The DELAY (or forced impromptu adventure!)

With sufficient time to overcome the emotional trauma of my return home, I bring to you all a story of my week delay.

Coming home from Granada was a simple 4 part, 1 day flight turned into a weeklong series of 3 attempted flights, isolation in a quaint Windsor/London hotel, and bitter cold with no proper clothing (barely any clothing at all considering I packed light expecting to be in warm Tucson within 24 hours of leaving Granada).

I have to admit, abashedly though it may be done, I am a rather sensitive soul and cried for every canceled flight. A lot. It was not fun hearing I couldn’t get home the first time, nor the second, nor even the third. In fact it got worse and worse till I didn’t believe I’d make it home before New Years’. Thank goodness my pessimism was proven wrong. I made it home just in time for Christmas Eve. But in the meantime, I survived on my free pity breakfasts from the hotel, extra food I just couldn’t eat at breakfast and thus saved to eat for later on the same day (they had some delicious little jams), a few outings that included a 3 course kid’s meal and fish and chips, heavy doses of the computer and internet, and British TV shows.

Did I mention it was a very sad time in my life, both in the emotional and the slang senses of the word. I tried to get outside. But it was snowy, then slushy, and then just plain windy and cold. So I stayed inside in my PJs for at least 90% of my stay in good ol’London. Which I never really want to go back to again. No offense London, we just had a terribly rotten start. Though I did venture to a club one night.

You see, the first night I stayed over in Windsor. I was going to meet a friend I had made at the airport. The same friend who overheard me asking for the same bus he needed and then offered me a ride with him and his dad. It was such a nice thing. And it saved my emotional life. I would have been sobbing in a corner for hours feeling lost and alone and betrayed by the world, not to mention have a severe psychological scar, if it weren’t for that kind soul. I never saw him after they dropped me off at the hotel. He was a cool kid – spoke Polish, Russian, English and a little of a few other languages too – and I thank him so much still for the ride and kindness in that crazy time.

It's those little things that renew my faith in humanity. And also prove my theory that kids are kids (of any age) no matter where they are raised or what language they speak. We are all basically the same - trying to have fun while making sense of this crazy ride called Life.