I’d heard about London my whole life.

In college, a handful of my friends went there for a semester. Their profile pictures featured Big Ben.

I’d heard about traveling around Europe, and imagined doing it since I graduated college.

I saved and asked friends to go with me and it didn’t pan out for one reason or another.

After living in Seattle, driving home across the California Coast and through the Southwest, I returned home, taught theatre, got a job serving a CEO bourgeious coffee for over 2 years and quit to travel Europe.

I had no idea what I was doing and I would do it all differently now. But I am still glad I saw those places.

On March 30, I dropped my cat at my parents’ and had dinner with everyone- I think at my parents’ house with Nana. My coworkers hosted a bon voyage party for me the end of February, which was really nice. Another coworker hosted a “We Love Natalie” party, also extremely generous and nice. They even gave me money for my adventure! Sheesh. Really wonderful. That was over a year ago now.

The flight was with Virgin Air. I trekked on the plane and thought “Don’t Remind Me.”

On my first day in London, I arrived at 7:45am and had already booked a hostel through a recommendation from a friend (Astor Hyde Park).

I got a formidable data plan through T-mobile and had unlimited roaming. I did roam for what seemed like an unlimited period of time looking this hostel with the help of Apple maps.

Eventually I found it and a relaxed, amiable blonde who used the word “Love” in place of a period gave me a map and circled where I should go. I don’t have a lot of pictures from the first seven days which I quickly realized was making me miserable not to take them. My theory was that taking pictures would take me out of the actual experience. While that may be true, the actual experience was sad to share alone and not capture. I also needed something else to do besides staring at beautiful sculptures all day. Capturing pictures of the sculptures in the perfect light was a better way to use my time.

In 2009, my best friend from high school (Marguerite) came to visit Seattle after I just moved into my roommate house with 4 other girls (a house of 5 women, I know.. But it worked!)

Before we left for our greyhound adventure down the West Coast, we took a bus up to Vancouver. We were immediately greeted by Joe who gave us a map and asked “Are you ladies gay” but said it like a fact, and not a question.

We shyly looked at each other, sheltered religious upbringing and whatnot, and smiled sheepishly to deliver a synonymous “No.” Joe proceeded to highlight all the gay hotspots in town. He must have assumed we weren’t out yet.

But he also gave us great recommendations for cheap things to do. This was back in August 2009 so the city was preparing for the Winter Olympics. The city was walkable and it was the first time I really explored as a young adult with a friend. City mouse as I was, it was more like suburbia mouse (Tampa, Atlanta). Public transportation was unchartered phenomena and nerve racking. Marguerite found the hostel and booked it without any problems. I’d never stayed in a hostel before.

He told us about Hastings Street. I was terrified. People can shoot up in the streets and it’s not unusual to see needles as long as there isn’t violence? What is this, a back alley in Harlem?!

And before you know it, the city was ours. We rented bikes, saw the water, ate most of our meals at Subway (so they only cost $2.50 for each of us) and enjoyed the view from the top of the Landmark Hotel.

It was a glorious trip and I took two more trips to Vancouver while I was there because I thought it was so gorgeous.

The Flight Over:

I thought about that mediocre hostel and that first check-in with Joe who suspected us gay throughout Europe. If Marguerite hadn’t checked into the hostel like a pro and acted like it was all normal, I wouldn’t have imagined to be doing it myself in a whole new continent. It’s good to have friends who know more than you in more ways than one.

On the flight over to London, I got bumped up to Premium Economy. I didn’t think it was a big deal because it just sounded like economy with more leg room, but oh had I made a premium miscalculation.

The flight attendant who bumped me up said “You don’t have any bags?” and I thought “well surely she can see the massive black bag straps around either shoulder?” and said “No. This is it!” and she said she moved me up because I didn’t have a bag. I guess they needed to fill the spots. #Iaintmad

I traipsed on the plane in my leggings and was offered champagne or orange the second I sat down. Incredulously, I asked “Just for… the fun of it?” because I didn’t want to ask “Is it free?” Kelly, I would later learn, said “Sorry?” and I took the champagne without further questions. Premium Economy is more than just leg room, my friends. Those attendants were bringing us violet-scented warmed towels for our hands and faces, wine during and after every meal, snacks at every turn and of course hot meals. In a way it was amazing but it was also a terrible set-up for the hostel in Florence. I’m still glad I had the experience.

Just as I was chatting with the lady to my left who was the executive assistant to the Prime Minister of New Zealand (“Piss off!” she said when, I told her about the coffee regimen at my old job), I realized that my seatbelt would not in fact fasten. They moved me to “21kilo” and I said “What?” And they said “Seat 21k, as in kilo?” and I said “Oh okay, sure!” And I said goodbye to the kind ladies to my on either side of me. It would have been a fun lady party.

Instead, I spent the ensuing 7+ hours next to a Brit who told me my last name was Saxon and that I shouldn’t be spending time on the Celtic Fringe (apparently that was my itinerary). “They won’t talk to you in Wales or Ireland if your last name is Saxon!” He said to the flight attendant “Where are you from?” and she said “Wales.” and I said “He says they won’t talk to me in Wales because my last name is Saxon!” She looked at me and laughed, a bit like ‘you gullible creature’ and said “Yes they will” and then “Oops you probably don’t need anymore wine now, do you?” and helped clean up the spilled glass of my Elitist Brit co-pilot. I later learned he was sneaking up to first class to get unlimited liquor from the bar with his cronies in first class. He told me all his chaps got upgraded but he didn’t. Hell, I was just happy to be in premium economy and wondered if I’d ever end up like him- mad that I wasn’t also in first class.The more he drank, the more he loosened up at which point he began to pontificate on how we don’t seem to recognize the racial divide and the glass ceiling in the US. There is a clear difference between Southerners and Northerners in terms of their prejudices but no one seems to talk about it. In retrospect, he may be correct (except I’m pretty sure we talk about discrimination quite often in the States) but I saw approximately 17 black people while I was in Europe so I wouldn’t call it the most black-white integrated realm of the universe. Perhaps we have a history of more racial issues in the States but therefore we have overcome more of our segregation than, say, squeaky-white Anglo-UK? Ucgh. I was annoyed by him and I was stuck in 21kilo so there was no where to turn. In retrospect, he must have been very annoyed that I was moved to his seat last minute as he could have had both to himself, including the window.

So Premium Economy comes with its price, too. I missed the EA to the Prime Minister of New Zealand. Damn seatbelt, I shouldn’t have said anything.

The drunk snoozed for the last few hours and I think I only slept for one. When we both woke, he had sobered up and became a stranger again. He got his things and sprang out of that plane without saying a word. I wanted to tell him I’d enjoy the Celtic Fringe on his behalf.

Kelly the flight attendant from Wales said “Hope you enjoyed your flight if you’ll just carry on down the row and to the left” and I said “What?” because she said it in, well, British in about 2.4 seconds.

“If you’ll just carry on down this aisle and take a left.” “Oh, thank you.” I felt bumbled and ungainly with my ever-heavier bag on my shoulders. You see, I’m not an Aussie-Pack gal and I never will be (never say never). I have no interest in those gear backpacks, for the birds. Instead I bought a small, heavy one that digs into my shoulders when there is, say, everything I own inside.

Phone on, my carrier switched to “Vodaphone” and I thought- okay, I hope they aren’t charging me for this roaming!” and searched for Astor Hyde Park on my phone.

That was the first 12 hours of my trip to Europe.