Gushing entrails and slagging off

Oh dear, I have been very neglectful of writing these past few weeks. I can assure you, though, you did not miss out on too much. In the past month I have had food poisoning twice and the flu in between. Lucky me. But, I have learned from these experiences. For example:

1. Indian food should never be “experimental."
2. Never let your Scottish boyfriend try to cook for you an “authentic American dish.”

One exciting thing that happened recently, though, was Scotland’s annual holiday of Burns Night, which celebrates Scotland’s national bard, Robert Burns. The traditional Burns Night includes the procession of the haggis, where a bagpiper leads a silver-plated haggis between the dinner guests. This is followed by the recitation of Burns’ “Ode to a Haggis”, which is written in Scots dialect and is therefore completely incomprehensible. Here is my favorite stanza:

“His knife see rustic Labour dight,


An cut you up wi ready slight,


Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;


And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!”

You are about to eat this food, which, I will warn you, is banned in the US because it consists of sheep’s livers, lungs, and other organs, and the bard is trying to excite you about eating it by describing the sight as “gushing entrails.” Yum.

"Warm-reekin', rich!"

Of course, I cannot say anything against the poor haggis, as I have eaten it for breakfast, lunch and dinner before. Nothing like some sheep lungs to get you energized for the day!

At the Burns Supper, I was asked in advance to write and recite a toast. Formal toasts are an official part of the evening, and I was honored to be chosen, though slightly daunted. Traditionally, the first toast is a toast to the Bard, describing his life and accomplishments. This is followed by a Toast to the Lassies, where a man lovingly teases the women. Women have the last word, though, as the toasts end with the Reply to the Toast to the Lassies. This was my bit.

Since I had never done a Burns toast before, I was unsure of the traditions, so I asked locals. The women told me, “Just make sure you slag off the men as MUCH as possible!” Often this was accompanied by a whispered, “We’re all counting on you!” Apparently some of my female friends have built up anger against the other sex. Mike, for his part, just told me to make it rhyme. I spent quite some time perfecting my rhyming toast, and with some pointers from Mike, I finally finished. When it was my turn to present to the hundred or so folks in the room, though, I realized I had put myself into a bit of a pickle. I had been told by all to tease the men ruthlessly, and I had done so quite happily (perhaps too easily…). But when Lawrence, the lad giving the toast to the lassies, was speaking, he called us women “pure angels” and “lights of the world” and on and on with deep respect and love. What was this?! I was not expecting such praise! And here I was, poem in hand, with nothing but jabs at the poor men. Whoops! Luckily, the toast ended up being a success (I gave a good disclaimer at the beginning apologizing for being a soon-to-be-married woman and therefore having a lot of material to use against the men). I will leave you all with the very toast I recited. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed performing it!

Ashlee’s Reply to the 'Toast to the Lassies':

"For all you folks who find my speech odd,

I’ll first admit that I’m from abroad.

So I won’t use words like “wee” or “blether”

Unlike Burns and his “Tam O Shanter.”

Still I can speak of our fine lads here

Even if my speech is slightly unclear.

For men are men from sea to sea,

And I’ll speak of them quite happily.

Every Laddie needs a Lass

Just as every girl needs someone to harass.

For men are nothing if not charming

(Despite their noises, which are most alarming!).

From their love of toys and cars

To their wont of brawls in bars,

Men are something to adore

Until you ask of something more.

When men are asked to do the dishes

All your words are hopes and wishes.

Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile –

All the clothes are in a pile!

The brand-new iron’s on the brink;

There’s loads of dishes in the sink;

All the socks are on the floor—

I just can’t take it anymore!

A fuse is blown in the telly,

The toilet’s getting kinda smelly.

The drain is blocked, the faucet leakey,

Men’s DIY is kind of freaky.

Here he comes with tools in hand

If only he could understand

That screwdriver up in the air

Doesn’t mean that he should dare.

The toilet’s gone, the sink is missing

I’m pretty sure the oven’s hissing.

All they do is moan and groan

While we get a professional on the phone.

But maybe we should not dismay

For men, they just get carried away

They get these ideas in their minds

But to women’s intuition they are blind.

Despite this fault they certainly excel,

For who else can eat and sleep so well?

They’re always quick to answer your call

As long as you promise dinner and all.

With strength and bravery they have no rival,

Although their displays can be quite tribal.

Like the painted face of William Wallace

The men are quick to show their boldness.

Give them a drink and they have nerve to display

A box full of chocolates and a pretty bouquet.

They’ll romance us with dance moves on Saturday night

(And let me just say, it’s not a pretty sight!)

