Let’s talk about this epic trip. Left for London at 4:55 pm because Mom and I thought it would be best if I drove to Newark rather than taking the train – since NJ Transit was running at like 20-30 minutes behind. Because New York City sucks. I admitted to her that I was nervous about this whole trip thing – but in like a nervous excited kind of way. Ultimately she is also, because, well – she’s alone for the next month… and that’s a bit unsettling.
It was a good talk and eased the anxiety a bit. Not that I’m anxious, I’m just uneasy. And its more uneasy for her than for me. I can fend for myself. I’m 6’3”, 215 lbs… and I intimidate people. Especially foreigners… they leave me the fuck alone.
But I have to say that our decision – albeit a really smart one – got me to EWR at 6:20pm. And we stopped for Dunkin Donuts too. I thought for sure that I’d be delayed in the transition for checking bags, security, etc. That’s when the shitstorm began.
This entry will be more text driven than most — because my body needs a bed and I don’t feel like using my mind to associate shit to other shit like I normally do. But anyway… here goes…
No lie, I was sitting at the gate by 6:31pm. It took me all of 11 minutes to walk through the airport entrance and sit down. I had no ticket, needed to check bags, go through airport security and even walk to the last possible terminal hub that Newark has. And it was 11 minutes start to finish. I had wires and things that looked like cocaine blocks and everything that would absolutely 100% make people think twice about letting me through. But nothing. Not even a glance in my direction. If I was at Philly I wouldn’t have even been up to the US Airways counter in 11 minutes.
Virgin Atlantic has their fucking shit together. Plus I was three hours early, that probably helped. So I sat down and fired up this laptop — hoping that I could do a running people watching blog. But Newark and London want to charge you some retarded amount to surf online for a month when clearly you are only going to use it for the minutes leading up to your flight. 7.95 USD in Newark (fucking 11.95 POUNDS! in London “Heef-row” I’d later find out). Yeah, fuuuucccckkkk that, right there.
Not expecting either of those things I just started entertaining myself by writing and playing cards. I was people watching and noticed that there are plenty of old people, hot chicks and bald dudes. Of course, none of them are on my flight because nobody was fucking in my section except an asshole that gets there 3 hours early. So there I sat, checking out the clock on the wall.
After about 18 minutes (I time stamped my notes during this running account) one of the sublimely hot chicks actually came up and talked to me. In Portuguese. Which was, from what I could gather, a huge disaster. Considering I can only say “Hello, I’m Alex… I like hamburgers and French fries” in Spanish. Then I realized that I only know how to say that in Spanish. Which isn’t Portuguese.
We played an awkward charades game and she left to return to her posse. They all had a bit of a laugh, presumably at my expense. No big deal, Jose Mourinho is the only export from Portugal worth a shit anyway.
Just after 7 pm, a barrage of English people storm the gate. Not surprisingly, the ugliest people in the terminal were ALL on my flight. Mile High Club (MHC) status wasn’t looking promising. (Spoiler: Yeah, didn’t happen).
Just about two hours before the scheduled take-off, stereotypical nervous girl chatterbox American plunks herself down across from me and proceeds to call every single person she presumably knows to tell them “she loves them” and that she’s going to Europe. I catch the English woman next to her roll her eyes… so we have the eye rolling thing that entertains both of us for several moments.
Chatterbox needs to poop or something and retreats to the bathroom. English woman and I both swear before God that we will take the whole plane down if she’s sitting next to either one of us. Fortunately, she’s a poor Philadelphia chick and was sent to the back of the plane. If she was black I’d call her Mobile, 1963. But she wasn’t.
God she was fucking annoying though.
It was around 7:25 that I realized TAP in TAP Portugal clearly meant exactly what you’d like to do to the passengers on there. There was a slew of just I’d-like-to-bang-each-and-every-one-of-you Portu-girls.
Amidst Chatterbox’s diatribes, I didn’t realize that hot girl returned. She walked up and informed me that she’s Capricorn. Asks if we are compatible. Again, I think. It’s very difficult to understand her – but she is playing Astrology Bingo from the looks of it. I say that we are because I’m an Aries (lie). Her Astrology book said that Aries and Capricorn are “compatible”. It also says that Aquarius is not a good match… so I’m fucked. But she thinks I’m Aries so we’re all good. I tell her that she should come to Europe with me instead of going back to her friends. She sits down and we continue to not communicate well. She returns to her groupies.
It takes about 6 minutes to click/register that she was reading English. I wave her over. I ask, point blank, “do you speak English?” She shook her head, “No.” – Then I say “But, Capricorn?” She smiled and spoke more Portuguese… then she said guapo… I know what guapo means in Spanish. I smile back and say, you tease.
