Yes, that is correct . . . London.

If you know something of the timeframe of my journey you are probably checking the timestamp on this post and doing some quick time-zone math because something is telling you that I shouldn’t be in London right now.

You’re right.

I’ll tell you the story.

(And in doing so I hereby forfeit any 5th amendment rights against self-incrimination – sigh.)

I will divide my story into two chapters:

Chapter 1: When Everything Was Going Fine

Out story begins with the husband kissing his precious wife and family goodbye at D/FW airport and joining his traveling buddy (executive director of Family Legacy Missions International) for the first leg of our journey to Zambia via London.  After an uneventful (i.e., good) flight, we arrived in London and went our separate ways – he to a meeting at the Sheraton Heathrow and me to the Yotel, a micro-hotel designed for weary travelers who want to sleep away their jet lag.  It is connected to the terminal which means an arriving passenger is just an escalator ride away from horizontal bliss.

A traveler flying into Terminal 4, that is.

A traveler flying into Terminal 5 (i.e., the husband) has to catch a bus to Terminal 4.  I had been warned that the signs are not clear on which bus to take but I had been given the crucial information on which to choose: bus # 482, 490, or 724.  As it turned out, there was a big sign that read “Terminal 4″ and a lady who made sure I was getting on the right bus.  As I got on I thought, “Ha! Easier than I thought!  The hardest part is behind me.”

(Let’s all pause while we take in the irony of that last statement.)

Getting there took a bit longer than anticipated, but we finally arrived 20-25 minutes later.  After going through customs, I checked in at the Yotel and enjoyed 5 1/2 hours of uninterrupted sleep.  After my long nap I was feeling ready for my next flight to Zambia three hours later (scheduled to leave at 7:05pm).

After Skyping my wife at school (Skype is a very cheap calling service through the internet) and getting a quick shower, I headed out to catch the bus back to Terminal 5 (T5).  I hadn’t gotten instructions on how to get BACK to T5 but I assumed it was the same as getting to T4.

It was the same.  Sort of.

Fortunately, the buses picked up right near the Yotel entrance.  As I exited I checked the transportation board near the door and, sure enough, to get to T5 I needed to get on the 482 or 490 bus.  My initial information had been verified.

I missed by a few seconds a 482 bus that pulled away just as I arrived, but fortunately another followed close behind.  The front of the bus blazed 482 in big red digital numbers.

Bingo.

When it pulled up I hopped on and walked to the back of the bus (not bothering to ask the driver whether we were going to T5 or not – why bother asking?)  After a few more passengers stepped on we pulled away and were off to T5.

Before reaching T5 we made a stop.

And another stop.  And another stop.

The first stops were inside the airport.  I remembered how we had taken awhile to get to T4 from T5 earlier and assumed this would be repeat of the trip over.

Another stop.  And another.

Now we were outside of the airport, but I still didn’t think much of it.  I assumed that the bus must make a few stops outside the airport before arriving at its destination at T5.  Since I could still see signs pointing to Heathrow as we traveled the city streets, I assumed we were still in the vicinity and on our way.

(Notice the repetitive use of the word “assume”.)

The ride was longer than expeced.  I had planned to meet my partner at 5:30pm at the terminal.  5:30 came. 5:30 went. 5:45 came.  5:45 went.

Only when I stopped seeing Heathrow signs did I really begin to worry.  But even then I stuck with my assumptions.

Bad idea.

(In case you weren’t aware, we are now in Chapter Two of our story entitled “When Things Go Really, Really Wrong.”)

When it was approaching 6:00pm (remember my 7:05 flight?), I finally got out of my seat and headed to the front to ask the driver what I should have asked him when I first got ON the bus: “When does this bus get to T5?”

He looked at me oddly.  And then he said the words that I dreaded hearing.

“It doesn’t.”

Disbelieving (actually, believing but not wanting to believe), I pressed further. “But I thought that bus 482 goes to Terminal 5,” I said, sure that I hadn’t gotten those numbers wrong.

“It does . . .,” he said. ”In the opposite direction.”

I had caught the right bus . . . in the WRONG DIRECTION!!

(At this point in our story it would be appropriate to say something about assumptions/incomplete information being more dangerous than no information at all.  But instead, let’s get back to the drama unfolding . . .)

“In the opposite direction” were not the words I wanted to hear.  Nor did I want to see the look in the driver’s eyes that confirmed my dilemma.  But I didn’t panic.  I asked him what my options were.

“Let me look and see if there is another bus headed in that direction.”

He stepped off the bus and looked around.  No buses.

“Okay, what’s my second option?” I asked.

“Walk down to that main street and ask someone where the nearest cab stand is.”

“I have a 7:05pm flight.  Will I be able to make it in time?”  It was now after 6:00pm.  I needed him to answer affirmatively.

“Oh yeah.  No worries.”  His assurance (though ultimately misguided) gave me hope enough to keep from panicking (and prolonged the inevitable truth).

I thanked him and walked off toward the main street.

Calmly.

Not.

I wonder if an American with a backpack and a carry-on suitcase running through the streets of London near Heathrow airport is a common sight.  I hope so.  But at the time I didn’t really care what anyone thought.  I only cared out finding that cab stand.

I ran down the street and into the first shop I could find.  A meat market.

(In the back of my mind I was thinking “This is kind of gross.” But that was at the back of my mind.  WAY at the back of my mind.)

