Immigrate and Heave Ho!

I must say I am rather impressed with Virgin Atlantic. The plane was very mod and well fitted; with a mini screen at each seat, and a chair back that seemed to recline further than most. The staff was surprisingly pleasant, and the food was not half bad. On top of it all, they actually served wine to coach fliers at no charge! As a side note: it is beyond me how US airlines now charge for even measly morsels and offer little comfort for the longest of flights (I’ve even heard rumor of fees for blankets!).

In any case, after enjoying two movies, and a half a wink of sleep, we touched down in jolly old England! Although my last few days have been to the contrary (I will provide greater detail in the next episode), it appeared we flew right in to proper British weather: cool, overcast with a present threat of rain. After fleeing the oppressive heat of the Austin desert, the cool dreariness was a welcome change for me.

Still concerned with whether my bags had made the hop along with me, I hadn’t put a thought to immigration and customs. After I had a good stretch off the top of the jet bridge, I made my way to what I thought would be a quick “hallo” and stamp on the passport so that I could gather together my mass of heaving luggage. Oh how wrong I was… Coming round the corner, I was greeted with a standing line of weary travelers. It seemed odd, though, that they were all off to one side, with some others cruising past them towards immigration. I decided I would just cruise along as well, in hopes of avoiding that massive queue. As you may have guessed, my place was right at the back: the line was formed for “New Incoming Students to the UK.” UGH!

In hind sight, I don’t see what the difference would be if I could have flown through the non-UK passport line (and I do mean I would have flown through it – relative to the student cattle catcher). Even though my flight touched down almost an hour early, there were literally hundreds of students already in line. How did they get in so quick?? The line stretched about a block back through the halls of Heathrow even before it trickled into the actual switchback queue, where the real waiting began.

My agonizing traverse through the line to get my “hallo” and stamp took well over two hours. In all that time I couldn’t figure out whether I was tired, hungry, aggravated, or maybe all of the above. No matter, with not so much “hallo,” I had stamp in hand, and was off to find my luggage!

Of course the carousels had long since run for VA flight 040 from Chicago, and were presently tumbling around other people’s packs. Fingers crossed, I stepped up to the Virgin desk (that’s Virgin Atlantic for all of you snickering out there) and asked for bags from my flight. The lady simply pointed over my shoulder, and to my surprise, my mountain of luggage was stuck straight in the middle of the claims area. I swear there were beams of light and angels singing as I turned to see all of my belongings stacked, safe and sound! Those angels quickly caught their tongues, though, when I realized 5 monster bags didn’t so readily fit in two weary hands. And so began the one man caravan traverse from Heathrow to Oxford….

To give a brief explanation of my predicament: I had my backpack (sorted easily enough, though busting at the seams), a medium sized rolly case that felt like it was packed with bricks, my previously mentioned popping suit bag looking like a massive, black Chinese fortune cookie slung over my shoulder, my golf club travel bag (with far more than just my golf clubs smashed inside), and one heaving…no, massive…no, gargantuan, ridiculously heavy rolly case. As evidence of just how heavy that case was: the wheels eventually crushed under the pressure (thankfully after I was already put up in my Bed & Breakfast)! All in all, I measured that I was easily carrying over 200 pounds of clothes and other things I thought vital before that Elysian moment at Heathrow.

Immediately at the carousel I was able to avoid too much trouble by grabbing a discarded “trolley.” Even then, the luggage barely fit within the bars on wheels. I managed down to the “Heathrow Express” train stop easily enough, although I had a frightening moment tipping down the ramp along the way. I must say, if that cart got away from me on the downhill slope, it might have crushed a young child, or even an older one! The real problems began, though, as I was forced to abandon my trolley before stepping onto the platform.

Of course, the train was “departing in 2 minutes.” I quickly stacked my suit bag onto the Behemoth and drug the golf bag and middle weight with the other hand. I must have looked quite the sight: slogging all of those black cases towards the train. Luckily enough, I made it to a relatively deserted car, and piled my bags in one by one. Just as I had tossed the golf bag on (my final one), the doors closed, and off we went.

The scene was much the same at Paddington Station. I made my way (luggage in tow) to the ticket counter, purchased my fare to Oxford, and made my way back down the platform in hopes of finding a similarly deserted cabin. I was in luck, and was able plop down in my own seat after wrestling those monsters into the baggage area.

The train ride to Oxford was quite pleasant. I believe America has lost a truly enjoyable form of transportation by letting Amtrak slide. The muted rolling of the wheels sliding past green fields and stone steeples was a welcome respite. It felt rather civilized to sit and watch the countryside roll by; as if I were being chauffeured among some stretched limousine gliding over hill and dale.

The worst of this journey came as I stepped off the train at Oxford Station. I realized that the doors had let out opposite the actual station platform. So, I had to lumber down the walk to take an elevator up to traverse a cat walk across the tracks, and back down another elevator to spit me out on the other platform. All the while, British travelers and assorted tourists scurrying around me and my wagon train.


After weaving through the bustling Oxford Station, I made my way to the taxi line. My hope was that a driver eager for tip (which I would have gladly given) would take my bags from there. Unfortunately, the group of pseudo-Arab cabbies just smirked and shook their heads. I loaded my bags and off we sped towards “The Falcon Bed & Breakfast.” It was really less than a mile away, but there was no way I was walking any further with that lot of luggage. Barely stopping to take my money (no tip) and drop my luggage, the cabbie was off to find lighter fares.

Wearily looking up the flight of stairs leading to my nights stay, the end of my trek to Oxford was finally in hand. Little did any of you know how eager I am to earn all types of accreditation, for this trip has easily qualified me to be a full blown Sherpa!