Unaware of the potential terror threat, I took one final sip from my gigantic slurpee as the plane touched down in Heathrow Airport. Resetting my watch to local time, 6:31 a.m., I forced my way into the crowded aisle of the plane. And yet as I dragged my carry-on and my sleeping 9 year old brother down the immigration hallway, I realized that something was terribly wrong: 5 hours of my day had somehow disappeared. Resolving to figure out the intricacies of Greenwich Mean Time at a later date, I helped my father to lug the suitcases off the baggage carousel and into the waiting taxi. It was July the second, and I was in England. My three brothers, my dad and my mother had all accompanied me on my flight in order to see me off as I headed off to study at Cambridge. At least, that was their stated purpose. Given that the day after they dropped me off at the university, they were going to Ireland to “console” themselves, I can’t say that I bought it. But hey, can you blame them? After shutting the door behind me, I noticed an unusual phenomenon: the steering wheel was on the right side of the car. When the driver began to drive as if this was business as usual, but on the left side of the road, I became slightly concerned. “Is something off here, or is it just me?” I asked the cabby concernedly. “You haven’t heard, then?” he replied. And all of a sudden I remembered two things. (As an aside, please keep in mind that I had at this point been up since 8 a.m. the previous morning, and it was now 2 a.m. at home in Boston. I was tired.) One: everything in Britain is similar to everything in the United States, but just different enough to confuse you to no end and convince you that you’re marginally insane. As the story progresses, I will explore that fact in more depth. Two: Britain’s soccer team had lost in the quarterfinals to Portugal the previous evening. As our cabby put it, “Very rarely do you see so many sad and hung over people in one place at the same time.” We arrived at our hotel, the Millenium Mayfair, at 7:46 a.m. Upon learning that our rooms’ occupants were not due to checkout wasn’t until 1 p.m., we dropped off our luggage and decided to go out for breakfast and some sightseeing. We ate breakfast at a local café, across the street from Starbucks. Knowing that I had a long day ahead, I ordered coffee and a chocolate croissant. My younger brother was instantly asleep, nose deep in scrambled eggs. As for me, this was the summer after my Upper year, and by this point I was an all-nighter veteran. I had resolved to stay up as long as possible so as to avoid the cumbersomeness of jet lag, or, at the very least, until we checked into the hotel. After poking Jared with his fork to wake him, my father pushed back his chair and headed to the counter to pay the bill. We left the café at 8:52 a.m. I recalled how on the plane I had sat next to a crying child, my brother, and as such had managed little sleep. Recognizing this, I quickly calculated that I had been more or less awake for the last twenty hours. My father led the way to our next destination, stopping at every street corner to look at the map and make sure he wasn’t lost yet. We were headed towards a sightseeing booth where we could purchase all-encompassing pass-cards for each of the major tourist sites in and around London. Aptly named the “London Pass,” this card would be my livelihood for the following week. On the way to the booth, we passed by two road races. Normally, I would think nothing of this, but for the queasy feeling that I got as I watched the runners tire themselves out over ten and more kilometers. Perhaps it was that the concept of physical exertion was so unappealing to my overtired mind that I felt sick just watching them, or perhaps it was their European running attire- men’s running shorts far shorter and tighter than their American counterparts – you can be the judge. There was even one miserable man, probably on the losing end of a bet, who ran his whole race in a purple dress, a frilly bonnet, and, as I noted when he bunched up his skirts for the final sprint, granny panties. After picking up the passes, my mother noted that one of the attractions that they covered was a riverboat tour of the Thames. At the time, this seemed like a wonderful way to pass one of the three remaining hours before we could check into the hotel and pass out. However, dear mom had neglected to consider the extreme state of our collective exhaustion. The tour guide may have thought that he was doing particularly poorly that day, as my three brothers, my father, my mother and I all promptly nodded off. For me, this was S.O.P. – I have acted similarly at every crew practice the day after pulling an all-nighter. Following our failed attempt at sedentary activity, my parents decided that it would be best to stay in relatively constant motion if we intended to stay conscious. As such, we walked the entire way back to the hotel. I was at this point essentially a zombie. I have no recollection of eating lunch, although I’m sure that I must have. I do remember deciding not to indulge in a Red Bull on the way back to the hotel, with the understanding that I would shortly be able to take a five hour nap before heading off to dinner. We arrived at the hotel at 1:06 p.m. I noted excitedly that the Earth had now completed a full rotation without my sleeping for more than ten minutes at a time. Less enthralling was the front deskman’s apology that our room was still occupied, and would not be ready for another quarter of an hour. At this point, my parents did what any good parents would – they took us to the hotel pub to pass the time. Although the drinking age in England is 18, this only meant that I would be much less underage if I were to attempt to purchase alcohol than if I had tried to do so in the States. As such, I ordered a water. It was only after Justin (age nine) ordered a rum and coke that I realized my folly- this was Europe, and the laws were really only regarded as rough guidelines. Nevertheless, I was too tired to change my order. Besides, I reasoned with myself, it was sexy European mineral water, not lame American tap. Four waters and two trips to the bathroom later, the rooms were still not ready. My dad and I resolved to talk a walk around the square in which the hotel was located. Grosvenor Square, pronounced “Grove-nuh” through some sick etymological joke, was hardly notable at first sight. It contained a small park with a road circumscribed about it. At closer look, however, we discovered that this perhaps the most American place anywhere London. To begin with, the park contained a 9/11 memorial. Perhaps it was the jet lag, but I was almost positive that New York was in the United States. Moreover, one side of the square was completely bordered by a concrete building protected by steel barricades and a ten foot barbed wire fence. Perched above the pillared entranceway was a massive wrought-iron eagle, conclusive proof that this was, as I had suspected, the American embassy. God Bless America. Back at the hotel, our rooms were finally ready. Ready to be cleaned by the maids, that is. Fifteen minutes later, we were in our rooms at last, with the promise that the two cots that we had ordered would be up shortly. With both of the available beds already “shotgunned” by my brothers, and little Justin already having gone to sleep on the couch in my parent’s room, I was left with the unhappy task of waiting for the maid to deliver the remaining beds. It had now been twenty five and a half hours since I had caught any shuteye. Reading Lord of the Flies to pass the time and occasionally casting jealous glances at my snoring siblings, I waited up for another forty five minutes for the Portuguese maid to lug two baby cribs down the hall from the janitor’s closet. In broken Spanish, I attempted to explain to her that I had asked for beds, not cribs. I soon discovered that “cot” in British English meant crib, and that I would have to wait another half hour if I truly wanted a bed. When I informed her that “si, si, realmente quiero una cama,” she glared at me and stormed off. When she returned with a bed an hour later, I had long since come to the conclusion that estimated periods of time in Britain are largely euphemistic. Again I was out of luck. Through some awful twist of karma, my bed was simply an unfurnished mattress. No pillows, no sheets, no comforter. But I had been awake for the past twenty seven hours, and was far too tired to care. “Good enough,” I thought to myself as I collapsed on to the bed. I was asleep before the maid had shut the door behind her.
