Matt and I drove to Atlanta the day before my flight because I'm a notoriously anxious traveler. I tried not to cry; he told me it was okay to cry. One of us succeeded in our goal; the other didn't. I'll let you guess who was who.
Here's Nora, who, by the next morning, knew what was going on:
In preparation for my connecting flight on Ryanair, which has crazy restrictive rules on flight behavior (luggage weight, visa checks, big fines, etc), I had to fit two months of life into a 22 pound bag. Here's a picture of my boot next to my bag for reference:
I do have incredible flight luck, I won't lie. On my overnight transatlantic flight, I had an empty seat next to me. I actually managed to sleep on a flight. It was a miracle. But only after I watched the Doctor Who 50th anniversary special, because I was going to London, after all.
I spent a day in London. I had two goals: go to the British Museum and have Moroccan food for dinner. As it turns out, both goals were...sort of disappointing. The British Museum: a big building full of pillaged cultural icons, now colonial memorabilia. Like, for one, the Rosetta Stone:
With the Moroccan adventure, I had to go to two different restaurants across the city to get the chicken bastilla I'd been hoping for, but when I got it, it was more like...a Moroccan toaster strudel than anything else. Here was my little feast for myself (for reference, the cup in the middle is the size of a shot glass):
Then, it was off to the second airport! I fell asleep on the shuttle, then slept, on and off, (weaved? woven?) woved into seat dividers, in the airport's waiting area. London Stansted is apparently known as "Camp Stansted," since so many people sleep there in preparation for early morning budget airline flights. I was just too cheap to spring for a hotel room.
