London 2012 Part II: Tubes and Travels

If Gawick is such a hive of activity, I shudder to think what Heathrow must be like. It’s early afternoon, and the entire airport is knee-deep in people. Suddenly British accents are all around me, I’m peering out a window and staring at England, and there are unfamiliar shops and brands all around me. We left Cape Town approximately 20 hours ago and we’re absolutely exhausted. Now imagine having to board the Gatwick Express to somewhere in London, then hop on the tube and transverse the Northern, Central, Jubilee and who knows what other lines to finally terminate at Wimbledon – although the closest station to where we staying is actually called Collierswood. OK. Right now I’ve never even heard of the Northern/Central/Jubilee lines and I’m not exactly au fait with public transport, so this is where my genius hire car plan comes in.

But first… oooooh, is that cherry coke? Also, is 70p cheap or expensive for a colddrink? How much is that in Rands? Mathematics aren’t my strong suit, but I figure it’s pretty much what I’d pay at home for the same thing. Except we don’t have cherry coke at home. What a delight this country is!

Onto the hire car then. The lady behind the counter tells us that unfortunately the car we’ve ordered isn’t there, so can she give us a slightly larger car for the same price? Now, we’d ordered Ford Ka simply because it’s tiny and cheap on petrol. So we’re expecting to receive possibly… oh, I dunno, a Chevy Spark or an Atos as a replacement, but on arrival at the parking lot we’re in for quite a surprise: they’ve given us a gigantic monstrosity of a car that’s sure to chew through diesel as fast as a hungry American pre-teen chews through a helping of McDonald’s. Well, this is awkward.  None of the other car rental places have any cars available that day, and when we finally find one that does, they quote us twice what we were originally supposed to pay. We may as well suck it up and spend all our food money on petrol. After much arguing and me putting on my stern face, we’re eventually given a Honda Civic instead. It’s still a pretty big car, but at least it’s not that massive 4x4 they had threatened us with.

Time to hit the highway to Wimbledon! Wait. Did I just say ‘highway’? I meant it’s time to meander down the quaint country lanes to Wimbledon. Seriously. It’s kind of ridiculous. We’re relying on the directions I’d printed from google maps a few days ago, and we do get lost once or twice, but finally we make it. Hehe. How adorable is this suburb? It’s all tiny, old fashioned houses stuck on top of one another, just like something you’d see in Harry Potter. I soon discover that most of England looks just like this.

I can’t remember whether or not we ate supper that night, all I remember is that it was the day before the Olympic closing ceremony, and I was extremely tired around 7pm. So I set my alarm for 8pm so that I could wake….. up….. and …. watch…. Caster ….. Semenya’s ……… race.

Needless to say, the next time I was conscious was when the sun broke through the curtains the next morning. Is this real? Am I really awaking in LONDON? I thought it rained all the time in England. Clearly not. It’s beautiful outside.

This is the last day to take advantage of the Olympic vibe, and we simply must see the stadium! And, well, every other tourist attraction in the entire city is on the list too, so we’d better get a move on.

The London Underground is surprisingly easy to navigate once you get the hang of it. We purchase day travel cards, and then hop on board the Northern Line northbound to London Bridge. It’s all entirely unplanned, we just do it. London Bridge. London frikken Bridge. The one that was falling down in the song. It’s al so surreal! But hunger raises its head, and it seems most of the shops are closed. Granted, it’s around 9am on a Sunday morning, that could be why. The one place that is open is none other than Starbucks. Ahhhh that must be the best cup of hot chocolate I’ve ever had in my life, and it’s HUGE. The chocolate muffin is pretty awesome too. I feel so cosmopolitan walking around LONDON with my cup of Starbucks. Damn. I’m becoming a hipster.

London is remarkably beautiful, I’m completely in awe. We walk over London Bridge, see Tower Bridge with the Olympic rings, nearly get taken out by a couple of red buses… I’m in heaven. I’m walking the streets of London. Just like the song. They marathon of the London 2012 Olympics is being run today, and we follow the hoards of people in the general direction of the event. Olympic signs! Am I really here during the Olympics? This is ridiculous! Click, click, click. So many photos.

