Arrival

So it was, on the 28^th of March 2012, the Sommerfeld family set off on their European adventure. It was to little fanfare, as to be expected on such an unassuming Wednesday afternoon, but the repercussions were to be great. Superb, really. We boarded the plane with little fuss, almost no attention being paid to the alluring calls of Duty Free Shopping (although, it should be said, a few tasters of scotch found themselves in tow fairly quickly). The plane ride itself was uneventful as one could assume, although the delirium that ensues in the middle of a 23 hour flight is almost comparable to cabin fever.

                After 12 hours of non-stop films, I found myself laughing inexplicably at Luke saying the word ‘biscuit’ nigh incessantly for almost an hour; I’m sure to the incredible chagrin of our surrounding flight passengers. A half day of pure screen time leads to that kind of shenanigans, and I quietly reconciled with myself that maybe I should take it easy on the wine and perhaps force myself a few restless moments of shut-eye.

                I woke up only a few hours from our destination, having had an incredible bout with my eye-lids. They were hell-bent on being open at the slightest turbulence, but my brain tore against this instinct and forced them back shut just as quickly, making for a sleep about as restless as the plane ride.

                But soon we arrived in Heathrow Airport, one of the great hubs of the world. The plane wheels slammed to the ground, wrenching grunts out of some (“F***ing Learner” muttered a steward) and soon every passenger metamorphosed from their previously antsy and irritable behaviours caused by a rather sedentary 23 hours, to a group of reborn personalities, jolly and talkative. Discussions of plans and homes and family members caused a raucous cacophony that had been lacking only 15 minutes before.

                Disembarking had an empowering feeling, and while the dread of baggage collection and customs loomed ahead, we couldn’t have been happier for the time being. That happiness remained unbroken, by some miracle granted by the aviation Gods themselves, because we swept through baggage collection and customs at such a pace we found ourselves at a Taxi bay wondering simply ‘Was that it?’

                We didn’t much dwell on it though, as we just as swiftly found ourselves in the beautifully clichéd classic London cab. Squished into this vehicle, obviously not quite created with a family of 6’ foot people in mind, we were carried to Greenwich as dawn broke over London. Shops began opening, garbage trucks picked up trash at every street corner as our cabbie swerved in and out of cramped London traffic with an unnervingly blasé approach. The romanticism of the trip was almost sickeningly sweet.

                Although I’m sure the most direct route to Greenwich Village wasn’t the one that included the view of Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and Harrods, None of us were complaining about the scenic route taken. The understated commentary given by our nigh-deaf cabbie contributed in its own way too, as he talked about attractions we only had heard about in film or books. The Portobello Road markets were a particular sticking point for my own ears; Bed-knobs and Broomsticks being such a large part of my childhood as it was.

                The bald Londoner left us on a corner near the centre of Greenwich itself, billowing sails belonging to the great war-ship Cutty-Sark peeking between two classic English town-houses. We unpacked from the vintage black sedan, without a single clue as to where we were, or where the apartment we were staying at was located, but we didn’t much care (It turns out it was literally around the corner, a fact unknown to our obliviously lovely cabbie).

Yo Ho Fiddledee dee

                With a couple of hours to kill, we headed to the nearest café and grabbed a coffee and some breakfast, given it had only just struck 8:00AM. Pseudo-ironically, this turned out to be a French café, making our first real experience of England to be rather more Parisian than we expected. Still, the breakfast was decidedly more British. We filled ourselves with good bread and greasy meats, happy for anything that wasn’t a pre-packaged assortment of preservatives (Air-Lines that still call these abominations ‘In-Flight Meals’ should perish the thought. The ‘food’ too, if even scientifically possible).

                But here we are, in a quiet Parisian restaurant in Greenwich. Happy, full and about to have a third coffee. Wonderful. I’ll keep in touch.

                Josh