It's not the destination, It's how you get there...

Day One - Wednesday February 12/2014

Every airplane should come equipped with complimentary tranquilizers. Especially those that allow children on board. It turns out that children have this telepathic interconnected domino-like super power where if one child begins to cry, every single child within at least a one hundred foot radius will also begin to cry. You might even go as far as to say, they will actually flock to said crying child, just to partake in the harmonious symphony of terrorizing shrieks. Luckily for me, I have record breaking procrastination skills and have spent the last 48 hours packing and organizing my entire life, a task that should have wisely been spread amongst weeks, so I instantly passed out. However, when I awoke, they were all still crying (I assumed the plane was a 70/30 ratio of demonic infant children based on the epic volume that their teeny vocal folds could reach. Turns out there were only three. Jesus Christ). When the incessant screeching finally seized, I was sure I had merely gone deaf. Until it started again, and I could only wish I had in fact gone deaf. And so begins the first leg of my travels. 

I can't exactly explain how I'm feeling about all of this. When the West Jet check in lady asked me what my destination was, I actually thought I was lying when I said Ireland. "Well, I'm actually just flying to Calgary." 

"Yes, but your final destination is Ireland, with a brief stop in London?"

"Yes, I suppose you are correct." 

If only that was all I had to wrap my brain around. An adventurous vacation to the heathered hills of Ireland. But no, West Jet check in lady, that's not all there is. I did not spend countless, emotionally draining hours attempting to pack my entire life into 2.5 suitcases simply for a holiday abroad. No. I am moving to Europe. London of all places. If I don't wind up selling my body for fish and chips, it will be a miracle from Jesus, himself. Even now, typing the fact, it just doesn't seem to compute. Everyone asks if I'm excited. Oh my god, you must be so insanely excited!!! I must be. I should be. I feel… nothing, really. Perhaps it's because I'm sitting in the Calgary airport, and will be for the next two hours. Maybe it's because everything just happened so fast, and for so long it was just a pipe dream. Or maybe I'm just so fucking exhausted that if the Queen herself were to welcome me to her city, I'd be all, "Meh, thanks Liz, but do you have a bed?". There are moments though. Moments where it hits me that I'm finally doing what I've been dreaming about for the last 6 years and it feels like I've swallowed a bowling ball (the 10 pin ones, not the 5 pin.) It comes on suddenly, and lasts only a second, until disbelief teams up with denial and I'm back to thinking I'm just on a plane to Calgary. And then there are thoughts like, "Well shit, I guess I can't use up the rest of my Tim Horton's card now. That sucks". And, "What about this $20 bill I'm carrying around? Fucking pounds." At some point I'm bound to be excited. It'll happen. But for now I am at a Chili's, drinking what could potentially be my last caesar for a painfully long time. It's no tranquilizer, but it will do. So will the second. And possibly the third. 

I may have mentioned this in my previous adventure to India, but it can't be said enough. Being attractive really only works in your favour. And I'm not trying to sound conceited in any way. I'm as humble as the next dimple faced, long lashed, well groomed 24 year old Native/Italian. However, without those dimples or lashes, I highly doubt I would have been able to lie my way through paying for a second bag. Or convince the kind hearted British Airways clerk to make a call to change my seat to a window, even though the computer said there were none available. I bat, he winks, and presto! I have a window seat, and $117 still in my pocket. Now if only I could find a poor, lonely rig pig at the bar to pay for these caesars. 

Eight hours into my nine hour flight to London and the bowling ball feelings are ever increasing. I maybe slept a cumulative of 3 hours, maybe. And these bloody cups of coffee they give you couldn't be any smaller. On a plus side, I have been able to catch up on my cinema. Although watching Gravity probably wasn't the most intelligent choice. Or maybe it was. Sitting there in my claustrophobic economy class plane seat, I bawled almost as much as the devilish infant children on my flight.. For like Sandra Bullock, I too, suddenly felt that I was drifting in space, alone, scared and without a single clue. And It finally hit me, much like the broken satellites that came crashing into Sandra and George, and that Indian fellow who dies. I am alone. For the first time in my life, I am an independent, single woman bound for a whole new world, all on my own. So naturally this made me spew an ocean worth of tears. Come to think of it, I may have been the cause of the third baby cry explosion. But it felt good. I needed to feel my fears, before I could feel excitement and confidence in what I was about to embark on. Just like Sandra had to almost commit suicide and hallucinate George Clooney before she had the courage to soar through Earth's burning atmosphere. Only instead of soaring through the atmosphere, I have to find my way from Heathrow to Gatwick airport, which is clearly so much worse. 

