It was an early morning in late December. I was in Heathrow Airport, leaving London for the last time–so far, anyway. Someday I shall go back. I’d been out late the night before saying goodbye to some favorite spots, including the fountain in Trafalgar Square where, the previous New Year’s Eve, Big Dave the taxi driver had gone for a swim.
“Wasn’t the water cold?” I asked him.
“Nay,” he said. “I kept my clothes on. And I was really drunk.”
When I stopped laughing I asked, “Weren’t you really cold when you got out and walked home?”
“Nay, not until I woke up the next morning and my clothes was still soaking wet.”
My final farewell to London was bittersweet: sweet because I had two lumps in my morning tea, and bitter because I had two pints of ale at the hotel bar before I left for the airport. Then I had a few more at the airport. It’s not that I’m afraid of flying. At the time I was more afraid of not being able to find a decent pint of Guinness on the American side of the pond, although what I’m really afraid of on airplanes is what the Brits charmingly call “the loo”, a term I’d learned shortly after my arrival when a friend asked a bartender where the bathroom was and he replied, “Why? Do you want to want to take a bath?” but that’s another story. No matter the airline, no matter the design of the plane for that matter, whether it’s a loo, a head, a john, a toilet, a throne, a potty, a water closet, or a bathroom, it’s a room with the dimensions of the monolith in 2001. And I like to sit by the window on planes, which often means squeezing by two other people.
So naturally before boarding I took care of business and before the doors even closed a flight attendant came by and asked if I’d like a drink.
It’s been a long time since I’ve flown British Air–although last year I was looking for a flight to Chicago and they were offering a really great deal, but the layover in Kuala Lumpur would have cut too much into my schedule. I’m sure like many airlines they’ve made significant cutbacks in the last quarter century, but at the time free drinks were offered from one end of the plane to the other. I would say they were de rigeur, but that’s only true if you’re flying Air France. So of course I gratefully accepted a whiskey. And two more since the flight was delayed. Then, once we got up in the air, lunch was served, and lunch included a half bottle of wine. Per person. Even then I didn’t care for fortified grape juice, but I was young and would rather decline two German verbs than a drink. Then I had a small bottle of Cointreau with coffee for dessert, and washed that down with a whiskey.
We were just beginning our descent, six or seven hours later, when I finally regained consciousness. Amazingly I’d made the entire trip without once having to squeeze past the people in the seats next to me. I felt fine. Then we landed and began the slow disembarkation. The same flight attendant I’d seen when boarding smiled at me.
“Have a nice holiday! Don’t drink too much!”
I thanked him as hastily and politely as I could and ran for the airport, suddenly in need of a good old fashioned bathroom, not because I needed a bath but because I was in danger of soaking my clothes.