We go walking for absolute ages up the street towards, well, we’re not sure exactly. We’re just walking and it’s great. Eventually we end up in the worst kind of shop: one of those places where everything is branded with the Union Jack, and a tourist’s bank balance finds its final resting place. I acquire a London hoodie, a new pink purse with ‘City of London’ stamped on it, and a variety of other knick-knacks. I simply can’t help myself. I think I’m actually squealing.

What’s up with all the pay toilets though? A Pound to use the loo? That’s R13! This is about the time when I stop converting everything in my head. It’ll only lead to despair.

HOLD UP! Is that the Tower of London?! We pose for photos with the beef eater, who is the friendliest person we’ve met all day, and then continue on our merry way, towards Tower Bridge. Which promptly begins to fold as we walk over it. Cue squeals and a rapid walk to the other side, before the bridge parts to make way for a boat. It’s super cool. Let’s take more photos. And let’s have a convo with the policemen and tell them we’re in the country to see The Killers. They accuse us of being groupies. We don’t deny it.

How big is London anyway? We wonder if we can walk to the Olympic stadium. But that’s kind of like asking if you can walk from Table Mountain to Robben Island. No. No, we cannot. So we’re back on the Northern Line to Bank, and then the Central to Stratford. The disconcerting thing is how quickly this terminology is becoming part of my vocabulary. We can’t physically get to the stadium, but we can catch the occasional glimpse of it from outside. But then, who even cares about the stadium – SHOPS! Westfield shopping mall is huge, and I’m in and out of all the shops I’ve only ever read about in magazines. I manage to control myself, however, and my only purchases are a pair of lightning bolt-shaped earrings to Friday’s concert, and a few Gaslight Anthem CDs that I can’t even get at Look & Listen back home. The mall is absolutely bustling, and the queues in all the shops are horrendous, but I’m starving and Marks & Spencer is surely the place to buy lunch. I purchase the first of the many pasta salads that I’ll live on for the next two weeks. Oh, and might I add that the UK’s music taste is fantastic – every shop I’ve walked into so far has been playing either The Killers or Coldplay.

Olympic athletes are swarming everywhere, and we surreptitiously take a few photos of them. We also somehow end up engaged in convo with some guys form Uzbekistan who claim to have won a medal for rowing.

What a day! We’ve done more than some tourists do in a week in one day, and we’re exhausted, so it’s back to Wimbledon to pass out for eight or so hours before we do it all again…

But first, tonight is the closing ceremony of the Olympics, and once again ‘surreal’ is the only word I can think of to describe how it feels to watch this on TV knowing I was at the stadium mere hours again. I don’t think I’ve really taken in the fact that I’m really in England. England. Enlgand, England, England.

I only have one mission for Monday: to find the Royal Albert Hall. I’ve been told that if one walks around Hyde Park for long enough, the Royal Albert Hall will appear as though by magic. Fine. I’m on the case. Northern Line to Bank, then, followed by Central to Marble Arch, which is apparently the closest station to Hyde Park. Yes, I’ve gotten all of this from a map. An actual, physical map. I’m getting so good at this whole tourist thing.

Hyde Park is literally across the road from the Marble Arch station, and so we start walking. We stop to ask some security guards where the RAH is, and they giggle. It’s quite a walk from here, they inform us. How long? We demand. Like an hour? Yeah, maybe an hour’s walk. We think they’re joking. They’re not. An hour – and a thorough creep of the stunning Hyde Park – later, RAH is in front of my face, in all its glory. I touch it. (I should probably explain that my fascination with this building comes from the fact that The Killers filmed their dvd here a few years ago. But even disregarding that fact, it’s an absolutely beautiful building.)

Lacking the stamina to walk back to the station, we decide to hop aboard one of those cool-looking red London buses. “Do we have to swipe our tickets somewhere?” we ask the driver. He glares at us. “You show the driver.” So we hold up our tickets and show him. “YOU SHOW THE DRIVER!”. Okay then, buddy, we’ll just go sit down, make no noise and pretend that we don’t exist until our stop.

