Hidden Secrets of Heathrow

When you were a kid, I’m sure you were the same as me – staying up late, fighting sleep, thinking about what a party your parents must be having when all the kids go to bed. I just knew that’s what all Mommies and Daddies did when they put their kids to bed – have one big party, like a Ringling Brothers Circus in the living room with all the other Mommies and Daddies.

Now that I’m an adult, I know such musings are ridiculous. What goes on in an airport after hours, however, is a legitimate intrigue.

I arrived on the 19:50 flight from Glasgow to London preparing for a long night. Due to a technical error (ie late booking), my flight included an overnight layover in Heathrow before heading on to sunny Texas for a visit to the folks. After a “mechanical delay” (which never instils confidence in an airline), I arrived in Terminal 5 at 20:30. Since my flight to DFW was not scheduled to depart Heathrow until 10:30 the next morning, and since I was completely skint, I decided I could easily stay the night in the delightful lounges of Heathrow Airport.

Upon arrival in Terminal 5, two separate employees told me Terminal 3 was where I should be. Naively, I followed their guidance. Here begins the wonderment of miscommunication in Heathrow. I waited for a bus to make the 10-minute drive to Terminal 3, where I had to go through security for the second time that night. After I had stripped down and up again, I stumbled to the ticket counter to get my boarding pass.

The two at the desk were pleasant, and as the one printed out my ticket she smiled and said, “Oh, but you can’t stay here. Terminal 3 closes in 2 hours, but Terminal 5 will be open and very nice.” Another big smile.  I managed to thank her and return the sentiment, but by this time I was feeling the weight of my luggage. Oh yes, I have not mentioned that I was lugging my laptop, a week’s worth of clothes, and my wedding dress because I didn’t trust the airport people not to toss it in the air like a lead balloon.

Stumbling a bit more but still confident, I took the 10-minute bus back to Terminal 5. I had not made it 20 steps into the terminal when two security guards told me I was not authorized to return to Terminal 5 and would have to make my way to Terminal 4, where a “pod hotel” was located. “It’ll only cost, say, 7 quid an hour. It’s great!” the guard promised me. He lied.

The so-called “pod hotel” seems to be completely unknown to any member of staff in Heathrow airport. I know because I had a member radio out for more information, and it seemed every staff member with a radio was stumped. (I later found that there was a “landside hotel” rather cheap, but still £45 for a minimum 5 hours.) Since the last Terminal bus was leaving, I decided to take a chance and go to the only other terminal I had been told might help: Terminal 1.

After another 10-minute bus and a third strip search from security, the clock was pushing ten o’clock as I entered Terminal 1. The first thing that struck me was the quiet – I could see no rushing passengers, no radio-talking staff – not a soul to be seen. Finally, a small female staff worker came into sight, and I pounced (or I staggered, as my wedding dress was really dragging me down by this point). “Please ma’am,” I gasped, “where is the overnight lounge?”

She gave a sly smile and came close, as if to share an important secret. “You’re looking to stay overnight?” She looked me up and down. “Right, follow me.”

As we walked, I saw zombie-like passengers waiting in long queues all over. I prepared myself for more lugging, but my guide suddenly made a sharp turn down a hidden hall on the side. The lights were dim, and the walls were frosted glass. I felt like we were going into Batman’s secret lair. We came upon a lone guard, who started to question my presence in this obviously elite area, but my little guide cut her off.

“She’s an all-nighter.”

The guard immediately closed her lips and let me through into another deserted corridor.

Down, down, down we went, and if I had not been sure she was staff and that I could easily tackle her, I would have questioned the intelligence of my decision to follow.  But, I was curious as well. Is this what happens in airports after hours? Am I being led to a room full of other curious tourists where we will meet Saw-like fates to pay for our bad life decisions? Maybe this is the “pod hotel” – of doom!

A buzz of voices slowly became audible, and, as there were no screams of terror to be heard, I began to relax. Civilization! Praise the Lord! And not only were there people, but there was food! And seats! And my guide…. Had disappeared. Vanished into thin air. But no matter, because I could finally rest. Or so I thought.

Not one hour had passed when the overhead lights suddenly went out. No warning, just BOOM! I don’t think a horror movie has been made about airports, but if they ever do it would start like this.  A lone figure with a big flashlight appeared, herding all the sleeping passengers into a coma-like creep through the terminal. That’s right – Terminal 1 was now closing. “But don’t worry, we have a nice, quiet room for you, away from the crowds and the lights…” I have never been more terrified.

There were about 20 of us victims, standing nervously in a line before an “access only” door, which could have led to a vengeful reaper or a pit of snakes for all we knew. The lone figure swiped her card and punched a few codes to finally gain access to the “restricted area” that she ushered us into, all the time sickeningly repeating, “Almost there, almost to your nice, quiet room…” She may have cackled.

After a short walk and a few more locked doors we were ushered into a small room. It was there, in those uncertain moments, we found… paradise! For, lo and behold, we had vending machines! Free toilets! And, best yet, RECLINING LOUNGE CHAIRS! We had straggled through the desert and found our manna, us 20 survivors. And I sit here now, in that same lounge, still a 10-minute bus ride and eight hours away from departure, but years from now I’m sure we will have Terminal 1 Survivor Reunion and reminisce the terrors of Heathrow after hours.

But now, the lights are dimming, and, is it me, or has our group of twenty been drastically reduced? If I disappear, Mom, know I was at Gate 2, eating out the ice cream vending machine…