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050512
Our departure from Ottawa had been delayed by an hour so we arrived in London later than we’d anticipated, close to 8am. Front-of-the-planers were given a fast-track through customs, a previously unseen perk that afforded us a much abbreviated line. We got through lickety-split and headed to the baggage area, as we had been told back in Ottawa that we’d have to pick up our bags and recheck them onto Turkish Air.
After a good hour at the conveyer (okay, not such a good hour) we did some poking around and discovered that we’d been misinformed. Our bags had in fact been checked all the way through to our final destination. This presented us with a slight problem: we’d picked up a couple of bottles at the Ottawa duty free that we had intended to stow in our luggage when we switched airlines at Heathrow. So we detoured to our upcoming Turkish Airlines gate to inquire about checking the alcohol and circled back to an Air Canada kiosk where we begged a box and some tape to pack it up with before ultimately learning that we couldn’t check our new “luggage” until closer to our flight time after all. A slight inconvenience, but no biggie.
Our connection wasn’t until 4:30pm so we had some time ahead of us. M’lady had been to London before whereas I hadn’t, so she left it in my hands. After some light breakfast and internetting in the executive lounge I did a bunch of humming and hawing before finally declaring that we should hit the London Underground. I tucked the box ‘o booze under my arm and off we went.
Much of the Piccadilly line is actually above ground, so I was treated to an elevated tour of London as we sped past stops with names that have been forever etched in my mind. Gloucester, Baker Street, King’s Cross, Hyde Park. Names you’ll find copied all over the world and here were the originals. Through the windows I saw flats and lorries and blokes standing in queues to visit the chemist. I watched right-hand steering cars with their boots and bonnets puttering along the wrong side of the road as buskers picked their plectrums with barely a bobby in sight. I swear I saw Mary Poppins, twice.
All the buildings were made of brick and organized in a haphazard conformity that betrayed centuries of history. We switched trains and soon enough found ourselves at St. John’s Wood with a classic English drizzle in the air. Down the street a bit we hung a right and suddenly there it was, unmistakably the spot that I’d seen a hundred thousand times before yet never visited.
Abbey Road.
I walked straight past a dozen or so tourists who were walking back and forth across the world’s most famous crosswalk…er…zebra crossing* and straight to the gate of the studio itself, the building where four young and nervous lads met budding producer George Martin and together changed the course of popular music. The mere sight of the building gave me shivers. Abbey Road is still very much a working studio so there are no tours offered, but standing at the gate with my jaw agape and my heart a-flutter was enough.
Next I walked partway down the street, stood on the right-hand sidewalk with my hands on my hips and turned to peer back at the picture-taking tourists, just like the rather anonymous and coincidental Paul Cole did on that August morning more than forty years earlier. Hopefully some people will notice my little photo bomb in the background of their pic and get a kick out of it.
Of course I had my own crossing to make so I directed m’lady to a good spot for the photo and did a couple of back-and-forth’s. The drizzling rain, the inevitable crowds, and the quietly begrudging commuters stuck in the blatantly unnecessary traffic jam mingled with my formerly alcohol-drenched sleep-deprived exhaustion to take a bit of the shine out of the whole affair, but it was something I simply had to do and I’m glad that I did it. I got some fuzzy pictures of m’lady as she took her turn and then we strolled back to the tube for the hour-long ride back to the airport.
After checking in to our connecting flight we still had an hour to kill so we popped into the Executive Lounge for some chilli and a few beers. Dizzily unslept and slightly unsteady, we boarded our flight to Istanbul and found ourselves adjacent to a loud Turkish argument between some passengers and a group of flight attendants. Of course we couldn’t make out a word, but ultimately two of the arguers left, leaving a lady and her very loud and whiny child in a pair of seats beside us.
‘Lil Loud & Whiny coupled with somewhat indifferent elitist service to make for a less enjoyable flight (says the already insufferable Business Class snob), but it was still leaps and bounds ahead of sitting in regular class. The seats weren’t pods but they fully reclined (pretty much) and we both spent most of the flight fast asleep.
We arrived in Istanbul with little time to change planes, however we did manage to hit up the Turkish Air Executive Lounge for a half-hour or so and it was stunning. The food and pastries were amazing, they offered an endless array of drinks, and the split-level room was upscale marble and glass everywhere one cast their eyes. They had a golf simulator, an immaculate antique snooker table set in a beautiful library, warm oak furniture all around and honest-to-Adaghan one of the nicest, most well-appointed bathrooms I’ve ever seen. I almost hit up the gilded marble and mosaic showers for a quick refresher but I was worried about missing our connection so I gave it a pass.
The third leg of our journey would take us to Cape Town by way of Johannesburg, continuing in the very lap of luxury. Like the previous leg there were no pods, but the food and the service were incredible. For dinner I ordered a potpourri of Mediterranean meze (white eggplant salad, grilled chicken breast, cherry tomato and frisse), potato leek soup with olive croutons, and mushroom ravioli for my main. The meal came with a fruit and cheese tray and a whole series of desserts too, including tiramisu, coconut ice cream, and chocolate soufflé. On an airplane!
After dinner the stewardess poured me another Johnny Walker & Coke and handed us each a breakfast menu. It was around 2:00am local time (or at least as local as I could figure) when we submitted our pre-selections to the on-board chef and settled in for one more movie to lull us to sleep. I stretched all the way out, took a healthy slug of my drink and tucked a big fluffy pillow under my head.
Amazing to think that our vacation hadn’t even started yet.
*Accurate fact: Outside of North America zebra rhymes with Deborah.
