Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I shuffle through Passport Control, trying to look like a sane, professional human being despite the ink stains and coffee splatters.
Still, the immigration officer eyes me suspiciously. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I say, a little too aggressively, as if I’m trying to convince us both.
He arches a dubious brow, but eventually grants me a stamp and opens the gate. “Right then. Welcome to London.”
Baggage claim is where my travel dreams often go to die, and tonight is no exception. My infamous bad luck with bags is why I always pack spare outfits in my roll-on, but still! A red sweater with dress pants, underthings, a single pair of pajamas, leggings, a sweatshirt, and the suit I’m currently wearing are not nearly enough to get me through several weeks in London!
I watch the carousel turn, willing my bag to appear. Around me, everyone else reunites with their luggage like long-lost lovers while I stand there, increasingly alone, watching the same lime-green suitcase go around seventeen times.
Finally, I have to admit that my Big Blue Baby isn’t coming.
The Stella McCartney dress I couldn’t afford but bought anyway. My happy Christmas holly skirt and matching sweater. My entire capsule professional wardrobe. They’re all missing in action, lost to the aviation gods who hate me nearly as much as the technology ones.
The baggage attendant hands me a claim form with the pitiless gaze of someone who deals with despair so often she’s grown numb to human suffering. “We’ll text you as soon as we locate your bag. If you haven’t heard anything in a week, feel free to call customer service.” She gestures vaguely toward the bottom of the slip. “Be sure to keep your claim number handy.”
A week. Great.
If they’re saying a week, it will probably be two, and that’s if it turns up at all.
Looks like I’ll be doing some shopping I can’t afford as soon as the stores open tomorrow.
I briefly consider popping into the airport bathroom to change before my evening meeting with Belinda, the florist, but it’s looking sketchy out there—dark and blustery with plenty of snow. I don’t know how backed up traffic will be in this kind of weather, and it seems best to get to where I need to be first and worry about the Smurf murder/coffee stain situation later.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to change when I get to the pub, and if not…
Well, punctuality is more important than appearances.
Right?
The taxi ride is another qualifying event in the Travel Drama Olympics, as my cabbie careens wildly along the slick streets in the driving snow. London cabbies are usually the safest, classiest drivers in the world, but this man seems determined to keep my fight or flight response fully activated.
Still, I can’t help admiring the view as the city streaks by.
London is even more charming in December. Every building is draped in strings of lights, and Christmas markets and tree stands seem to pop up on every corner. It’s everything the movies promised—garlands wrapped around lampposts, shops full of nutcrackers and Father Christmas figurines, and the smell of roasted chestnuts somehow penetrating through the closed windows.
This is the Christmas I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid. All my favorite holiday movies are set in London—Bridget Jones’ Diary, Love Actually, The Muppet Christmas Carol, with honorable mention to The Holiday, even though it pops back and forth between the U.S. and the U.K.
If I live through the night, I’m looking forward to wandering the streets in the daylight, soaking up the incomparably festive atmosphere.
But the way this ride is going, living isn’t something I’m taking for granted.
By the time we reach the suburb where I’m meeting Belinda at a pub, I’m sweating despite the chill and have already stress-eaten half the Cadbury Dairy Milk I bought at the vending machine near the taxi station.
“First time in London, love?” the driver asks, probably because I haven’t stopped gasping every time he swings around a blind corner.
“No, I’ve been here before. Lots of times.” I sip in a breath, refusing to gasp again as he zips through an intersection, barely avoiding a man in a wool cap walking his dog.
“Aw, then you know how much fun we have at Christmas,” he says cheerfully, as if he hasn’t just narrowly avoided a vehicular manslaughter charge. “Grabbing a pint is a brilliant way to start your holiday.”
“I’m actually here on business,” I clarify, clinging to the door handle when his next right threatens to fling me across the seat. “Starting at the pub. I’m meeting a woman who’s already there. Also, on business. It’s an all-business night. No pints. I-I mean, probably not. Unless she wants to have one, I guess. But mostly business. Primarily.”
Nailed it.
Definitely should have forced myself to take a nap on the flight.
The driver nods slowly, the way you do when you suspect a stranger might not be all there. “Right. Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted. Here we are, then!”