So, Heathrow is divided into several terminals, and we arrived at Terminal 5. It, in turn, is split into blocks A, B, and C, with an n-number of gates in each. A high-speed train runs between these blocks, and there was no way to miss it. I arrived 2 minutes before departure, we were in transit for less than a minute, and now I'm already sitting in the waiting area for my flight.
This is where I felt America. Everyone was gathered here: elderly couples traveling together, business guys in suits in economy class, older women with large button earrings, and a group of students, scattered in a way stereotypical for modern European youth, led by a brave guy in a t-shirt with a cap emblem.
At the end of the jet bridge, charmingly smiling stewards and stewardesses were waiting for us (your prejudices regarding height, age, appearance, and figure are silly). Hello. How are you? Your place is in the very end. And they smile. They smile.
And I smile back.
On the plane, they sat an African American woman next to me who kept saying "oh maaaaan" in a classic way. On the other side sat a British woman, and we became great friends; she was flying to New York for an annual convention of the best music teachers to teach children how to sing. A caring mother and grandmother, she was a ballerina in her youth, and her husband and both sons-in-law are involved in filming the Maped Show.
At one point, my stomach hurt so badly that I had to refuse food. That's how I realized the second woman was British, because everyone except her turned to look at me like I was a social outcast, wondering how I could possibly refuse steak for breakfast. This woman helped me by switching seats, offering me pills, like gastrocidine, and chatting about her kids.
In short, I just meant that I am a total failure, because flying for over 7 hours and not eating is like having Wi-Fi on a plane that I can't use because my phone barely picks it up.
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