They can flatter and court the ladies so well

And make us feel like a right Southern Belle.

And let’s just admit it, ladies, you know

We all like a little boost of ego.

So really we need the men in our lives

And not just for someone to tease and chastise.

The two of us go hand in hand

No matter where you claim your homeland.

Having met my share of men

I have only one conclusion

Without a doubt there’s no contest,

The Laddies from Scotland are always the best!

So Ladies please raise your glass to toast

These fine men we love the most."

Raise your Pipes with Pride

Actor Gerard Butler shows Scottish Pride

January is kind of an exciting time in Scotland. Sure, the temperatures barely hover above zero; and yes, the wind it so strong it continually sends your hat on long adventures through the crowded city streets and into random people’s faces. But besides all of that, the first weeks of January are an exciting build up to one of Scotland’s biggest holidays, Burns Night. To prepare, every January Scotland hosts a series of concerts, Robert Burns poetry recitations, and haggis promoting. Really it’s just yet another excuse to get drunk (just like Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays…). But it’s also a nice time that the country reflects on its roots and celebrates its cultural highlights, something more countries should do, in my opinion.

The main festival to promote this party/introspective time is called Celtic Connections. The festival has many positive points. On the one hand, the blustery January weather is made slightly less bleak when you can dance a little jig in it. And there are some great artists and up-and-coming talents promoted, including one of my favorite pianists, Craig Armstrong. On the other hand, the lines that define “Celtic” music are bit blurred in these festivals sometimes. My friends and I went to one of the Celtic Connections concerts on Saturday and found this first-hand. Although the first act was the expected fiddle-stomp-and-clap-your-hands music that I love, the following acts were just stretching the definition. One of these interlopers had the saucy stage name of the “Wild Women of Edinburgh.” However, the band ended up being five middle-aged and slightly out of tune women who tried to be “American jazzy”, which was confusing at a Scottish Celtic music concert.

Electric ceilidh music, album by The Borders, 2009

Despite all this, I am not trying to bemoan the traditional festival. But, really, I miss the fiddles. And the jigs. What happened to my university days when you could walk into a local Gaelic pub and be guaranteed to hear at a least a little Gaelic spoken and definitely live music playing. Locals would bring their bagpipes and violins and play together, just for fun, in the pubs. (I like to think every true Scotsman/woman carries these around on their daily commute, just in case they should happen to pass a Gaelic pub and be moved to dance). There’s nothing wrong with a little experimentation – go ahead and add that electric bass guitar! – but it would be terribly sad to see this wonderful genre of music diluted and dulled by adding too many “global influences." I would be interested to hear other people's opinions on this...

Come on Scotland, let’s go back to your stereotypical roots and stop trying so hard to be American or French or anything else (and certainly not “jazzy”.). What’s cooler than kilts and ceilidhs, anyways? That’s right – nothing!

New Year Texan Enlightenments

Happy 2010 2011 Everyone! (I’m going to be scratching out dates until June). Is everyone all rested up and ready for the last year before the Apocalypse?  At least, that’s what John Cusack tells me.

2011 promises to be a fantastic year, not just for me but for the Legal Alien’s travels and stories! Drunken hen nights, European adventures, rugby matches and a royal wedding (Kate Who? I’m talking about my wedding!). The stories to be told… Oh, the antici – wait for it – PATION!

But, all that is to come. To start the New Year, I will first delve into the past. My Christmas break was spent overseas in the backwoods of Texas (aka the burbs of Fort Worth). I’m not sure why, but apparently I felt the need to go all-out hick for a week, since I have gone six months without saying “ya’ll” or wearing cowboy boots, much to my Scottish fiancé, Mike’s, amusement. This, of course, was not helped by the presence of my younger sister. While I moved away to the most un-western/hick country I could think of (“More tea, Agatha?” “No, dear Rupert, I believe the Queen is to make her Christmas Address…”), Lindsey crossed the border of the real life Farmville, known locally as Texas A&M University. Cowboy boots are so revered there that students in the Corps are given "privileged brown leather boots" as seniors – and they consider this a highest honor!

