First of all I must make it clear that I am a seasoned traveller.
I started travelling before I could walk and I haven’t stopped since.
I say this lest you think that I am clueless in the art of travelling. And you would when you read that I had no useful numbers on me when I discovered that my flight had been cancelled.
For that matter, I had no phone and no more than handful of Pounds Sterling on me either. After all, the plan had not been to stay in London.
So, by the time I made my way to the Lufthansa desk (that’s who I was flying with) to see what was happening, well over an hour had passed.
You see, when I reached the transfer desk to enquire about what to do next, they told me to go the Lufthansa desk in the K departure area.
“How far is it?”
“A Twenty minute walk. And you have to go through customs and immigration.”
At that point my body seemed to give up. My stockinged feet were killing me and so was my back under the weight of my backpack.
An unmistakable fuck escaped my lips which the lady behind the desk didn’t seem to appreciate.
I laid my head on the desk and covered it with my hands, after taking a few breaths I looked up again:
“I need a wheel chair,” I said. “I am not feeling well (I really didn’t at that point) and I cannot make it back to the departure area on my own.”
Squinting, she gave me a long enquiring look, then, without a word she took my passport and walked away. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I laid my head down on the counter again, and waited. Soon she came around and asked me to follow her to the wheelchair area.
“Just sit here and someone will come and get you.”
I sat down and waited….