I want to write about how I got here, so I should probably start saying something about that and see how it goes. Wadham Ball was immense, there is really no other way to describe it. I didn't see half the stuff I wanted to and I still had an amazing time, it was that good. I also told people far too many personal things (or rather the same few personal things far too many times... sigh. When will I be tactful? NEVER.) and probably drank too much. I haven't had that much fun staying up since the all-nighter in Beijing airport (BEST. AIRPORT. EVAR. And maybe one of the only ones in the world where the security people will smile and wave at you whilst you're racing each other on trolleys instead of forcing you to stop and kicking you out). And then, at 6am, after making it to the survivors photo and almost puking at the sight of a pastry (seriously, what is it about pastries in the morning that makes my stomach churn?) we walked home. Most hung around for a bit and then slept.
I pack. I vacuum my room. I double check important things are in my rucksack. I wonder if my rucksack is going to be under 20kg and realise I have no way to check. I ring my father to double check a few logistical points. And then I walked out of the door to get on a bus to Heathrow. I sleep for a bit on the bus, in that very odd unfulfilling sort of way where it doesn't feel like sleep at all, just like losing an hour of your life. 24 hours, 23 awake.
Odd thing one about this trip is how nice all of the airport staff are in every location I go to. The check-in lady is chatty and pleasant as I drop my bags off, and I get some loud, slightly odd but ultimately friendly ribbing from the security man about my "Free Hugs" t-shirt- although he doesn't seem to see the word "hugs", as he keeps going on about me being free. I am in no fit state to argue, so I just smile and mutter something about sleep deprivation. Oddly, though, I'm functioning fine apart from a horrifically underperforming digestive system, which is par for the course for anything that makes me even slightly nervous. Anyway, I think, there's a plane ride coming soon and I will totally sleep for that, right?
Wrong. Apart from 45 minutes of lost time on the runway (one moment, we're being told there's a ten minute delay, next thing I know it's 2pm and we've still not taken off), I end up oddly wakeful for our entire transatlantic trip. I mess around with the in flight entertainment for a while, but it's frankly one of the worst systems I've ever had to deal with; a bit like trying to entertain yourself with somebody else's IPod for 6 hours. I do watch "How to Train Your Dragon" which was a pretty awful film plot-wise but which had really cute dragon designs. And I listen to some kinda rubbish music and watch a poor episode of Glee and get most of the way through Fight Club, too. Oh, and I listen to "At the Bottom of Everything" on my MP3 player far too many times.
At last we touch down in Ottawa, 32 hours since I last slept. I'm still feeling oddly fine, although I know this is an illusion that is going to fail on me at the worst possible moment. Ottawa airport, however, is stressful enough to keep me wired on nerves for the forseeable future. How the Canadians could POSSIBLY think this travesty of an aiport is appropriate for their capital city is beyond me. My impression of it begins to take shape when the captain tells us on the plane that we won't be able to get off after we dock (or whatever it is that planes do) because another flight has arrived and customs can't deal with two flights at once. We eventually are allowed to leave, only to discover the whole place looks and smells like an old people's home. The most frustrating thing, however, is that the place appears to have been designed by somebody who is annoyed by the fact that nobody wants to be there and is thus determined to make the transfer procedure as difficult as possible for anybody not staying. In order to catch my connecting flight, I therefore need to legally immigrate TO Canada by going through all the customs procedures (the charming young man at border control tells me he'd totally take me up on the free hug if he weren't at work), get my bag, carry it to the OTHER END OF THE AIRPORT, wave my boarding card at the authorities, fill out a bunch of U.S. customs forms, drag my bag onto the final conveyor belt myself (frankly I'm surprised they didn't make me personally load it onto the goddamn PLANE). I then find myself at US border control- seriously, what is it with these people and ostentatious exclaves? Anyway, the man here is also obscenely nice- I get a little thrill when he writes "Playwright" in the occupation field of my paperwork, and upon elaborating on what I'm going to be doing he spends most of the rest of the time humming "Rule Britannia" and telling me snippets of 1812 history. He finishes, is satisfied enough to let me in the country and welcomes me to the USA.
All very well, but I'm still in Canada really. I hang out in the airport for another 90 minutes or so, still sleepless, listening to all the announcements about cancelled flights and flights with passengers who refuse to leave (seriously) and smirking at the awful French of the bilingual announcer. Eventually, we are allowed to board the plane, which turns out to be a miniscule 50-seater with ridiculous electronics restrictions, meaning that I can't listen to music.
It's been 38 hours by this point, and going back in time and extending the day in that way has started to take its toll. I drift in and out of consciousness for most of the flight, start hallucinating that I'm on front quad, shiver uncontrollably for a while and accidentally refuse the free peanuts. Eventually, though, we start descending over Washington (an experience made terrifying by the way that turbulence gets magnified in small planes)- I get a glimpse of some of the massive buildings as we touch down. Luckily, nerves kick in again and propel me through the airport (no customs- thank God for ostentatious exclaves), and after picking up my bag it's easy to hop in a taxi and give him the address. The taxi driver is the last in the series of charming public service figures- I don't understand too much of his English, but we nevertheless manage to talk politics and gun crime. Bill Clinton is the man to beat, in his books. Good for him.
I arrive at my hostel at around 9 (2am Monday morning GMT), and am taken up to my room by a charming Taiwanese girl. Somehow, I get a last desperate burst of energy and manage to unpack my stuff and meet two of my three roommates before finally succumbing at about half 9. Sleep, dear sleep, I never intend to go so long without you again.
And then there was 6.30am this morning, and then there was going to work, and being at work, and coming home and being here and going to Wholefoods and walking down these streets and how totally immense and brilliant it is, but... that can wait. As can the tale of my budding love for this man:
William Jones... be mine.
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