With Lindsey’s catchy enthusiasm, Mike and I were easily persuaded to go out with her and her other Aggie friends to Billy Bob’s Country Western Dance Hall (I couldn’t have made that more southern if I tried). There are many of these dance halls spread across the southern states, and they are all quite similar. There is an unofficial dress code of tank tops, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Everyone smokes. A large, mechanical bull is just off the dance floor. However, Billy Bob’s takes all of this a step further. Not only is there a mechanical bull, but there is an entire small-scale arena where you can ride a real buckin’ bronco every Friday and Saturday night. There are angry old Texans who throw bar stools at liberals for making a joke about George Bush. Also, other dance halls play 80% country-western and 20% random club music, so just after you’ve finished your two-step the disco lights come out and Timbaland starts jamming for a few songs. Not so at Billy Bob’s. Here it’s 100% country, from the Blue Moon on tap to the BBQ bar. Lindsey and I got very excited when the stereotypical country songs stopped and the hip-hop music started up. We did what any other unsuspecting, non-Texan would do – we jumped on stage and started the awkward circle of club dancing. Mike even successfully attempted The Worm. But after a few moments, we looked around and noticed something strange. These alien creatures of country were line-dancing to Lady Gaga! Is that even possible?!

Oh, it is.

And it is terrifying.

They even lined danced to “Cotton-Eyed Joe”, a travesty which should simply be outlawed. (Everyone knows you must hook arms and scream a few curse words at the top of your lungs throughout “Cotton-Eyed Joe”).

Mike broke records: longest bull time and first Scottish cowboy in Texas

Many hours and 20 blisters later, we returned to the house, high off of our ultra-Texan fix. By the time we arrived home, we had collectively made some important decisions:

1)   New cowboy boots should not be worn for the first time at a line-dance/two-step non-stop frenzy, as you will not be able to walk for three days afterwards.

2)   6 months of a country-western/southern hick void cannot safely be filled in one night, especially when drunken bar fights occur between intoxicated Texans. With guns.

3)   Country-western should not be limited to Texas.

As I have returned to the UK now, though, I am beginning to doubt our third enlightenment. Two days after our arrival in Scotland we received three inches of snow, and, still feeling nostalgic, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to wear my cowboy boots as I made the short walk down our 45˚ angle of a driveway to my front door. Two steps in the snow and I became a human sled and gracelessly careened down the icy slope, much to the amusement of the passing cars and volunteers shovelling the snow at the bottom. I have therefore added an amendment: Country-western should not be limited to Texas, but cowboy boots should.

Well, you can’t say I never learned nothing.

Happy 2011, and stay tuned for many more adventures in the coming year!

Life with the Liverpudlians

I see a skydiving trip
gone bad... what about you?

After months of anticipation, the long-awaited reunion of the Vincentian Volunteers occurred this weekend. Volunteers from England and Scotland met in Liverpool for our first meeting since our induction back in September. We knew it would be a chaotic and energized few days.  Central to the retreat weekend was the Myers-Briggs personality test, which we would all take and be scored accordingly. I was quite excited at the idea of taking a personality test. I am one of those people who highly enjoy taking the silly little tes\ts on Facebook: “Which Disney Princess Are You?” (Belle, of course), “What 80’s Song Represents You?” (I was told Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money” but I will contest that one), etc. I had enjoyed inkblot tests as well until Freud interpreted my results a bit disturbingly. The Meyer-Briggs test is greatly esteemed, though, so I looked forward to my results.  Besides, I thought it would be nice to have official results stating how highly sociable, cool and, basically, perfect I was! (No sarcasm there at all).

Friday turned out to be a very long day for us. The Scottish volunteers and I had been travelling from 7AM well into the late afternoon. Then we were prepped for a good few hours on the importance and reasoning behind the test (I could write my own book on the subject now). By the end of the first session, around 10PM, I was ready for bed. It was not to be early night for us, though, for how could we pass up the first day of Harry Potter madness in the very nation where Potter first flew his wee broom?

I thought that we would still be home at a decent hour, forgetting how long each of these movies has become. The late hour added to the effects, however, because our extreme fatigue made the rather dark film even more suspenseful. I will admit that there was a point where I covered my eyes. Since when did children’s films become so frightening?! The best moment, though, was the breakdown of the heartbroken girl sitting behind me in the cinema. You would have thought she was watching her grandmother die, the way she was carrying on at Dobby’s death scene. Heaving sobs, whimpering, and the soft, “No! Not poor Dobby!” Some people cross the boundaries of reality and never return, I think. We finally crawled into bed around 2:30am, getting a few hours of sleep for the next early morning.

Saturday proved long, but just as eventful. Despite the long yawns, we were eager to get our test results back. The enthusiasm, in hindsight, was a bit silly, as we were basically getting excited to see a piece of paper tell us “who we are”, which I’m sure we already knew. But I digress. I will reveal, here and now, that I am ENFJ, which of course means I am perfect. The others weren’t so lucky, but better luck next time, guys.

