After two weeks in a tiny medieval village in Southern France, fulfilling one of my life-long dreams - attending a real French art school - I was finally headed back home to Texas. Saying goodbye to my new friends was difficult, but eased by the fact that I had managed to get addresses and a few phone numbers. This fortuitous move proved to be my saving grace in the days to come.
On September 10, our art teacher drove me and another student to Toulouse - her to the airport and me to my hotel. My original plan was to have a day in Toulouse for decompression and maybe a little sight seeing before returning home. That didn’t happen because I was more tired than I realized and ended up resting in my room, reading my book. On emotional overload by then - anything else just seemed too much.
The next morning, right on schedule, the hotel shuttle took me to Toulouse airport where I had enough time to enjoy my last cup of French coffee and buy a bottle of my favourite perfume (L’Heure Bleue) at an airport shop. I boarded my plane and took off - again, right on schedule. The flight to London’s Heathrow was perfect - until it landed.
Heathrow airport is a huge place and because I was unfamiliar with it, I was nervous about finding my way to the Continental Airlines desk to get checked in properly for my connecting flight. My bags - two pieces of brocade luggage and a briefcase full of artwork and supplies - had been checked all the way through from Toulouse to Texas. In an effort to ensure all my souvenirs made it home with me, I had packed them into the basket purchased from the Gypsy man at the village market. That was my new “carry-on” luggage.
When I finally found the Continental desk, there were hundreds of people milling around. It wasn’t long until a tall young man stepped out from behind the desk to make an announcement. He said that there had been a terrible tragedy in the United States and it appeared to be a terrorist attack - that two planes had been flown into the World Trade Center and one into the Pentagon. He continued, saying that ALL FLIGHTS TO AND FROM the United States had been cancelled until further notice. One of the planes had originated from the Newark airport, which was my next connection destination. He instructed us to get our bags from baggage claim immediately and wait for further information, but said that we probably needed to get accommodations.
OH, MY GOD!!! My kids would think I was dead! That could have been my plane! So many thoughts were swirling around in my head. What was I going to do!?!?? I had no money left. I had spent down to my last few francs and a little money in American Travelers’ Checks. Money would have to wait. I had to get my luggage. I had to try to think clearly. Oh, my God. Then the tears started.
It was about this time that the first of three two-legged British angels showed up to help me on this part my journey.
A sweet young man who worked in the baggage area was the first angel of mercy. I was so discombobulated that I was having trouble finding my cosmetic bag. Thank goodness my luggage was very distinctive - brown and gold brocade. The young man was able to locate my bag in a minute; I had already gotten my larger bag and briefcase from the carrousel. So now I had four pieces of luggage and my purse to deal with. I stacked them together the best I could and rolled to find a kiosk to get some money.
While I was standing at the baggage claim carrousel in tears, I ran over periodically to the phone and tried several times using my credit card to call my office - the only number I could remember - my phone book being packed away in my luggage. I was having no luck and was becoming more and more afraid as the gravity of the situation began to sink in.
Another kind young man, my second angel, was standing with me at baggage claim and offered me his cell phone. What a blessing. I was able to get through immediately to Leah, who was sitting in for me at my office in Austin. She confirmed the awful news in the U.S. I asked her to please phone my kids and tell them I was not dead and that I would be back in touch as soon as I knew where I’d be. My oldest daughter later told me that she had in fact made a mad dash home to double-check my itinerary for flight numbers, afraid that I had indeed been on one of those planes.
Finding the kiosk to get some money was not a problem, but suddenly I realized that I did not know a pence from a pound. During my time in France, I had gotten pretty good at francs, but had no reason to learn English currency until then. I threw what money I had at the girl in the cage and asked her to change it for me. She was an oriental gal and we had a definite language barrier, so my hopes of getting an emergency lesson in currency exchange were lost.
Next, I got in a very long line or “cue” as Europeans call it, for a hotel reservation. Everyone in that line was in a state of upset and confusion. One young man had a wife, baby in a stroller and little boy about 4. They had a stack of luggage nearly as tall as the man and were returning home to Newark, but were obviously not going anytime soon. At least I only had me to worry about. No babies.
