the rain and the waiting! I missed my flight." She was confused: someone else had come through on the Newark-Stockholm flight (oh, thank god she didn't drive all the way out to the airport just for me). Yes! I exclaimed! I never made it out of Greensboro. Ahh, she said. I gave her my new information, finally confident that I would indeed be picked up when I got there, and went back to bed.

In the morning DJ picked me up and drove me to the airport in his Massive Van. At first he gave me a bit of flack for my giant bag, and then praise when he found out it was full of camping stuff.

I went, as I do, to the self check-in, a little gun shy now. And it didn't find my reservation. My heart seized even as I read that it might be because my tickets had been changed so much. All I had to show for my tickets was a bit of paper from a dot matrix printer with a slew of characters that made no sense to me but theoretically meant I was getting to Sweden. Right? RIGHT?

I handed the bit of paper (complete with holes on the sides! Remember that? Aw, memories...) and he got on the phone and talked very quietly to someone. So quietly I couldn't hear him. Breathing, breathing. "It's going to work out, right?" I asked him. "It should," he replied.

It should?!

In the end I got my tickets and went through security (a different terminal this time! What fun!), and managed to get on the plane and off to Philadelphia. Step one was finally completed, and it only took me two days.

Finally in the air!


I realized that I hadn't told Andrea that she shouldn't pick me up on Friday, so I called her and related my Tragic Tale of Woe, and asked if she could switch the pickup date to Saturday, knowing that since she had family in town, the answer was likely no. She couldn't, and that was fine. So I called Kate and we talked for ages, and if you were in the Philadelphia airport last Sunday and saw a woman doubled over with laughter in the magazine store, hi, that was me.

And I decided that since it was after noon, and since I had been so harangued (har!) by the elements, I deserved this:



I chatted with a nice punk couple and another gentleman at the bar. We were all on the same flight. Punk couple was going on a whim for his birthday present (she was a modern dancer -- didn't see that one coming), other gentleman was catching up with his fiancee who performs on cruises. He'd catch the cruise and tool around the ocean with her. Neat.

It's possible I also had a beer in addition to the martini.

They squeezed us on the plane, and I found myself in an aisle seat. Ick. I tried to get comfortable enough to sleep, but HAH!, I laugh! Yes. I laugh.

There were movies, though! "Firewall" and "The Shaggy Dog." Dear god. I watched more of them than I'd care to admit. Why would they show those? I mean for serious. On British Air we got our own screen and a selection of movies. Not so much on US Air. Bah.

And dinner! There was dinner. I chose the beef instead of the pasta, because I am incredibly stupid. The "meal" consisted of this:



(Pardon the blur: the woman next to me was sleeping and I didn't want to wake her). Let's explore this meal, shall we? Up at the top left you'll see, sitting at an angle, a sponge, or what US Air likes to call "bread." It came with butter, which had melted in the bottom of the tray. Underneath that you'll see two crackers which came with a slice of cheese, packaged in indestructible plastic.

The top right corner contains a "salad" (unseen), which, as I can recall, consisted of iceburg lettuce and carrot bits. For your eating pleasure, there was some kind of dressing provided, pictured middle. I don't remember what variety it was, but I do remember it was "lite."

And now, the -- ah ha, ah hahaha -- meat of the matter. Let's take a closer look:



To your left, modeled by the beautiful spork, we have canned green beans and corn, which wouldn't be crisp if you froze them. To the right we have shredded beef in brown goo. And the middle! Well, that's my favorite. That, my friends, is a mashed potato log. It was cylindrical. Yes it was. I imagine that it also came out of a can.

Apparently US Air is catered by Schoolroom Lunches, Inc.

I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep, since I had nothing to lean on, and the space in front of me was too small to put the tray table down and rest on that. Can you imagine? Too small to lean forward!

So I alternated between resting my head on the seat in front of me, twisting left, twisting right, giving up on sleeping, watching the movies, feeling pain from said movies, and repeating. It wasn't until an hour before we landed that I got comfortable enough to sleep. Isn't that funny? I also was laughing.

