I’m flying to London on Saturday. I’ve been there three times before, each marked by some slightly disembodying fever dreamish circumstance. The first time, I had mono – or glandular fever, since I was in the UK – and wasn’t supposed to travel, but I was 20 and couldn’t imagine forfeiting the money I’d spent on my flight. I remember lots of things about the trip: falling asleep in St. James Park. Stumbling through the Victoria and Albert with eyes half open. Curling up for hours each afternoon in my friend’s dorm bed.
The second time I ran into a smidge of trouble at customs because I didn’t actually know what hotel I was staying at and the customs officer was not thrilled by my stammering. I hadn’t traveled internationally in a few years, so I was rusty.
The third time was last summer, when I taught an SAT/ACT class for a week. I was so well prepared – I knew the hotel name and address, I had no communicable diseases – until my flight was delayed and I ended up stuck in Toronto overnight. I landed at Gatwick a full 24 hours after I was due, meaning that instead of spending my first day adjusting to jet lag, prepping materials, and going to bed early, I went straight from the airport to the classroom (fortunately, I had a co-teacher).
This time I have a direct flight, so I’m hoping the fourth visit to London will be the most awake ever. But I’m prepared to bravely drink as much coffee as necessary. I’ll be teaching the same SAT/ACT class and tutoring via Skype in the evenings afterward, so I may just try to titrate until I’m 80% caffeine.
