6. "Somewhere across the Sea": Arrival in London

London!

Friday, 5 July - Saturday, 13 July.  14 Sevington Street,  London W9 2QN (Maida Vale area). 

We are the last passengers to leave the airplane.  We check our seats, now strewn with blankets and litter, making sure we don't forget anything.  It was a short, but cramped flight and the first feeling on British soil is one of great relief at being able to walk and stretch.  We have four very tired children and we are not in a hurry.   Still, there is a line at immigration.  The children are cranky.  Robert won't carry anything extra ("too heavy"), Mara lies across the seats and refuses to sit down off to the side as requested. 

Meanwhile I carefully answer the questions the immigration officer is asking.  He is a bit perplexed by my visa letters.  It seems they should be in another form.  Apparently Mr. Gardner in Los Angeles issued us the "person of independent means" visa, usually good for four years, but put a one year limit on it.  When I tell the officer I am here on sabbatical to research and study gaming law, he tells me I should have a different letter, but then assures me there is no problem.  He says, "If you'll excuse me I have a lot of bureaucratic things to do now,"  and begins filling out several forms, stopping occasionally to consult with another immigration officer.  He asks me if one year is correct, and, although I know one year is not enough, I think that asking for an extension later on will be easier than explaining our desire to remain through the entire school year, which is a few weeks more than a calendar year.  

After some time the paper work is at last concluded.  We seem to have passed our first hurdle.  We are reminded that we must register with the local police, and then directed to the health offices that lie behind a side door which I had not noticed before.

Inside are what looks like hospital surroundings: nurses, white walls and examining rooms.  I have read about a brief health inspection, though it was never quite clear to me what it was.  Now it is: Cathy and I have a chest x-ray and answer some questions.  The children, beyond the cranky stage and demonstrably tired, are good, but I worry that Thomas, who has a man-sized, productive cough, will let loose with one while we're in the medical offices.  Fortunately he doesn't and after a 15 minute visit we return to station #22, for our final stamp of approval, our one year.

It is about 8:40 by the time we are past immigration, an hour and forty minutes after touchdown.  Since we are the last passengers to pick up our luggage, our colorful Land's End bags are nicely segregated and ready to go.  We forgo the hand carts and hire the porter with the tour group cart.  This time the tip is £15. 

We need two taxis.  One of the cabbies seems to know the way to our flat in Maida Vale better than the other.  Cathy's taxi will lead, ours will follow.  We're off to London.  By 9 o'clock we are in bumper to bumper traffic on the M4 motorway on a beautiful Friday morning.  It is hard to believe we are here. 

The traffic is awful.  It is over an hour into London.  Each time my irritation at our progress begins to rise, the sight of our surroundings calms me.  The day is so beautiful (high 70's and clear) and this is London.  Our guy loses Cathy and Jeffrey's cab and gets lost.  Still, when we pass an attractive store on a tree lined street bearing the name "Catherine Buckley," I have a feeling that nothing could be better than it is right now.

We are deposited in front of our destination at 10:30.  Our flat is on the third story; it is locked and we have no keys.  I now realize I should have paid more attention to the details of our early arrival instead of letting my secretary, Candy, take care of something she wasn't sure about.  There is no response at the basement flat where the owner lives.  I locate a telephone in a shop around the corner.  I call the numbers I have but there is no answer.  A woman who lives on the first (second) floor, with her window to the right of the steps leading up to the main entrance, tries to help, but the best she can do is tell us that our landlady, Ines, is supposed to return at twelve.  There seems to be nothing to do but wait; we are trapped and comforted by our possessions.  We take up ten feet of the walkway leading to the steps: heaps of sleeping children on heaps of colorful luggage.  The image of Jeffrey, sound asleep, just like another beaten piece of luggage is unforgettable, and somehow a fitting end to our long night of traveling.