Also, what’s up with all this traffic we’re stuck in? The Brits don’t drive, what’s going on?!

We eventually get through the traffic and jump off the bus. I learned my lesson from the blisters on my feet, and today I’m in takkies rather than the ballet pumps I sported all day yesterday, so the walk down another one of London’s very long roads isn’t that bad. But hold up again, is that Harrods? It’s another of those ridiculously famous places that I’d never expected to actually visit. I know that even breathing in there is probably out of my price range, but I have to go in just for fun. Although when the doorman opens up for me, one unfortunate thought is clouding my mind “Oh shoot… I’m in Harrods wearing takkies.”

The shop is utterly spectacular… I spend far too long gazing longingly at the rows and rows and rows of handmade chocolates before I manage to rip myself away and move onto the clothing section. Sigh. If I had a lifestyle that required me to attend high-end events, I could definitely find an outfit or two here. But I don’t. plus, I’m hungry, and there’s a Marks & Spencer nearby. I get a sandwich and a lemonade (and if anyone can find me a South African brand of lemonade that tastes like this, I’ll be forever in your debt. Actually, maybe it was just normal lemonade and my memories are skewing my memories. But whatever.)

Not yet satisfied with our day’s travels, we get back on the tube and this time head for St James, on first the Jubilee and then the Circle line. Up the stairs and onto the street, and suddenly Big Ben is staring me in the face (okay, just the clock tower is staring me in the face, Big Ben – as I’m later told – is the bell inside). Photos photos photos! It’s starting to rain and we don’t have an umbrella, whoops. Oh well. What’s a little rain when you’re in England, right? We’re in awe of Big Ben and the parliament buildings but finally we move off to Westminster Abbey. I’m not sure I’m doing any of these sights justice, so let me take a moment to say THEY WERE BREATHTAKING.

It’s still drizzling a bit when we get back on the train to Collierswood, and takkies or no takkies, my feet have taken strain. I’m slowly getting used to the way the the rumbles and shakes and slides very narrowly avoids the walls… I’m not even slightly scared anymore.

We decide we’ve done a lot in two days, and perhaps we should take a break from town and head off into the countryside tomorrow. We need to be in Leeds on Thursday afternoon, but maybe we’ll go to Wales for two days. Thank goodness for that device known as a GPS. 

London 2012 Part I: Take-Off and Landing

Before visiting the UK, I was told many lies about the place. The one that sticks out in my mind is “The Brits don’t drive, no one in England has a car.” Alright then. It would clearly be entirely possible to navigate London on the underground, but after booking tickets to see a certain favourite band of mine in Leeds, I began to get a little bit worried. Especially when I checked google maps (after the tickets were paid for) and realized that it was a four hour car journey from London. I flew into a panic when I found out that train tickets were no les than 70 Pounds per person for the round trip, and I really didn’t fancy spending 7 hours on a coach to save some money. Call me a snob, but I’m not used to being without a car. And so the hire car plan was born, and I must say it was the best idea I had ever had. Because the truth is, the Brits do drive, but enough about that for now…

The day had finally arrived. I’d been planning this trip for absolute months, but I had never thought that it would all actually come together. I mean, who in their right mind flies to another country for the sake of their favourite band? I bet there are people who aren’t even keen to drive from the Northern Suburbs to Green Point for Linkin Park! I know people judged me heavily for flying to Joburg twice within three weeks last year for Coldplay and Kings of Leon, but they were some of the best weekends ever, and anyway, YOLO so haters gon’ hate, right?

By the morning of the 10^th of August, I was all packed and ready, and I headed off to work with a smile on my face. Just a few hours and I would be on my way to the airport to board a flight to Dubai and then another to London. Was this really happening? I’d checked and re-checked everything a couple of million times, had all my reference numbers, all my ID, the cards used to purchase the tickets, my passport, and everything else I might need for the next two weeks. My suitcase was only half full – although I would later find out that bringing back 16.4kg of shopping was slightly ambitious to say the least.

