I hate Heathrow

Air travel these days is not as easy as it used to be, we all know this, we've all heard the horror stories. I have come to expect less and be more patient, and I like to think that I have adapted well to the current situation and have not had too much to complain about... until Heathrow. I used to think of Heathrow as one of the nicest airports, having spent a very happy 12 hour layover there on my way back from my semester abroad in Kenya. It has nice shops and a glorious seafood bar, and it's filled with charming Brits, what's not to like?

I have never been treated as poorly at immigration than I was this trip during the two occasions I had the pleasure of passing through London. Both times I was grilled by immigration officers, made to feel like a social pariah for traveling alone/a potential drug mule due to all my Brazil stamps/an idiot American for getting in the wrong line - the one for British citizens - despite a lack of any signs to differentiate. I have never been asked so many questions while trying to cross a border.

And don't even get me started about the "one carry on only" policy. I mean, all everyone does anyway is cram all their crap into one bag, creating an overflowing mess, only to take it all out again, divided into two neatly filled bags, when they get to the other side.

The icing on the giant cake that is my hatred for Heathrow, however, is their inability to give you one simple (and vital) piece of information: your gate number. Is it too much to ask that when you check in your boarding pass has - in addition to your flight number and seat number - what every other respectable airport provides: a small number, sometimes followed by a letter, that tells you where you need to be in an hour or so when your flight starts boarding? Does that really require so much extra effort? Instead, they make you wait until about 30 minutes before your flight, when your gate finally flashes on the monitors (half of which were out of service yesterday) in the waiting area.

Last night, having gotten to the airport a little more than two hours before my flight like the responsible person I am, combined with the speed of checking my bag thanks to the fact that I'd checked in online and printed my boarding pass, I had about an hour to wander the airport, waiting. After I'd been in every store twice and looked at useless things I would never want, my gate finally appeared, so I went and sat there. And sat there. And sat there. The flight was clearly delayed, so I took out a magazine and started to read. Five minutes later, I hear my name being called over the airport PA, saying that I am the last passenger yet to board my flight. Thoroughly confused, my heart starting to race, I go to the desk at gate 8 (where I have been for the last 15-20 minutes) and learn that I have been waiting at the gate for the TAM flight to São Paulo, whereas I was on the BA flight. (This is where I must take some responsibility. Yes, I should have checked the flight number, but, really, how was I to know that there were two flights to São Paulo that leave at virtually the same time. Furthermore, if my gate had been PRINTED ON MY BOARDING PASS, I wouldn't have had to look for my gate on the monitors in the first place, thus, I still place most of the blame on Heathrow.)

The woman behind the TAM counter kindly informs me, "You're about to miss your flight, and the gate is far away." I take off in a mad dash towards gate 22 (which is several very long corridors away), my still-slightly-sore-from-the-marathon legs pumping faster than they have in a while despite the fact that I am wearing a coat and carrying a heavy leather bag as well as have a duty free shopping bag hanging off my shoulder. I am that person running through the airport. That person I only see in movies; that person who is getting scared looks from the children she almost knocks over; that irresponsible person who is holding up an entire plane full of people, that person I hate. I arrive at gate 22 just as they are about to close the doors and begin to apologize profusely. "You need to be more careful and check the flight number," the gate attendant scolds me as she scans my boarding pass. Only once I'm safely on board and stowing my luggage does the adrenaline wear off and I realize that I am sweaty and panting and that my lungs are burning. As I take my seat I begin to cough uncontrollably, leading to the inevitable "Great, we've got a cougher among us who's going to infect us all," glares from the passengers around me. I want to scream, "I just ran a marathon, yeah, more than your lazy ass has run in your entire life, and now I just sprinted through Heathrow, so give me a break," but instead I sit and fume. And cough. And cough. Finally, I get up and ask a flight attendant for a glass of water, but it doesn't help. I continue to cough during taxi and take off, I continue to be that passenger, until, finally, my breathing normalizes and I am able to drift off to sleep.