To
start with, a little piece of music taken from the soundtrack of my
trip to England. "Battery" by Metallica.
The
day had definitely arrived. I had a serious fight with my bag and
suitcase and the strategic way of putting my staff inside them
where much more deliberated than playing chess. Not space enough,
holly shit.
As
a horrible organizer I always leave things for the last minute. So
after I woke up I find an easy way to get me on my nerves: trying to
do several tasks at the same time the day that you have to go to the
Yorkshire pudding country.
Yes
mates! I arrived on time, took the plane and finally seat on my
previously reserved place (after some troubles and discussions with
the lovely staff). I was listening to Metallica the whole time. As I was seating a swedish (kind of) flight
assistant with an adorable gloomy facial expression appeared from the
nowhere:
- You're not supposed to be here. Go and find some other seats! They're free. (mudafucka).
- Excuse me (using british manners, always try to calm the situation down guys), but according to my flying boarding pass that's my reserved seat.
- Let me take a look.
After
confirming why Ryanair's hiring politics were absolutely focused on
efficency and courtesy she answered with a mere ok, sorry and then
left. Whatdafuck.
Almost
arriving, the plane was descending crossing a thick white curtain
made of clouds. The landscape changed radically, grey was the
preferencial colour (Welcome to UK).
As
I turned my head right I noticed how “Kooth Rappali's father” had already placed his head on the front seat immersed in a profound sleep.
We
finally landed, Stansted wasn't the typical airport that you see on
US films. Moreover, buses weren't available till two hours after that
time so I decided to go by train.
What
a coincidence I had, a spanish boy from Santander came to me telling
that he was hearing me talking catalan (oh, here you are).
- I have bad news for you. Here there are thousands of spaniards (you cannot scape from a spanish person, they are everywhere. It's a plague). Apart from that, you can find many latinoamericans too.
How
lovely. So after a little chit-chat once we arrived, we shared a taxi
to the centre of Cambridge. The first destination where the mine.
One
remarkable issue about cambridge taxi drivers is that, in order to
have their license, they should be able to identify many different
types of voices and accents for a better service to the customer.
I
was sent to the other side of the city and I didn't have any bloody
idea about that. Actually I think there's a huge difference between
Widen Hill and Wetenhall Road in Cambridge.
So,
as you see, a welcoming surprising face was standing in front on me,
behind the main entrance of, let's say, the “fake” Wetenhall Road
house. Three middle-class british women plenty of joy and hospitality
offered me a glass of red wine. I couldn't resist such a temptation.
While one of them was trying to contact a friend of hers who was from
Spain in order to talk to her, another one was calling a taxi to
bring me to the right place. I spoke to the lady's spanish friend, what an awkward
situation.
Finally,
I could arrive with the bad feeling of not being able to claim the
indian taxi driver for his incompetence, so lucky me I had a
double-payment.
