I Made Travel Plans, Cue Horrific Blizzard (December)

I Made Travel Plans, Cue Horrific Blizzard (December)

I should have known better than to expect my trip home for Christmas to be a straight-forward ‘board plane and fly’ affair. I don’t exactly have the best track record with Yuletide travel.
And this year was no exception.

When I left the village on Saturday morning, there was snow falling all over Europe. But I wasn’t particularly worried; I assumed the snow would be cleared by Monday when I was due to land at Heathrow. Then there was another storm on Saturday night. And the busiest airport in Europe shut down for 24 hours. Oops.

As an aside, by this point my father had been stranded at Heathrow for three days. As I watched the news, we traded text messages joking about how we might end up being on the same Houston-bound flight out of London on Tuesday.

Then on Sunday night I scanned the projected flight lists only to discover that my flight had been cancelled. Cue panicked, tearful phone call to Mom. The highlight of which was:

Mom: I understand. We’ll figure it.
M: No. Mom you don’t understand. You haven’t been a Peace Corps volunteer in a village in Azerbaijan for 15 months.
Mom: I know. Just give me a minute.

A comment which sent my English-speaking host sister into hysterics and a translation frenzy to share the laughter with everyone else in the room.

Even through my panic I could see the humour in the situation. I’m sure it was comical to watch me Skype with Mom while she was on the phone with Dad in London, while all three of us simultaneously tried to find me a ticket home.

45-minutes later I had a ticket for the next day via Dubai to Houston. She managed to book Dad on a flight or two as well just to make sure he would make it out of Heathrow in time for my homecoming. Mom should be given a medal for her internet travel agent skills.

So Monday night Ata and I left a electricity-less Khirdalan (So much for my pre-flight shower…) for the airport. We arrived in a timely manner, and ran around trying to figure out which part of the single terminal we were meant to be in. Ata provided sound effects while driving the baggage cart like a 5 year old as we badgered airport employees for information.

Eventually we ended up where we were supposed to be. It took reassurances from multiple people in the three languages that my e-ticket was indeed a valid travel ticket for Ata to believe that I would actually be able to take off. Then after fifteen minutes of Ata bragged to anyone in the vicinity that I was his American daughter, he gave me a hug and a kiss and disappeared with a wave.

Two hours later I was in an aisle seat in an airplane on the runway. Only 8 hours behind schedule….

See next post for the next 22 hours of travel…