After an exhaustive search for direct flights to Oslo from Sofia or the closest proximate airports of Belgrade, Serbia, Bucharest, Romania or Thessalonki, Greece yielded no viable options, we chose to raid Kaberi’s frequent flier balance and take a British Airways flight connecting through London. Opting for an overnight stopover at Heathrow, we gained the added benefit of spending an evening with Kaberi’s cousin Reshmi and her husband Pratip.
After touching down at Heathrow, we were forced to endure the human parking lot known as U.K. immigration and the condescension of a drunk-with-power British immigration officer (a wanker of the highest order) who demanded written proof of onward passage from the U.K. (the first time this was required anywhere during our travels) apparently because there is an epidemic of American citizens illegally setting up residence in England in a desperate quest to have their buying power cut in half. After muttering under our breath about the infernal and pompous imperialists, we gratefully met Reshmi and Pratip in the arrivals hall.
Over cups of tea, and then glasses of scotch, we spent a cozy afternoon together, exchanging stories about life in England and from our travels. Reshmi’s and Pratip’s smart apartment was soon transformed into a Bengali communications hub. With the phone seemingly ringing continuously, we fielded calls in sequence from Reshmi’s parents (the beloved Mejos) from Delhi, Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Amit (who we spent two days with us in Italy a few weeks back) from New York, Kaberi’s parents from Chicago and Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Soma from California. Despite our guilt over monopolizing the phone, we had to admit that it felt fabulous to be surrounded by family near and far. As the evening unfolded, we partook in a home-cooked Bengali meal and then indulged in wonderfully-accessible English language television programming.
With the day having flown by, we promised to try and return before the end of our globetrotting journey before turning in for the night. Early the next morning, Reshmi and Pratip graciously drove us back to Heathrow. After being dropped off at Terminal 1 (typically the origin of British Airways’ inter-European flights), we ruefully learned that our Oslo flight departed from the distant Terminal 4 (typically the province of long-haul flights). Racing outside to catch Reshmi and Pratip in the nick of time, we finagled a ride to the outlying terminal some several miles away. After a second round of good-byes, we bid Reshmi and Pratip farewell, leaving them to likely regret extending an invitation to us to wreak havoc on their lives for yet another weekend.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
British Invasion
After an exhaustive search for direct flights to Oslo from Sofia or the closest proximate airports of Belgrade, Serbia, Bucharest, Romania or Thessalonki, Greece yielded no viable options, we chose to raid Kaberi’s frequent flier balance and take a British Airways flight connecting through London. Opting for an overnight stopover at Heathrow, we gained the added benefit of spending an evening with Kaberi’s cousin Reshmi and her husband Pratip.
After touching down at Heathrow, we were forced to endure the human parking lot known as U.K. immigration and the condescension of a drunk-with-power British immigration officer (a wanker of the highest order) who demanded written proof of onward passage from the U.K. (the first time this was required anywhere during our travels) apparently because there is an epidemic of American citizens illegally setting up residence in England in a desperate quest to have their buying power cut in half. After muttering under our breath about the infernal and pompous imperialists, we gratefully met Reshmi and Pratip in the arrivals hall.
Over cups of tea, and then glasses of scotch, we spent a cozy afternoon together, exchanging stories about life in England and from our travels. Reshmi’s and Pratip’s smart apartment was soon transformed into a Bengali communications hub. With the phone seemingly ringing continuously, we fielded calls in sequence from Reshmi’s parents (the beloved Mejos) from Delhi, Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Amit (who we spent two days with us in Italy a few weeks back) from New York, Kaberi’s parents from Chicago and Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Soma from California. Despite our guilt over monopolizing the phone, we had to admit that it felt fabulous to be surrounded by family near and far. As the evening unfolded, we partook in a home-cooked Bengali meal and then indulged in wonderfully-accessible English language television programming.
With the day having flown by, we promised to try and return before the end of our globetrotting journey before turning in for the night. Early the next morning, Reshmi and Pratip graciously drove us back to Heathrow. After being dropped off at Terminal 1 (typically the origin of British Airways’ inter-European flights), we ruefully learned that our Oslo flight departed from the distant Terminal 4 (typically the province of long-haul flights). Racing outside to catch Reshmi and Pratip in the nick of time, we finagled a ride to the outlying terminal some several miles away. After a second round of good-byes, we bid Reshmi and Pratip farewell, leaving them to likely regret extending an invitation to us to wreak havoc on their lives for yet another weekend.
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