 After the big revelation, the session ended early and some of the volunteers and I began Phase 2: The Best Goo Goo Dolls Concert Ever! If you are reading this and wondering which band I just mentioned, you need to a) Get out from under your rock, b) Find a computer, c) Download every Goo Goo Dolls song ever recorded. Their biggest hit is “Iris,” which was the theme song in the more forgettable movie City of Angels. The concert was in a small venue, and audience participation was highly encouraged. I’ll never forget a huge Liverpool man with the roughest accent yelling out, “I LOVE YOU JOHNNY!” in the middle of the gig, both terrifying Johnny and making him burst out laughing. (If you haven’t noticed, I have a slight crush on Johnny. “Sex on Eggs,” as one Liverpudlian yelled out last night). We ended the night with wine, liqueurs, and introducing the Indonesian volunteers to David Hasselhoff. (Remember: “Don’t Hassle the Hoff”).

Johnny and Robby on guitars

As always, our reunion was hectic, loud, and sociable, but we loved every minute of it. We learned more about ourselves than planned. We also discovered the hidden secrets to our Liverpool Volunteers’ lifestyle, such as the fact that their house is literally next door to a popular club (now I know what they do every night), and they have a REAL coffeepot! Non-Americans will not understand the significance of this, but someone like my Mom certainly would. The British willingly drink inferior instant coffee here (I know, disgusting!), and they’re perfectly fine with that. It’s actually very difficult to find a true coffeemaker here for a decent price. Impossible, some might say. So, this discovery and use of a luxury good was the cherry on top of my wonderful weekend in Liverpool. I hope to return soon!

Bombs, Beers, and Bright Lights

     There are many enigmas in this country that I simply cannot comprehend. Some of you may remember my conundrum a few months ago with a British can opener. What is it about the way they are made here that is so vexing?

I battled another can tonight, only to end in the same way – with sliced fingers from mangled cans and me hungry from a lack of tin food (the extent of my culinary skills, I’m afraid to say). But confusing kitchen appliances are not the greatest of mysteries here in Scotland. Why do electric outlets need to first be flipped on every time you use them? What exactly is in "Meat-free Sausages"? Why do you have to add water to your juice instead of drinking it straight from the bottle? Why does the dentist not properly clean and polish your teeth on a regular visit? And why must I be given a “Wheel of Guilt” on every food label, color coded from mellow green (healthy) to sound-the-alarm red ("FAT! SALT! RUN AWAY! THIS SANDWICH HAS A CHANCE OF TASTING DELICIOUS!")?

One of my biggest questions, however, is why Britain annually condemns a terrorist by recreating the bomb he was never able to set off. Known as Guy Fawkes Night or Bonfire Night, this holiday occurs every 5th of November (“Remember, remember, the fifth of November/ The gunpowder, treason and plot…”). For my fellow Americans, Guy Fawkes is famous for the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605, (as well as being the smashing costume in the movie V for Vendetta). Fawkes and his fellow revolutionaries had intended to blow up the Houses of Parliament but were foiled at the last minute and hung for their intentions. Four hundred years later, Britain celebrates Fawkes’ failure… with fireworks and fire. Talk about irony. Every November 5th, British citizens gather to a big park, light bonfires and watch hundreds of fireworks explode above their heads, a long lost reminder of the explosion-that-almost-was. I’ve been told that it is common to burn an effigy of Guy Fawkes as well, but I did not see any burning bodies at my Bonfire Night. What I did see, though, was just as interesting.

The first “celebration” I attended was in a sketchy field behind a row of dark homes. I could see flames rising above the houses from the main road, but I did not realize how high they would be until I stood before them. There, in the middle of the field, with small children running around its base, was a great mountain of flames. Rising fifty feet in the air, the fire was fed by what looked like an entire industrial warehouse. Engulfed in the flames were scaffolds, gigantic crates, wheelbarrows, car parts – I could have sworn I saw the skeleton of an old Ford Fiesta just out of reach – and God knows what else the people of Glasgow had sacrificed to the spirit of Guy Fawkes. Rudimentary fireworks were being set off all around the bonfire, which was impressive since the wicks were sinking into six inches of mud from a recent downpour. Spectators were “heavy on the bevy”  (translation: drunk), and the whole scene seemed perfectly set for disaster. Nothing spells a fun night like alcohol, fire, and bombs. We left soon after we had arrived and went on to the main celebration at Strathclyde Park.

