Dear Fiber Friends,
on September 6 I flew to Scotland, thoroughly excited and ready to look at 17th century archeological knitted garments, soak up new research by knitting scholars, and catch up with friends at a wool festival. No pretense here, I had packed a collapsable suitcase for anticipated purchases, and was also hoping for new contacts and ideas.
Perhaps I should have had an inkling when my flight was sufficiently delayed into London that I’d missed my connection to Glasgow (this seems like a normal occurrence to me, so I wasn’t on guard). No flights for the remainder of the day. A rather surely young man said I could fly to Dublin and get into Glasgow at 10 that evening (it was about 8 am). Or “wherever else” I might like to go, but otherwise I’d get to hang out in the waiting area of the airport until the next scheduled flight (at least 24 hours away). No. Far too uncomfortable, and beyond my coping abilities. I opted for a flight to Edinburgh, from whence I could get a bus or train and still have a good sleep before the opening lecture the next day. What could go wrong?
Actually, things went reasonably well with the newly improvised travel. I checked into my wee b&b, had an early dinner and set out the next morning with all appropriate ambition. I had a nice neighborhood to walk through, and even a coffee shop with an apparent textile theme (I was filing it away under “for tomorrow” as I’d already fully caffeinated).
Quite near the venue I even found an interesting fixer-upper complete with starter roof garden. I thought this building would have interesting stories to tell.
The venue itself was another interesting building; an old Congregational church repurposed into a lecture hall. Perfect!
I found a seat and watched as people began to arrive. I even made some notes about how it felt, after such a long absence, to be back in an academic arena among “my people” (we fiberistas, or in the words of a good friend, textilians). It was a very happy atmosphere, with every second person pulling out their knitting or crochet as they settled in quietly, or cheerfully chatted with old friends.
I was a little dismayed as the program began, that the acoustics of the hall were “off” for me to hear the speakers clearly. Perhaps well suited for soaring choral voices, the spoken word might have been good from the (un-amplified) mouths of fiery preachers, but through a microphone had so much reverberation that I couldn’t distinguish the spaces between words.
Undaunted, I thought I’d just move at the break and try to overcome the problem. And then the next shoe dropped (so to speak).
This is not the staircase that led to the basement marketplace, but helps me illustrate the problem that came up. I was traveling down the narrow side of the wedged-shaped treads when the railing stopped with several more steps to go (at least 5-6 I think). My next step landed mostly in the air, with only my heal hitting the tread, and down I went. Fortunately, it was straight down (hitting bum on each remaining tread) so that I landed with my lower legs and feet bent under me (rather than head-first, for example). And while that somehow included scraping my right shin down the last couple of steps, I felt more-or-less intact.
Self pulled together, I made my way to the vendor space, made a quick tour (determining who could be passed by until Perth, and who needed a visit the next day), and headed back to the end of the coffee break via the lift.
I did find a better acoustic spot for the remaining morning papers, and felt myself stiffening up. A little walk and some lunch might fix that right up, but it already was clear to me that I might need to skip the afternoon session. I tend to under estimate degree of injury — one prime example was the day I slipped on some ice, breaking my wrist, and then went to buy this hugely heavy ladder for Bruce’s birthday. My wrist hurt quite a bit carrying the ladder to the car, but I shook it off. Famous last words.
By the end of the day I was in the emergency room of the Queen Elizabeth II Hospital where I was given some lovely pain pills and told to take a seat. Because I had a non-life-threatening injury, my expected wait time was to be at least 8 hours. After about 1/2 hour of trying to decide how long I might be able to manage the hard wooden chair, I was given the option of being on a list for the next day. A taxi ride later, and I was at least able to lay down. I slept like a rock.
Friday was consumed with walking the 830 feet to the pharmacy to purchase my first, official old lady accoutrement: the cane (not as fun as any of these), and fighting with airline websites to try to find the soonest flight home (it was clear that all the standing and walking originally scheduled for the next 4 days was pretty much out of the question). I’d convinced myself that nothing was broken (even though I was a little concerned about a rib that shrieked every time I took a deep breath), but ached everywhere. I didn’t recognize that these body aches might also have been, coincidentally, an early symptom of Covid. I was also a little feverish. Again, not out of the realm of possibilities for the fall.
With the extreme kindness of the desk clerk at the b&b, the airlines and my credit card company, an airport hotel and taxi were sorted, and I moved to the next stage of my journey.