Upon landing I breezed through customs (the Swedes are so civilized -- the one line I had to wait in was only two people deep), found my bag and my ride, got exceptionally confused at the ATM (7 kr to the dollar -- you have ten seconds to try and figure out how much you'll need for a week. Go!), and set off for camp!

There wasn't much to say about the ride except that 1. a half of a bee flew in through my window almost immediately upon leaving the airport (fiddle de dum, a-fiddle dee dee, Eric the half a bee), and 2. it mostly looked like this:



But I'd made it. It took me three days, but I made it to Sweden. The end. For now.

Herrang was a very surreal experience. I slept three times a day, saw some intermingling of Edinburgh, Greensboro, and Raleigh friends, enjoyed 19 hours of sunlight, always caught sunup AND sundown, camped alone for the first time (as alone as you can be with 50 other tents packed around yours) -- it was a strange and generally wonderful time.

Since it was such a dream-like trip (you don't try to explain it, you just stand back and watch) and since I seem to have lost my Magic Free Internet at home I'm going to update with little vignettes, as much as I can write at work. And then update somewhere else, as I would prefer to not get fired for blogging at work.

I have never had so much trouble getting somewhere. The intention, back in the good old days, was to leave on Saturday (Greensboro - Newark - Stockholm) and then return Friday (Stockholm - Newark - Greensboro) in the horribly early morning. Kate and her mom dropped me off, and I tripped prettily into the airport with no idea of the Stupid that lay ahead.

As predicted I got my tickets easily and breezed through security, leaving a solid hour-and-some before boarding. But what's this? Flight delayed? Eep. There didn't seem to be anyone from Continental in the terminal, so I waited. And waited. Finally a woman showed up and I asked how long the delay was. She didn't know. Storms in Newark. BIG storms. Would I would still make my connecting flight? Maybe not, she said. You should go check at the ticket counter.

I booked it back to the ticket counter, where there was a line (excellent). I waited more in the long, slow, jumbled line to talk to one of the two people at the counter. When I finally got to the front, near tears that I might miss my flight and miss my trip to Sweden because the camp is only open for another week and I only have a week off work and it's already a short trip as it is and do you know what a miracle it was that I could take this trip at all and COME ON, PEOPLE, I NEED SOME ASSISTANCE HERE AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP BEING SO PERKY WHEN I AM SO CLEARLY UPSET.

A friendly gentleman assured me that I had plenty of time to catch my flight, and that I may indeed stop freaking out now.

So BACK through security, back to my gate. And at, oh, 4pm (a mere two hours after we were supposed to leave, and enough time where if-we-left-right-then-I-could-still-make-my-flight!) we got to board the plane and we taxied out -- and we waited. And waited. For an hour and a quarter. I missed my chance to make the Sweden flight in Newark. I called to see if it was still running on time, what with the storms and all, and it did. It left on time. Without me.

When we returned to the terminal I returned one more time to the ticket counter to see what they could do, and hello, freaking out some more! I needed to contact Herrang and let them know I wouldn't be on the flight, but I didn't know how because I didn't have a way to call internationally and I didn't have email access! I needed to GET TO SWEDEN, DAMMIT!

So near tears! So very near tears. I started wrapping a bit of elastic around my fingers so that I wouldn't start bawling in front of the Continental counter. When I was finally linked up with someone who worked there I started chatting with a couple who were on a later flight to Newark which had been cancelled. They sympathized with me as I waited for the Continental woman to search for ways to get me overseas. A friend of theirs was dying and so they were going to go visit him. Now they couldn't get there (and didn't want to drive). "This is going to kill him," she'd said.

Ha HA ha ha, I said, in the most awkward way possible.

She decided to keep me on the flight to Newark (which hadn't been cancelled), then they'd put me up in a hotel in NJ (super awesome of them, since they're not required to do anything for me as it's a weather problem), and I'd take the same flight out the next day, and she even changed my return date to Saturday so I didn't lose any Sweden time. This was pretty groovy. I asked if she had internet, and she let me go behind the Official Counter and use theirs. I emailed the camp saying hi! Not going to make it tomorrow, but look for me on Monday, please! Please dear god I hope you get this email!

And so it was that I went through security for the third time, and returned to the gate. Every once in a while they would announce one of two things over the loudspeaker:
1. We'll have an update in an hour, or
2. We'll have an update in a half-hour.

