David’s face was slightly lit in the dark by the few random screens of passengers unable to sleep. On a four-person row, we sat at the opposite ends of each other with the kids squished between.
“Never again,” I mouthed to him over their heads while attempting to sleep upright in a cardboard seat. Every few minutes, Ethan wiggled like a salmon fighting to make it upstream and Ella looked like she had been freshly picked off by a truck, layed out, every joint seemingly bending in a direction not physically possible. All good melatonin-induced intentions included, I will rob whatever bank to make ends meet next time we travel just to be sure I don’t have to manage that mess again.
We did on the other hand manage to check a ton of “hope this doesn’t happen to us” boxes off before landing in London.
“Hope the kids don’t get sick.”
Check. Ethan threw up a few times the morning of our flight.
“Hope one of the kids don’t get hurt before we go.”
Check. Ella knocked her knee into her now very very wiggly front tooth.
Hope United doesn’t screw us if we think we need to reschedule.
Check. Can only cancel flight and rebook.
“Hope we—the parents—don’t get sick.”
Okay that last one did not in fact happen, we are fine, but we were witnesses to a flight attendant asking for a doctor in the house over the intercom. Folks were throwing up in front of us and next to us, and behind us was a baby crying for what seemed like half the flight.
And if we look back now, this tone was set weeks prior to our departure. The first challenge: the passport agent signed Ethan and Ella’s paperwork before mailing the applications off but failed to sign Heather’s, therefore delaying a reissue up until two weeks before departing. So after a four-hour flight delay out of Houston and hours prior spent pouring over the minutiae of pre-purchasing train tickets, it only made sense that we would then miss the prepaid train, misunderstand that the tickets could not be exchanged for a later departure, eat crow, and buy a new set of tickets and hurl ourselves down the platform minutes before the train left the station.
All that aside, we did it! From plane to Heathrow Express to London’s Paddington Station to Manchester to taxi to hotel. We were so caught up in navigating the unknown on the fly that we completely forgot and were happily greeted by our Manchester United-themed Marriott (to the boy’s delight).
And the hits kept coming! A friend had recommended an open-air food hall called Hatch, which we opted for since having options seemed like a good idea. Despite it initially being a straight shot from the hotel, Google led us on the scenic route. Good block, too quiet block, Ella fell on her face block, why are the cops standing around on this block. We saw them all. And Hatch is a quirky little spot with tons of options except if you show up on Sunday when 3/4 of it is closed for whatever reasons.
