6th September 2004
The alcohol slowly diffused into my bloodstream, and the veil of drunkenness was lifted as I tried to accomplish what I now know is the impossible feat of getting comfortable in Terminal 2 of Heathrow Airport. Three more hours to wait.
Countless cocktails and my first encounter with snakebite in Walkabout a few hours earlier had now triggered a question that I asked myself over and over again - What the hell was I doing? Of course, I was already fully aware of the answer to the above question, but it had taken a healthy dose of alcohol, and a frantic train ride to Heathrow to realise the impact that the answer was going to have on my previously simple, sheltered life.
I was about to fly half way around the world to Peru, with six people I had only met once before. Once in Peru, (which conjured up images of grinding poverty, and mysterious culture before I arrived)I was going to teach English in a rural school for three months, before embarking on the most popular backpacking trail in South America; Southern Peru's gringo trail.
I was the first of our group to arrive at the airport, about four hours before we were scheduled to leave. However, events that night could easily have conspired to prevent me from ever leaving jolly old England.
I had travelled from Lancaster to London that morning to say my farewells to some good friends, and instead of opting for a quiet last night, preparing for my first long-haul flight, I was (easily) co-erced into a drinking binge.
We had spent the day chatting about nothing much whilst wandering around London, sucking in the atmosphere. The London Eye, Westminster and The Tower Of London were amongst the last sights of England I saw, instilling me with a sense of patriotism and wistfulness.
So, after meandering down the south bank, we went for a meal at TGI Friday's, and this is where I first put my foot on the slippery slope to disaster. I had a cocktail to wash down my burger and chips. One cocktail soon turned into two, and then three. And TGI Friday's cocktails are more akin to buckets than glasses. All feeling very merry, we paid the extortionate bill before moving on for "just one more."
We arrived at Walkabout, where I was kindly allowed to store my stupidly large backpack. Unshackled from having the equivalent of a hefty child strapped to my back, I completely let myself go. Soon we were all extremely drunk, dancing and having a good time. The fact that it was 11pm and I had a flight to catch at 7am didn't matter anymore. I was blissfully unaware that my cavalier attitude and over-indulgence would lead to me being punished severely later on.
I vaguely remember a conversation I had with a complete stranger as I staggered ungracefully around the dancefloor. "I hear you're the adventurous traveller who's off to Peru?" he asked. "Yep!" I boasted, proudly, although at that point I wouldn't have used the words adventurous or traveller to describe myself! "When do you go?" he asked. I checked my watch. "Fuck. I have to leave for Heathrow in ten minutes."
"Cool. How long are you going for?"
"7 months," I replied, and sat down before I fell down. That statement struck me dumb. I suddenly realised that I would be 19 when I returned to England. That I was going to miss my friends and family sorely. That I know absolutely fuck all about Peru. The unknown stretched before me like a daunting, gaping chasm, and for that moment I was terrified. Considering the longest time I had left Lancashire for previous to that night was 2 weeks, 8 months seemed like a very long time. Luckily, I was confusing a moment of clarity with a moment of weakness.
We finally managed to drag ourselves away from the bar, and set off for the underground. I remember standing on the platform, waiting for the train to come and sever my ties with all that I knew...
No comments:
Post a Comment