It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom. It was the age of foolishness. It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. We had everything before us, we had nothing before us. We were atop of castles. We were underground in the smelly metro.
This opening of A Tale of Two Cities (with my slight adaptation) perfectly describes our trip to England, Scotland and France. For 12 days, Pure Heart, two other adults and I led 22 high school students through about 980 historical and literature points of interest. And like Dickens wrote, the trip was full of dichotomies and superlatives. We were in some of the most beautiful places on Earth having fun. But then, the next moment, we'd all be cranky and beleagured. We made mistakes. We made triumphs. We were excited. We were homesick. We were energetic. We were tired. Such is a two-week rapid-fire tour with 26 people.
With how fast we had to move to take in our ambitious agenda in only 12 days (and drive from Edinburgh to Paris), we moved fast, slept little and always walked -- and walked and walked -- fast. Plus, we had normal travel inconviences: flight delays, lost luggage, local food that people don't like, etc. Really, you couldn't have been better set up for melodrama by reality TV producers. (Unless they'd sent Paris Hilton with us.)
On the way home, we all barely made our connecting flight to Chicago from London. When we arrived at O'Hare we discovered that although we made it, none of our bags did. (Cue more drama and tearing of sackcloths.) We'd heard from other people on the trip that the bags were being delivered to our homes--but only late, late at night--like after 2 a.m.
About 11 last night, a courier called and said that he'd be leaving my bag on our stoop in a few hours. When we checked at 4, it was just sitting there at the door waiting to be let inside. I find this whole thing amusing. What kind of a courier service delivers stuff in the middle of the night? I have theories:
1) My bag was not delivered by a courier service. Instead, my suitcase just came home when he got hungry like my old dog Elka would when she ran away.
2) My bag is still on London time. So by coming home at 4, he thought it was really 10 a.m.--a perfectly respectable time for a bag to arrive.
3) The courier service hires vampires.
4) Since the bags are coming from London, my sister suggests they are being sent by Owl Post (ala Harry Potter). This seems sensible since Owls are nocturnal.
5) My suitcase was brought home by Santa. (I wish I'd prepared some cookies and milk.)
This opening of A Tale of Two Cities (with my slight adaptation) perfectly describes our trip to England, Scotland and France. For 12 days, Pure Heart, two other adults and I led 22 high school students through about 980 historical and literature points of interest. And like Dickens wrote, the trip was full of dichotomies and superlatives. We were in some of the most beautiful places on Earth having fun. But then, the next moment, we'd all be cranky and beleagured. We made mistakes. We made triumphs. We were excited. We were homesick. We were energetic. We were tired. Such is a two-week rapid-fire tour with 26 people.
With how fast we had to move to take in our ambitious agenda in only 12 days (and drive from Edinburgh to Paris), we moved fast, slept little and always walked -- and walked and walked -- fast. Plus, we had normal travel inconviences: flight delays, lost luggage, local food that people don't like, etc. Really, you couldn't have been better set up for melodrama by reality TV producers. (Unless they'd sent Paris Hilton with us.)
On the way home, we all barely made our connecting flight to Chicago from London. When we arrived at O'Hare we discovered that although we made it, none of our bags did. (Cue more drama and tearing of sackcloths.) We'd heard from other people on the trip that the bags were being delivered to our homes--but only late, late at night--like after 2 a.m.
About 11 last night, a courier called and said that he'd be leaving my bag on our stoop in a few hours. When we checked at 4, it was just sitting there at the door waiting to be let inside. I find this whole thing amusing. What kind of a courier service delivers stuff in the middle of the night? I have theories:
1) My bag was not delivered by a courier service. Instead, my suitcase just came home when he got hungry like my old dog Elka would when she ran away.
2) My bag is still on London time. So by coming home at 4, he thought it was really 10 a.m.--a perfectly respectable time for a bag to arrive.
3) The courier service hires vampires.
4) Since the bags are coming from London, my sister suggests they are being sent by Owl Post (ala Harry Potter). This seems sensible since Owls are nocturnal.
5) My suitcase was brought home by Santa. (I wish I'd prepared some cookies and milk.)
1 comment:
That's certainly the safest way to do it. Owners of lost luggage get mean. I wouldn't want to be the courier who has a run in with a passenger full of wrath for the airlines. Sure they're just the messenger, but when you're the representative of the faceless airline company, who else is available to pummel?
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