They wouldn't cancel, but eternally promised updates. Little by little people drifted away to take different flights. I stuck around, because so long as I got to Newark by 5:35pm the next day I was sorted. But I wondered if there was there any other option.

I checked to see if they could get me to Newark on another flight/airline/ANYTHING PLS -- or even to Sweden in a different way, but there was just nothing. Apparently there was a storm over every international airport on the east coast, and since it was Saturday there weren't many flights anyway. They could send me Greensboro - Detroit - Amsterdam - Stockholm, which would still have me leaving on Sunday, and would still get me into Stockholm on Monday, at 9am instead of 8:45am. I declined for now, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the flight would go out.

But the stress was so bad that I went into the bathroom and I cried. I cried hard. Tears dripped down my nose and landed between my feet -- it was all very melodramatic. But it'd been hours of waiting on tenterhooks -- are we going to go, would I make the flight, how would I get there, how do I let them know, would I make it at all, and GOD I just realized how much this trip means to me -- and it was just completely miserable.

When I finally emerged I found the cleaning woman standing outside the door to the bathroom, waiting patiently for me to be finished. Oops. Hi!

At least the sky was pretty.


The problem with this flight was that we had to be "wheels in the belly" (i.e. in the air) by 8:58pm or we weren't going. If we left after that then the pilot, who had come out to chat with us, would have "gone pumpkining."

Travel factoid!
Pilots have a set number of hours they can fly. If they don't take off in that time (and they mean off the ground), then they're flying illegally, which is going pumpkining. Because after midnight you turn into a pumpkin. Like the story. Get it? Right.

The pilot was based in Newark, so he was keen to go, which is likely why they wouldn't cancel. And then, at around 7:30pm, it started to rain. And rain.

See the sheets of rain? Well, I could.


Blurry rain!


And this little girl was very cute and well-behaved:


I think she was watching "Finding Nemo."

I talked to my parents for a long time as they bolstered my confidence about the damn flight. Sobbing helped calm me down a bit, and I got back in line to see if there were any other options for flights. She found me a Greensboro - Philadelphia - Stockholm US Air flight leaving Sunday around 11am, getting in around 8am Monday. Also a relief, though I'd wait to see what happened.

Cut to 8:30pm. There were a dozen of us left, optimistic to the end. It was pouring rain, with thunder and lightning, but it looked like we might be able to make it! We gathered around the desk and joked around, full of anticipation, as the Continental women (one of whom had been there since 4:30am -- give that woman a medal) and the pilot called a thousand Airline people, begging them to let us go.

One guy who was in a set of teens who gave me zero hope for the future said it'd been the worst day of his life. I looked at him, aghast. "This is the worst day of your life? This?" I asked. "Boy are you lucky." "Yeah," he said.

I don't think he got what I was trying to say.

I started to give up the ghost, and the Continental woman started setting up my flight through Philadelphia, when the metaphorical winds started to change!

It was 8:45 and they looked like they might be able to sneak us out! But we had five minutes to board! "We can board that quickly!" we cried. "In fact, we're already on the plane!" Continental woman promised to fix my tickets -- I should just go and she'd take care of it all. And we raced out, threw ourselves in seats, and got the safety lecture. The Continental women waved and gave thumbs-up as the boarding ramp pulled away, and I pulled out Sky Mall magazine and buzzed with excitement and a little worry that HELLO, GIANT LIGHTNING STORM, but whatever!

You have to wonder when to take so many disasters as a hint. Perhaps the universe is trying to say something.

But us! On the plane! All of us! Seatbelts and everything!

And then the ramp pulled back. Oh dear. Yup. Cancelled. That was it. We were so close. So very, very close.

Continental woman fixed my tickets for GSO-PHL-STO for Sunday, and I trudged back past security one last time. In the end it's for the best. I could sleep in my own bed, I still got the same amount of time in Sweden, and I wouldn't have to fly through lightning storms. So okay.

I called Pete, got my bag, and went home. DJ would give me a ride in the morning, and thus it was that the number of people driving me to/from the airport was up to 5.

In our next episode, I actually get farther than spitting distance from my apartment! Stay tuned.