Thousands of our closest (and drunkest) friends were awaiting us as we pushed our way into the park. Guy Fawkes Night at Strathclyde Park is unique in that the River Clyde divides the park, and people were lined up for miles on either side of the riverbank. Floating in the middle of the water was a modestly sized bonfire, small and out of the way of the public (unlike our previous one). Carnival foods and rides dotted the background. National radio DJs set up stands and blasted music, spurring spontaneous dancing around the water (an amusing sight, especially with that slippery mud just waiting…). Everyone stopped in their tracks, however, when the fireworks display began from the center of the river. The ritual may not make sense to me, but then again, most British citizens could not tell you the history of Bonfire Night anyways. The facts and history have long since been forgotten, and in its place is simply another fun excuse to drink and blow things up. And let’s admit it, it does sound quite fun. It was just another typical night in Glasgow.

Bonfire in the River Clyde during the Fireworks

Blasts that would have made Guy Fawkes proud

Pink is Power

You may not realize this, but October is a very special month. Not only are the leaves exploding in color, and we finally have an excuse to wear clothes we bought on a Clearance rack by mistake and can pass them off as “Halloween costumes,” but October is also a month-long celebration of something very close to my heart. Officially it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and tomorrow, October 29^th, is Wear It Pink Day! On this day we ask everyone to wear pink and donate a minimum of £2 ($3) to the Breast Cancer Research funds (to donate or find out more talk to me or go the website here: http://www.wearitpink.co.uk/ )

To me, the word “cancer” was like watching a horror movie – if I covered my eyes, it would disappear and not affect me. That was, until it invaded my own life. Almost two months ago, my mother, our Warrior Woman, was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer. The diagnosis could no have come at a worse time for her, either. I had only left for Scotland a week before, and my sister had left for university three days prior. My dad, our Superman, was and is an amazing rock of strength. But the fear of the unknown was strong, and none of us knew what we were heading into.

To give a little help, I flew home last week to surprise SuperMom right before her first chemo treatment. Dad and I had been planning the visit for weeks, and we were bursting with excitement to finally execute it. Before we arrived at the house, he dropped me a block away so that he had time to return to the house like normal. I walked up and rang the doorbell, giggling with excitement to surprise Mom. The door opened, and Mom stood behind it, calm as ever.

“Hey! How are you?” she asked, as if I was the friendly neighbor just dropping by. Her calm reaction threw me a bit off guard.

“Hi Mom… I’m good…?”

We stood there awkwardly for a long pause before the shock hit her. Slowly she asked, “Wait. What are you doing here?!” I was then allowed inside the house, where Dad was cracking up in the background. It turns out that poor Mom had taken a good few muscle relaxers just before I arrived, and she can now vouch for them and say they can mellow any situation!

None of use knew what to expect when Mom started the chemotherapy treatments. Personally, I was not prepared for the long Infusion Room lined with rows of reclining chairs and IVs. I had imagined a private room, not a party of patients. On the one hand, the sight can be heart-wrenching. Patients in all stages of cancer and treatment are there, from the very elderly to the elementary school children. Seeing a six-year old cancer patient hooked up to a million IVs will change your life perspective immediately.

On the other hand, each one of the patients is fighting for normalcy, but willingly and gladly. The atmosphere in the long, white room is not depressing; instead, it’s encouraging. Patients and their families bring in cakes and drinks to share; everyone shares their stories as well, and after the nearly six hours of Mom’s chemotherapy I walked out with an entirely new perspective on my life. For example, the patient sitting next to Mom, we’ll call him Gerry, was with his wife. They cracked jokes the entire time, swapping stories about Gerry’s bad reactions to morphine and experimental cancer drugs. Even though I watched the chemo meds slowly drain Gerry’s energy as the hours passed, he never stopped smiling, and took a sincere interest in my family, even sending me a wedding package the following day. Later I learned that the couple have two young children, and that Gerry is suffering from melanoma cancer in his brain and have yet to find a cure. This man has no idea when he will be able to leave the hospital or live a normal life with his family, yet he still finds something to laugh about every minute, even regarding his own failed treatments. It made me ashamed of how I have treated my own life: of any complaints I’ve ever made, of any negative comments I’ve ever voiced. Gerry still walks everyday with God and with laughter, just like my Mom. They are such an inspiration, like modern-day superheroes. They taught me that each of us must face a storm or two in our lives. For Gerry and my mom, it’s more like a hurricane. But ten years from now, we will all be able to look back on this. And when we do, we can either remember the storm clouds or remember how we danced in the rain.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for reminding me of that.

Wear It Pink Day is Friday, October 29, 2010. Please wear pink, donate money, or at least say a prayer to raise awareness and to help find a cure for all our superheroes out there. If you would like more information on how to help, contact myself or visit this website:

http://www.wearitpink.co.uk

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…