Soundtrack of the Moment: Leaving on a Jetplane (John Denver)
Not even a minute later, while I’m laying down international game, the TAP representative asshole calls for boarding. Caliente girl that said guapo about somebody (assuming me because I was feeling fairly egocentric) kisses me on both cheeks, runs back to her friends, gets in line, waves goodbye, blows another kiss… never to be seen again.
Somehow an hour goes by and we are getting ready to preboard. Our own representative notifies us that the plane still needs cleaning and we’ll be delayed a bit; I somehow find this annoying, like I’m going to somehow track Caliente after an hour head start and she’s going to Porto while I’m going to London. Regardless, I’m frustrated.
Then our flight crew showed up. I can’t be 100% sure but I think I fell in love exactly four times. Every subsequent chick that passed was a tier hotter than the one before it. It was seriously uncanny. Virgin Atlantic clearly had their A-Team on this flight because even the veterans were cougar-y. But the young girls were just in a different stratosphere. Seriously smoking. People say that the best of Britain can be found on Page 3. I disagree — I’m beginning to think that Virgin Atlantic is the best place in the UK to work. Sample size is small however. Further research is needed.
Having had my line called, I have no recourse but to save, pack up my bag and stow them away for the duration of the flight. I was also trying to get some sleep.
The flight was exceptional. First class all the way. What completely sucked for me — however — was that all of the old women were assigned my section in my section. I asked if any of the Dream Team would be by because I was bold enough to say that “Heidi” looked remarkably close to my greatest tragedy. The one lady, Wendy, was like “Whatchu mean by that?”. I then calmly and thought-provokingly asked if she had ever failed at anything in her life.
To which I said, if I don’t get to say hello to that girl, I’d consider it my greatest tragedy. Shockingly, it worked.
“Heidi” wasn’t a Heidi but calling her Broomhilda would have been derogatory and although calling her the St. Pauli Girl would have been more accurate, I just opted for the German supervixxen, Heidi Klum.
Now I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this – this chick is the hottest flight attendant in the skies right now. Stunning. Seriously stunning. Like beauty queen stunning. Like I’d marry her without knowing a damn thing about her and would be happy forever stunning. And she had this hair that I can only describe as something out of Oktoberfest. It looked like braided rope in and around her head. Blonde. Blue eyes. Amazing legs… the whole nine. When she strolled up in that Virgin attire, there wasn’t another person in that entire room. I was spent and smitten.
I have this theory about girls in uniform. There are certain uniforms that just stand out above and beyond – so much so that if you put any girl in them – the hotness factor is upgraded exponentially. The University of Arizona softball uniforms are such a uniform. The Virgin Atlantic flight attendant gear is another. And there were some bonafide top-shelf biddies in them. The full roster? You got it: leading off was Adele – same hair, same face, same everything — minus 50 pounds. Probably couldn’t sing worth a shit, but the resemblance was spot-on. Up second was the girl with the Natalie Portman/Emma Watson close crop going on. It takes a monumental talent to pull off a boy cut. I know one girl in Florida that did the Pixie style justice but this girl was dynamite. Big smile, adorable face. Couldn’t have been a day over 18. Oh to be young. In fact, if her name wasn’t Kim, I would’ve swore it was Hermione. But then she took her jacket off and that resemblance went away. Hermione has no tits, Kim looked like Lindsay Lohan playing Hermione on SNL.
Third up to the plate was the girl that I only saw from distance but I’d be willing to bet was of the same DNA is Elizabeth Hurley. But she was way in the relegated back with the cheap seats.
But then stepped in Heidi… and Heidi just put the argument to rest. Haare blondinen, red suit, skirt, legs that went on for days and a face that could make any gay man straight.
And like I said, my section got the veterans, not the rookies. Sad. But Wendy (my attendant) did step up and got Heidi to come up to me. Of course it was amidst a deep slumber. You see, I somehow got lucky and was on a row by myself. I pulled off about an hour and a half nap after dinner while I was stretched out and in REM sleepy-time tea mode, but then an old man appeared. I thought nothing of it. It was then that through groggy eyes, I saw it: Heidi’s ample bosom. And when I say ample, I mean it was a shelf that you could put you meal on and eat off of it. You see, there is a whole costume change thing that these girls do – change scarfs, remove coats, etc. And Heidi showed up when she was wearing just the white blouse and a scarf that was askew. I was beside myself. Best dream ever. But it was real… and then she asked if I wanted a pillow… in a groggy-I’ve-been-asleep-for-a-bit response, I think I said “urghgh … pillows … breasts… mrnghhh … you’re hot … Facebook me.” Then rolled over and fell asleep again.