But things never quite go smoothly in my life, and so by 10pm I was to be found dashing from the office after the shuttle service called to say that the road to the airport was blocked and that if I wanted to make my flight at 6pm I’d better get there immediately. (Dear Paul, if you’re reading this, I really am sorry for leaving so early, thank you for not shouting at me.)

Madness ensues, but eventually we make it to the airport – with only 5 and a half hours to spare. Goodness me, what am I going to do in an airport for 5 and a half hours? We spend a few minutes taking photos to document the process, then head off to the check-in counter to try and get rid of our luggage – but the attendant looks at us like we’ve completely lost it and says we can only check in at 2pm. Fantastic. We’re left with no option but to drag out extremely heavy - and extremely colourful -  suitcases to Spur with us, where we sit for ages eating lunch.

I’m not sure how we managed to waste two and a half hours in Spur, but we did it, and eventually it was check-in time. I have a boarding pass! It has my name on it, and says CT à DBX. Ah yeah!

At passport control I feel like a criminal. I know I’m not doing anything wrong, but I hold my breath as the dude stamps my passport. There is still so much that could go wrong and result in me not being right in front of Brandon Flowers’ face exactly a week from now. But all goes smoothly and then I’m sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair in the departures lounge, attempting to read my new Stephen King novel and munching away on a chocolate. I’m also counting down the minutes and trying to speed them up using only my mind. Hey, it was worth a try, right?

Eventually it’s boarding time, but the flight’s been delayed twenty minutes, and it feels like 20 years. Also, I’m exhausted. The plane, as it turns out, is well worth the wait. I even have my own little screen where I can choose from a huge selection of movies, tv series and music. Last time I flew internationally, I’d had a tiny set of headphones, and a button on the arm rest of my chair which allowed me to listen to Britney Spears on a loop – sometimes ‘Crazy’ still haunts me at night. So after consuming a decent supper – Thai chicken green curry – I select The Hunger Games, but Katniss isn’t even on fire yet by the time I’ve fallen into a restless slumber. I think I sleep intermittently for around 5 out of the 9 hours, and when I put my seat back in the upright position, my neck feels like it’s about to cause my head to part company with the rest of my body. Ouch. Remind me to get one of those blow-up pillows next time.

The pilot is saying we’re landing shortly but all I can see outside my window is a vast expanse of …. Well…. Nothing at all. Dubai is apparently 100km ahead when I finally start seeing the rivers of lava that I know to be illuminated roads. Aha. Civillisation! A touchdown that I barely even feel, and then we’re walking into the airport, and although we’re in one of those covered tunnel things, the desert heat hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s just after 3am, and the temperature outside is a good 37 degrees. Coming from 12 degrees in Cape Town, it’s been a while since I’ve felt warmth. But warmth is one thing, this is another altogether.

*click* A photo of the sign that says ‘Welcome to Dubai’, another of the LCD board displaying connecting flights. The security process which follows is arduous but effective (I hope). I mean, they even make me take my shoes off!

If you’ve ever seen Shelly Centre on Christmas Eve, you know what ‘busy’ means… now take that and multiply it by at least, oh, say 1000. That’s what Dubai airport is like. At frikken 3am. It’s literally difficult to walk – there are just so many people. Plus I’m hearing languages I’ve never even heard in my life. I’m relieved to catch a snatch of Afrikaans. And there’s Burger King! I haven’t seen on of those in 11 years. And there’s a Starbucks! I giggle and think of Rob, The Killers’ drum tech and lover of Starbucks lattes. I should tweet him. I wonder if there’s free wi-fi here? That would become my standard question for the next 18 days, and luckily the answer was usually ‘yes’. I believe that Dubai airport was where I first started to get fit – we walked for at least two kilometers to get to our boarding gate. Fine… maybe it was slightly less, but it was 3am, OK?! People-watching at the boarding gate must have been the most interesting experience of my trip up to then. There were those who were unmistakably students, passed out fast asleep on and under chairs, there were business men on their laptops, and there was the guy covered in a blanket, who was laying so still that we assumed he was a piece of luggage until someone who may have been his girlfriend kicked him and he moved.

