cocopunk

Planning a trip always feels to me like orchestrating an elaborate heist, a complex series of events that only works if everything falls into place perfectly and can be ruined by a single unexpected incident. A minor delay, a change in bus route, an ornery customs official—one thing could throw it all off and then you’re sleeping on airport carpet and eating a bag of wasabi peas for dinner.

There were two such daggers of Damocles* dangling above this trip, potentially ruinous scenarios waiting to drop and taint the whole experience. First, the little bed and breakfast where I was staying locked their doors at 10pm, no check-in after that, and I was scheduled to land at Heathrow airport at 8pm. Would two hours be enough? Maybe. Probably. Like a rubber band pulled taut I pondered this question and stared at maps and train schedules for four months prior to traveling. It was certainly enough time to commute to central London but how long would it take to offboard, get through customs, through the airport and onto a train? Many unknown factors.

The second dangling dagger was dumber and less consequential: I didn’t want to check my bag (too much time at the carousel) and was only traveling for a few days so I needed some kind of duffel. Sure enough the algorithm served up an ad for just that thing; Cotopaxi was having a sale and all their merchandise was absurdly discounted—I mean $20 for a bag that usually goes for $150. I didn’t think it suspicious—a blow out! Everything must go! But then nothing shipped. Finally after a week and a half I got a shipment email with this message:

Hi Orin,
Thank you for your order, you Your package is on the way
I am a 60-year-old single woman. Currently, I am raising two grandsons on my own. Packing the parcels is rather slow for me, but I am doing my best. Thank you for your patience. Thank you.

Well. Alright. It turned out the site I had ordered from was not Cotopaxi, but a fake store front based in China. And yet they did give me tracking details for something. Best case scenario would be a knock-off bag, worst case some seeds. But it was moot as nothing arrived before my trip. (To say nothing of the de minimis situation.)

So I then ordered a cheap replacement on Amazon… and it was delivered to the wrong address. I now had negative two bags. So I drudged up some old satchel from the back of my closet to do the job out of necessity. Good enough, I guess.

With the trip in motion I was back to the question of the 10pm window. As we were departing JFK the pilot announced that we’d probably be about 30 minutes early—excellent! — and then we proceeded to sit on the tarmac for about 30 minutes. No bueno!

I watched All the President’s Men and couldn’t stay awake because I had been up absurdly early to get to the airport (dodging any unseen daggers).

We arrived exactly on time. As I had my mediocre old bag with me I didn’t need to worry about baggage claim and proceeded directly to the border checkpoint. In the UK you need to apply online beforehand (with the same sort of questions that used to happen in person—purpose of visit, how long, etc.). Once approved, that’s tied to your passport and it turns out all you need to do upon arrival is let a machine scan your face and your passport and you’re through. Excellent. Another unknown factor falling in my favor. 8:20pm.

So then I walked and walked through the airport, ping-ponging between all the idiot-proof TRAIN signs with giant arrows until I found where I needed to be—and was greeted by a barricade of trolley carts and airport workers simply shouting “NO TRAINS!”

There was an electrical problem and I hadn’t really researched any backup plans. Trains might run on time in the EU but this was the UK, after all.

Without breaking stride I saw the logo for the London Underground in the distance and ditched the trains for the tube. If they were running it would take a little over an hour to get into the city (whereas my planned train took 40 min). It was now 8:30 pm and the 10pm deadline loomed. I would arrive in Leicester Square at 9:40pm—about a mile from the hotel. A 20 min mile seemed… possible?

But the tube was at least running. After riding for about thirty minutes I realized, of course, that I could probably transfer somewhere to get closer to the hotel. Cell service was spotty but sure enough that classic modernist tube map gave me the solution. I transferred to a different train and emerged just a block away from the hotel with 15 minutes to spare.

As I arrived the woman at the front desk told me she had just replied to our email thread, asking about my whereabouts since she was just about to lock up. When I had first emailed them in the summer to make the reservation, I had mentioned that I might be running late—four months from now.

*Not really a correct usage of the phrase, whatever man.