Upon arrival at the airport hotel, I left the character and interest of Scotland and found myself in Anywhere. With absolute apologies to Scranton, Pennsylvania, I refer to these airport hotel complexes as being in Scranton. You could be almost anywhere in the world, and would be forgiven if you couldn’t tell where that was. Every chain hotel. A nearby highway, acres of parking lots. Few trees. Passing busses and stands of taxicabs. The land of soul crushing sameness. Predictable, safe and absolutely unremarkable.
Having arranged for assistance, I was in the handicapped corral at the airport the next morning, seated on an impossibly uncomfortable “wheel chair” (walking was quite slow and extremely painful). At least I had a compatriot — another lady scheduled for the same flight as mine, so I was able to chat with her (even though I will admit I was thoroughly miserable and likely rotten company). All I wanted to do was lay down flat and drink water (not necessarily in that order). I couldn’t get over how thirsty I was (and actually continue to be).
Checked in! The journey home begins! Not. Well, there was a small complication. The computer was down so we’d have to claim luggage in Dublin and re-check for our ongoing flight. My compatriot and I had long lay-overs, and weren’t worried. Not worrying apparently is the first (or next) sign that another shoe is about to drop. In terms of dropped shoes, I think I might have collected an Imelda Marcos closet full on this trip.
A half-hour delay (not worth mentioning). An hour delay (still plenty of time). A two hour delay (starting to get a little nerve wracking since that’s now preceded by the word “projected”). That time passes. No hope for the connecting flight. The airline gives us a voucher to get a bottled drink. Still waiting.
Cancelled.
We are told that we’ll be taken to the airport lobby and reunited with our luggage. The airline would find us a place to stay for the night, and we could go there and go online to rebook our flights. No, they don’t provide assistance. No, they don’t provide vouchers for food (although we can file for reimbursement). No, we’ll have to get our own transport back to the airport he following day. All airline policy. The reason for all of this delay and the cancellation? The entire airline electronic booking/scheduling infrastructure is “down.” Including their backups. No idea when they will be able to rebook to get us out (so why are we supposed to be trying to rebook online if everything’s down?).
My new traveling friend and I gave up after 5 hours and made our own arrangements for a hotel right across the street (the airline had proposed driving us 2 hours to Edinburgh where the room would be billed to them directly; “we apologize for the inconvenience”). Knowing what I know now, I made the right decision, because at about hour 6.5 I was hit by a rising fever, additional aches and pains and some very unpleasant other symptoms of Covid. I still didn’t suspect the virus, but suffice it to say that the fatigue was so great I became really attached to the clothes I was wearing as I slept in them 2 days straight (only managing to shuck off my shoes). I really thought I had food poisoning since I didn’t have any respiratory symptoms.
Periodically I would come to long enough to go online to try to find a new flight, and ultimately was able to find a reservation to make it out on Wednesday (a week from the time I left home, and actually only 1 day before my originally scheduled return). As complicated as it would be to file for refunds for that Thursday flight, all I could think of was “there’s no place like home…..”
I am disappointed to report that airline travel is/can be every bit as bad as people have described it post pandemic. This surprised me as I’d already completed two trips this year that went essentially without a hitch, and I kept hearing that things were getting better since the vacation holidays were over.
I was actually really pleased that the large number of Americans from my flight negotiating for flights, hotels and assistance, did not behave loudly or obscenely as you might have expected from some of the news reports from the past year. Like the Europeans around us, we tried to take turns, look out for one another, and overall behave humanely in the face of a situation we could do nothing about, and which would in no way have been improved by shouting, pushing, or otherwise acting out. People who didn’t have the patience to work with the airline went their own way and made their own arrangements. That doesn’t mean we weren’t frustrated or upset. The relative calm within this completely chaotic situation is the one thing that actually gave me some hope that things here in the States could improve. I think what we are lacking is will.
On the needles…..
I did not knit a stitch in the last 15 days. I think that may be some kind of a record. For the most part I didn’t even think about trying to knit. Covid kicked my butt (I did test after I got home as a matter of course, but was unsurprised at the positive result). So here is pair 2 of the boot toppers that got in some good travel time but no loving. I’m anxious to finish them and also finish off pair #3 and move on to the next thing. Ideas are brewing (always). My kingdom for a bot to knit the boring parts while I’m sleeping. There are days I really wish I had (and knew how to use) a knitting machine for wide swaths of stockinette.
Meanwhile…
Eat fall apples, bake things with cinnamon to scent your home, walk in the woods with the crunch of fallen leaves under your feet, and continue to knit (crochet, weave, embroider) on.
Sara, how awful! We were envying you your trip, not knowing the nightmare you were facing. So sorry. I hope Bruce is taking good care of you.
What a trip! You must be so happy to be home..