When we boarded, the sun had come up, and the temperature had probably risen again, but by this time I was so excited that it could have been snowing pink glitter and I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Get. Me. To. England. Now. Thanks.

On this flight, I occupied myself by watching a seemingly endless stream of episodes of Downton Abbey, until the English Channel was visible beneath me, and I could see tiny white things which may have been windmills in the water, and we were coming in towards the coast and I had to listen to The Killers, because I was doing this for them, and then we were over England and I was listening to Smile Like You Mean It, and my heart rate was accelerating, and we were finally almost there! And then we were flying over the country side and the little farms below all looked so adorable and it was like a green patchwork quilt below me (but I didn’t see any towns, they all looked like tiny villages, what was up with that?) and then the pilot’s saying we’re about to land, but why the hell haven’t I seen the Tower of London or Buckingham Palace or the Olympic Stadium below me yet? Just when I’m starting to wonder if Gatwick airport is out on someone’s farm – or if the United Kingdom is some giant hoax and I’m really back home in KZN – a runway appears and we land quickly. That’s it then. I’ve just touched down in London Town. 

United Kingdom, Here I Come!

On a Sunday night in late February, I found myself awake at 11pm. This in itself was highly abnormal, and even more so was the fact that I was at home in my bedroom, forcibly stopping myself from falling into the divine world of slumber. Why on Earth was I doing this? Well, the time had finally come to the V Festival 2012 line up to be announced, and a sneaky rumour was doing the rounds on the internet, proclaiming that my favourite boys in the world, The Killers, would be headlining the show. No, surely not! I’d made myself a promise over two years ago that I would be at their first show when they came back from hiatus. Unfortunately, annoying things like university had gotten in the way last year, and this was the first time that the opportunity was to present itself at a time when I was actually able to go! Oooh!

So, when the announcement came that they really were going to headline, I expressed about as much enthusiasm as I could for the time of night: I bbm-ed my roommate so that this news was the first thing she’s see in the morning, then fell asleep with echoes of “LONDOOOOOOOON” pounding through my tired brain.

A few days later, all of my ideas were in place. Everything was in perfect order in my head, and now all I had to do was acquire the festival tickets, the flights and the accommodation, and I’d be on my way in a few short months!

Tickets were to go on sale at 12pm my time, and thus from 11.15am, I had found myself refreshing ticketmaster.co.uk’s website at least every couple of seconds, just in case tickets came on sale early. The V Festival website was also open, as was twitter, so that I could proceed to freak out with my fellow Victims.  I was only slightly nervous, still thinking that the entire thing was a ridiculous idea, or that my mother’s agreement to it was going to turn out to be some hugely twisted prank.  But eventually, the ticket sales opened, and I entered my information with shaking fingers. The timer at the bottom of the page, counting down to the expiry of my tickets was not helping my nerves at all. I entered the credit card number incorrectly three times, before realizing my mistake, and clicking on ‘proceed’ exactly as the offer expired. Fail. By now it was a couple of minutes into ticket sales, and the website was completely flooded with other people feeling just like I was. Now I had to wait over ten minutes to try again, during which time my mind was in complete mental shutdown. What if this was my last chance to see them again? What if they didn’t return to SA on their tour, and what if I couldn’t make any of the other shows? What if, what if, what if…

By the time I was able to try again, I got an error message saying that tickets were sold out. “Try again” said my Victims friends. I tried again. Still sold out. Again. Sold out. I gave up.

Eventually realizing that perhaps the other venue was not sold out, I gave that one a try. An extremely stressful five or so minutes later, I’d successfully entered the credit card details and pressed ‘proceed’ on tickets for the second performance. After printing out my receipt, I still was not convinced that I’d actually gotten the tickets. I screamed down the phone to my mom, but it still had not hit me properly. Neither had the fact that I was also to see Snow Patrol, whom I had been wanting to see live since 2009!

I still don’t think it has quite sunk it. I’m seeing The Killers. I’m seeing Snow Patrol. I’m going to England. Bring on August!