But my pilot sounds like Alan Rickman, so that helps to sooth my soul. 

Day two… I think - Thursday February 13th

I will never understand this time change non-sense. Should I be sleeping? Should I not be sleeping? If I've gone ahead 8 hours, have I really been up for as long as I think I have? I just don't comprehend. Maybe it's the 2 hours of sleep I've gotten in the past 24 hours that's making it impossible to understand. Or has it even been 24 hours? Should I be hungry? I am hungry, but it's 7:00am Canada time, and no one eats that early. No one is up that early. Chelsea isn't up this early. I miss peanut butter. I should have stocked up on individual packets before I left. 

Flying over London did it. This time it was a feeling of vomiting up all those previously ingested bowling balls. This surge of excitement consumed me as we passed in and out of the clouds, the city peaking through with every chance it could. It was incredible. Even the babies stopped crying. It's as if they knew not to fuck with me. I was having my moment. In complete silence. With every cloud we broke through, London become closer and closer. Millions of thoughts suddenly came rushing through my mind (in a poor attempt at a british accent no less. For as of now all my thoughts will automatically be thought in British dialect, so I've decided) "Who's the Prime minister? Is that a castle, or just a really big house? Where do I even begin? Should I play golf? Their golf courses look so much more inviting than ours. I wonder if they actually get all decked out in argyle and knee length pants when they play golf here. That is definitely a castle. That has to be a castle. I wonder if I'll drive when I'm here. That could be bad." I couldn't stop myself. Every single miniature structure fascinated me more than the last. And as we descended down, I immediately felt the urge to get off the plane as soon as humanly possible. Release me! Let me explore! Let me get lost in this wondrous city! Nope. Wait. I have to get to Gatwick. Don't let me get lost. Allow me an accurate and efficient journey to Gatwick, without fail. Please. 

To be honest, I don't even remember anything after landing. I raced through the terminal, anxious to breathe British air. I stood outside, awaiting the shuttle, which I found and paid for with ease. What an incredibly beautiful day. The sun was shining, clear blue skies, a cool breeze. Of course despite all this I was genuinely mortified by my own appearance. One of the most posh cities in the world and I arrive looking like I'd been shagged sideways, twice. Disgraceful. The shuttle was basically a tour of London's countryside. And a stunning one at that. I could have cried. Even without so much as seeing a city street, I knew this is where I belong. The rolling hills, the old manors nestled in the trees. And the sheep. The sheep. Sheep everywhere. Highway sides ridden with fluffy, white balls, grazing contently. Now what's the protocol on sheep? Can I pet them? Is feeding the sheep, let's say tea biscuits, prohibited? If so, what would be the penalty for doing so anyway? I want sheep. During this hour and fifteen minute bus ride, I planned out my entire British life. A few years in the city, then settle in a small town outside of London. A tiny cottage amongst the deep green hills and cosy trees. And these hills would be littered with sheep. Sheep everywhere. And I'd own a small dance studio. Just ballet. Sheep and ballet. And in my spare time I'd sit, looking out my window, out at the sheep, and the hills, and the setting sun. I'd sip my afternoon tea and punch away at my typewriter, warm from my little wood burning stove, kettle atop. Yes. But then I see what had to be the very peak of a castle. The closest I've been yet. And a new life entirely flashes before my eyes. One that involves a strange, but obviously very, very rich, man catching my eye at the humble pub I serve at. Every day for weeks he sits alone, drinking only one pint, but never taking his eyes off me. Finally after days and days of silent admiration he speaks (much like Hugh Grant, I imagine). "I'm going to marry you one day." A week passes and not a word. Until he says "I have a villa in Spain. Run away with me." I reply, "You don't have a villa in Spain, you are full of shit." "You are right, I don't. But I do have a cottage in a small village outside the city. Come with me, for just a weekend." "You sit here stalking me for weeks on end and expect me to run away with you to some cottage in the middle of nowhere? Where I come from we call that rape." "I have sheep.".... And we live happily ever after, between our 3 story flat in the city, and our countryside cottage. Yes. Either way you cut it, this is where I belong. 

But first, Ireland.