“Where is the nearest cab stand?”  I asked, trying to appear as collected as possible.  The man behind the counter directed me to a street about a block away.  I thanked him and continued sprinting.

At the indicated street, I ducked into a pub to ask for more directions (in the state I was in, it was easier to get directions in pieces rather than try to remember all of them at once).  An elderly man with a pint of ale walked me back out to the street and pointed me to a yellow sign just a few hundred feet away.  The cab stand.

I raced across the street to the stand (i.e., storefront), barged inside, and told the three men sitting in the entryway:  ”I HAVE A FLIGHT AT 7:05 AND I NEED TO GET TO TERMINAL 5!”  They sat and looked at me for a moment as though they didn’t understand me.  I thought, “Maybe they don’t work here – maybe THEY are waiting on a cab too.  Great!  Can I plead my way to the front of the line?  I don’t see THEM carrying any suitcases.”

Then one of them got up and walked outside.  After a brief second I realized that HE was a driver and that I was going with him.  We got into the little minicab and raced off for the airport.

I have seen cab drivers do some pretty aggressive driving.  Normally I don’t appreciate it, but this time I was silently cheering him on as he sped through the London traffic.  I started feeling a faint sense of importance (“That bus honked at us because of ME,” I thought) as he cut off other vehicles on my behalf.

But even with less-than-courteous driving, it was still taking longer than I had hoped.  Much longer.

6:25pm.

6:30pm.

When we pulled up around 6:35, I knew I was cutting it close.  Normally they close the gate 1/2 hour before the flight.  I had just a minute or two . . .

I paid the driver  (don’t ask how much), thanked him, and shot inside. Finding the nearest British Airways customer service desk I quickly spilled out my story to the representative who just as quickly (and sympathetically) checked my passport and boarding pass which I already had because I had checked in online in Dallas to save time (ironic laugh).  She then directed me to the nearest security checkpoint.

“I’ll call the gate and let them know you’re coming” were the last words I heard her say as she picked up the phone.

“YES!”  I thought as I ran off to the checkpoint.  ”I made it!”  I was singing songs of praise and thanksgiving as I ran. Arriving a few seconds later at the checkpoint, I handed my boarding pass to the agent.  She ran it through a machine similar to the ones used at the gates when boarding.

It gave a red light.

Red lights aren’t normally a good thing.  In Texas, they mean stop.  Unfortunately, they mean the same thing in London.

“I’m sorry sir, but there’s a problem. You’ll have to come with me.”  At any other time I would have had no idea what the problem could be.  But this time I had a very sinking feeling that I knew why.

I pled my case.

“But the woman at the customer service desk just said that it was okay and that I could go through.”

“Who told you that?”

We walked back over to the desk together.

Discussion began between the two agents.  Keystrokes on the keyboard.  More discussion. Finally (after about thirty seconds) they discovered that between the time I had left the representative’s desk and the time I arrived at the security checkpoint (under 1 minute) they had apparently closed the checkpoint for that flight.  (What  I now know is that not only do you have to be at the gate by a certain time – there is also a deadline to get through SECURITY. The terminal is so big that the airport knows if you don’t make it through security by a certain time, you won’t be able to make your flight.)

The first agent made a phone call.  And then another phone call.  (At this point I saw the light fading. My fate was becoming more and more sealed.)

A supervisor came over.  They shared the story with him.

Another phone call.  (I could sense that this was the make or break call . . .)

After a few moments of conversation, I could tell by the look on the representative’s face that I was not going to be getting the news I wanted to hear. A few more words and then she hung up the receiver.  ”I’m sorry . . .” she began.

She punched a few keys on her computer to find the next flight to Zambia.  I already knew the answer.

Wednesday.

Evening.

At that point it was Monday evening.

I searched for another option.  ”A flight to Johannesburg, South Africa?” I asked, thinking that I could then catch a flight from there to Zambia.

“Yes, in fact, there is one leaving at 9:15pm.”

The option sounded feasible (and much better than waiting two days) – until I found out that my ticket would not transfer to this new routing.  And so, after talking to the folks in the Dallas office via Skype, we determined that Wednesday was my only option. They secured me a reservation on that flight and a two-night stay at a nearby hotel.  (As a compliment to them, none of them grilled me about why I missed my plane or chided me for my mistake.  I’m sure that will come later. )

And so, as I sit here in Heathrow Airport (Heathrow Airport Terminal 5, that is) and wait to board the plane in about 4 hours, I am looking forward to picking up where my journey left off.

The morals of the story (which you’ve probably figured out): 1) ask, don’t assume, and 2) give yourself plenty of time to navigate a new environment.  Either of those precautions would have spared me two extra days in London.

On the upside, I now know all kinds of neat things about Terminal 5.  I know how to catch the tube into central London to see the sites.  I found out that there is a mini grocery store on the ground level called M&S Simply Foods where you can buy a (relatively) cheap lunch or dinner.  I learned that Cafe Nero on the third level has really comfortable chairs and outlets to plug in your laptop.  And (if you’re willing to pay for it) there is also wireless internet available on either Boingo or T-Mobile hotspots.

So if your travels include a stop off at London’s Heathrow Airport (terminal 5, to be exact), let me know and I would be glad to answer any questions you may have – just ask!

I’ve got all the information.