But it wasn’t a dream – it really happened, because I asked if it really happened. She said yes, so I apologized upon leaving and she said that it was “completely fine” and that she “wasn’t offended at all.” How could she be, with a playground body like hers?
Very sad to report, however, that I didn’t get her Facebook page. So I’m just hoping that she’s on my flight back to Newark in a month’s time.
After a red-eye to Lundun on Virgin Atlantic, I was forced to wait out a stopover cos me ticket was free from American Express — and once that came to pass, the Lundun fellow wasn’t willing to help — despite being assured that British Airways could fix the issue and just move me into another flight at no additional charge.
I was instructed to inquire about the possibility of moving me flight up to an earlier one, you see. British Airways. There was an earlier one that had some extra availability… but once I garnished my passport, he knew I was American. Then the upgrade was suddenly unavailable, you see. “Must be a computer glitch,” Tommy said. Tommy also didn’t pick his head up from the screen after that point. He just handed me back my passport.
I asked if there was anything that he could try to do.
“Yeah, I fink there’s somefing wrong with the coding cos I jus sore it. I’ll try one more fing. Oh yah, I can upgrade you to a ticket on the earlier flight, but I doubt that your bags will make it until later. Want me to try then?”
Sure, have at it, Tommy.
“Well, yeah, I can get you on it, but it won’t be a free transfer. No, you’d have to buy a new ticket and then pay an expedited fee, so all that will be 749 pounds plus a 250 exchange fee and [indistinct chatter…]”
I left his desk at “pay an expedited fee…” and only heard the other stuff from a distance. Fucker didn’t even knew I left.
You see, the British really have this thing against the Americans… that whole Revolutionary War defeat still apparently stings them. But Tommy was more than just a pissed off Briton… he was also a pissed off Arab. I had no chance.
I walked over to the nice Eastern European looking lady — asked the same question and she said that I could change the ticket, but that it wouldn’t be to my benefit because my bag definitely wouldn’t make it and I, myself, would have difficulty making it to the gate. So she told me that my best play was to wait it out, kick my feet up and relax at the bar. Then she did one of the nicest things ever. She gave me a food voucher at the bar behind her station. She was dating the head bartender. And she took care of me. After I grabbed a free lunch, I went and thanked her.
At 11 am, I began people watching redux: the best game on Earth. In a short matter of time, I was convinced that Asians were just slightly taller penguins, Indians would ask 50 different people to snap pictures of them (regardless of what the disturbed party was doing), old people stared at Check-in Information screens for entirely too long and that there are a lot of people that dress like they play football and have the last name, Lampard. But most of all I learned that flight attendants in this country are completely where its at, and that British chicks all have enormously bountiful honkers to stare at.
Prior to boarding my 3:40 pm flight to Prague, I changed venues and set up people watching from the concourse beyond the TSA screeners. And I do have to say that I shared a moment with another over-the-top buxom chick. She caught me staring from a distance and winked with a laugh. As I got closer, because they cordoned off the area behind me, I made my apology. She had another laugh, and an “oh, I don’t mind, where ya headed?”
I said that I was going through all of Europe but that I’d be back in London in October. She wished me well. Then when I collected my things — I had a note, “When your back, you should take a closer look.” With her number. And it was signed, amazingly, as Isabella “Playthings”. I laughed and called her over — is this for real? She confirmed. I then said, well, if its real than you step up to the plate and email me your details to this email address.
When I got to Prague, I had an email. So there you have it… I have my first sure thing of the trip. Playthings! I even forgave her for the incorrect use of “your” in lieu of “you’re” or “you are.” Now she was a bit rough around the edges (she is a TSA chick after all) but there was something cute about her face. She also looked like she’d been working multiple hours so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I’ll let you know when I get it in.
Also saw a bunch of counter-culture stuff in Heathrow, including Nobbs of the Nasty Boys. No wait, it’s just somebody that thinks Sid Vicious is still alive and that the Sex Pistols are still relevant. Mohawks, ear tattoos, leather and chains. I’m going to hedge a bet that he’s not very employable.
Finally, before moving to my gate, the last good deed that I did was helping the People’s Republic of China that proceeded to ask me, in complete Mandarin, something. So I answered something else. I just pointed and they nodded in appreciation. I’m wondering why they would channel me as a potential translator. I guess they just assumed that since my race ends in -asian that I’m fluent. Turns out, I am… because they didn’t return lost or confused. In fact, they didn’t return at all.
Upon boarding I just brushed up on my Czech and somehow it worked. I made it to the apartment with all things included. Now I’m going to bed. Prague does look beautiful at night though. Very picturesque.
All in all, 26 hours+ of “travel time” — give or take about 10 hours flying time. Not bad, all things considering.