Over the past three years, I’ve been in London nine times. If I am in search of a positive side to what’s happening in the world right now, it’s that I simply cannot travel, and therefore, have time to dig myself out of the debt I’ve accrued from plane tickets and hotel rooms over that time. It’s like a little voice whispers “this isn’t just about you, but maybe give your bank account a rest while we’re at it.”
Sometime in late 2017, I registered an Oyster card that I still have, so I would always have enough money to get me into London proper from Heathrow Airport. That registered travel card has also brought a weekly email into my life; every Thursday a little message called “Weekend travel information” alerts me to which Underground lines have closures, and what buses are being rerouted to where in one of my favorite places on Earth.
At first these emails gave me panic - I thought I was getting them because I’d blacked out and booked a trip I didn’t remember (and I spent enough time googling “flights to London” that this was not entirely out of the realm of possibility.) But rather, it was a polite reminder that travel, and indeed life itself, continued 3,000 miles away, and would be waiting for me when my next trip appeared on the calendar.
That time was meant to be now.
I had a flight scheduled to take me home from London for today. I was meant to take a trip to Berlin with a dear friend, and then spend two days in London meeting with the gentlemen behind the Pod Bible magazine and celebrating another friend’s birthday. Of course none of this happened, and while I lament the faces I missed seeing, I do not mourn the adventure. I know there will be other trips at other times, and I will see my friends and that wonderful city again.
This morning, my weekly e-mail from Transport for London arrived on schedule, and many lines below reminders that transport is for essential journeys only and that staying home saves lives, was a small note. It said that Piccadilly lines would not be stopping at Heathrow Terminal 4,
“because all flights will operate from Heathrow Terminals 2 and 5 only, due to a significant drop in demand.”
Now, I understand that at such a turbulent time, our emotions will get the better of us at the strangest of times. But laying in bed at a quarter to 7 this morning, I was certainly not expecting to lament the grounded flights in and out of Heathrow. I thought about that long journey from Kings Cross or Leicester Square, the elevator up to Terminal 2, the security check and wide, two-story terminal, and the coffee shop where the good latte can be purchased. I know exactly how sweaty I’ll get (even if I don’t run) in the trek to the United international gates that I swear are in Wales. And I can see clearly where I like to sit by the windows and watch them load our bags onto the aircraft, and write love letters to a place it breaks my heart to leave.
I think part of the reason I have such a vivid relationship with the departures at Heathrow is because I rarely long for my vacation to be over. London and I fell in love (though I know it’s rude to speak for someone else) a long time ago, and each trip has made it harder and harder to leave. And I know that city is in just as much of a standstill as New York or Chicago. But it’s hard not to feel a little ache for it, amidst all the confusion and uncertainty, and being so far away.
I know that, similarly to my favorite Billy Joel song, London waits for me. It is not going anywhere, and when I’m able to safely return it will be all the more sweet. But for now, London Transport is open only for essential journeys, and I hope whoever needs to ride the Piccadilly line gets to giggle that this is a train to Cockfosters.