Sticking with the precedent I’ve set for the past 2 and a half months, I do no work at work. My acts of rebellion are limited to swiping a few minor office supplies and a 2-hour lunch; needless to say, I don’t fall behind.
After work I wander London with a friend. We say goodbye, planning to try and make it back here next summer. As my farewell to London and a last “screw you” to the subway system, I walk the decent distance back to Camden Town. With few people and many places I know in London, it’s a strange feeling to leave; I’ll miss it, but I’m absolutely ready to go.
I turn in my key to Mr. Michaels the Lazy but Benevolent Landlord. He starts mumbling about how I can get to the airport, I thank him for the room, and that’s it: nothing fancy. Goodbyes to my roommates who happen to be home are similarly chilled. As I have with other friends I’ve made over here, I tell them they have a place in Philly to crash if they ever need it, wish them luck with their travels, and head out.
Deciding to go to the airport tonight so I don’t oversleep and miss my 10am flight, I pack and repack, trying to somehow fit all the touristy kitsch I’m bringing back as presents in with the overpacking that accompanied me on my initial jump over the pond. The strap on a massive bag I bought solely to get back to the U.S. snaps after an overweighted bag stuffing attempt, but I finally bundle a semi-manageable amalgamation of junk to carry. Or so I thought: after a block of walking that involved four stops, I’m out of breath, dripping sweat, and thinking about what I like little enough to just leave on the street. I catch a cab, but the driver tells me I don’t want to go through with my plan of catching a bus to the airport from Trafalgar Square: “everybody down there is pissed by now. It’s not somewhere you want to be waiting with your bags.” He says it’ll cost me 15 pounds to get there, which is about 15 times more than I’d hoped to spend but I’m too tired to get off. Luckily, “I’ll tell you what: I pass Heathrow [my airport] on my way home. I can take you there for 25 quid.” I offer 20, he accepts, and my problem’s solved.
Turns out to be a great cab ride: the driver’s been to a ton of countries and has lots to tell me about. Most interesting was that he lived in South Africa for 7 years during apartheid, but “it’s not much different for most people. Life’s pretty much the same everywhere, you know?” He leaves the meter running to prove that I’m “getting the deal of a lifetime” to Heathrow, which looks to be pretty true: 20 pounds is about half price. I thank him before pushing, pulling, and dragging my bags out of the cab.
Like most everything over here after midnight, the airport’s dead: more cleaners are walking around than customers, and no shops are open. Fliers-in-waiting are sleeping on all the best benches, so I curl around the armrests of a masochist’s interpretation of a place to sit, almost wishing I’d stayed in the shit flat one more night.