So, I post the last blog, then go out to dinner with a friend. She tells me the horrendous Heathrow Terminal Five story, which I had not read while in Scotland…Deathrow has just sent several thousand missing bags from its new terminal 5 to Italy to be sorted. We wonder why they didn’t just bring the Italian sorters to Deathrow. I try to remember which terminal I flew into, but can’t. I had only had three hours of sleep when I began the journey. All I can remember is being jolted around in a crammed bus, deep in the underbelly of Deathrow, to get from one terminal to the next, intensely craving coffee. Thankfully, my friend and I move on to many more subjects, most of them pleasanter.
My cell phone never rings all evening.
At 1am, Chicago time, I think, aha! Maybe no one at Virgin Atlantic has returned my calls because of the time difference. Maybe I’ve just been dealing with an incompetent night shift these past six days. Hope springs eternal. I call. A man with the most incomprehensible accent yet answers. I tell him I’m deaf and ask him to speak slower and he has to repeat what he’s said (he doesn’t slow down at all) five times before I catch a word. The word is: Chicago.
I ask, “Was the bag sent to Chicago?” He unleashes a flood of sound, none of which I understand. I say, “As I said, I’m deaf. Can you please just answer yes or no, was the bag sent to Chicago?” Another flood of sound. “Stop!” I say. I say again, “I’m deaf and I can’t understand you. I need you to answer by simply saying Yes or No.” He spews forth yet another barrage of words, of noise. “NO! Stop! Please…answer…with…one…word. Was…the…bag…sent…to…Chicago, Yes..or…No?” And he simply yammers on yet again.
I give up. For tonight.