The first room offered to me at the airport’s reservation desk cost 200 pounds, or about $300 American per night. Too many of those nights would bankrupt me, so I begged for something cheaper and was glad to take a room for 130 pounds. Then I made my way to the shuttle stop, again, wrangling my four wobbly bags. I stood with hundreds of other frantic people waiting for the shuttles to take us to freedom. It was all I could do to get my bags to the curb. I had no idea how I was going to get off that curb and onto that bus with those unwieldy bags, while fighting for my life with all those other panicked people.
Then my third angel showed up. Another gorgeous young man appeared with a single bag slung over his muscular shoulder and offered to help me onto the bus. When the shuttle stopped at my hotel, he also helped me off the bus. I never saw him again, but I thanked him and God profusely for his help.
The hotel was very nice and my room small but elegant. I didn’t really care about the elegance at that point. All I cared about was that there was a private, clean toilet and television with CNN. I promptly glued myself to that tube and began phoning everyone I could - damn the expense. I called the art school back in France to tell them what had happened in case anyone called there looking for me. I called my daughter in Texas. Then I called one of my art school classmates. That nice woman insisted on coming to get me the next day. At the time I didn’t realize Oxford, where she lived, was two hours away, but I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. She took me home with her where she lovingly tended me for the next two days and nights. Another angel.
Unfortunately, as beautiful as Oxford is, I was not able to relax and enjoy it because I was too obsessed with getting home. The immensity of the event began to imbed itself into my thoughts - ‘stinking’ thinking took over. I was actually afraid we might go to war before I could get back across the Atlantic and I'd be stranded for years. My hostess tried to distract me the best she could by taking me to a local, picturesque pub, The Trout Inn on the Thames River, and then on a drive through the Oxford campuses. It was during my stay in Oxford that my Gypsy basket, carry-on bag, became a war casualty. It was simply too bulky and I needed to lighten my load before attempting another airport. So, as a thank-you gift for putting me up, I gave my English friend the bountiful basket and it’s souvenir contents. The rest of my souvenirs were stuffed into my remaining luggage.
A travel agent in Oxford helped me purchase another airline ticket on a planned charter flight to Orlando, Florida. This meant I had to ride a bus back into London, but this time to Gatwick airport. Everyone was to be at the airport three hours prior to take off because of all the new, extra security measures. So my friend and hostess got up at 4 a.m. in order to get me to a bus stop by 5 a.m., so I could arrive at Gatwick by 7 a.m. for my flight at 10:30 a.m. It was a long shot, but I was willing to try anything to get back stateside.
Unfortunately, that plane never got off the ground. More fear and depression set in. The rest of that day was spent going from carrier to carrier in a feverish attempt to find anyone who would take me home. I was on standby with Continental even though I had a solid reservation the following week; I was leaving nothing to chance, hedging all my bets. On one of my multiple visits to Continental’s desk, the entire country held a scheduled three-minute silence for the victims of the U.S. tragedy. The staff was standing at attention in a teary-eyed formation. They offered me Kleenex and comforting words. There was not much else they could do.
It was beginning to look like I might have to live at the airport forever - or at least a whole week. I was exhausted and forlorn. It was then that I decided to lighten my load even more. During my continuous circling the airport, I discovered a post office storefront where I decided to avail myself of its services. I purchased a large mailing box and placed my whole briefcase filled with art paraphernalia inside, along with all the non-breakable souvenirs I had stuffed in my suitcases, repacking yet again. At least my kids might get the souvenirs and see my artwork if something terrible happened and I was killed before I could get home, which felt like a real possibility to me. That box was so heavy that it cost 69 English pounds to mail, but it was worth it because I had downsized to two of my original four pieces of luggage. I felt like I could manage that.
Finding the airport’s Internet Café saved my tentative sanity that day. I spent several hours there communicating via email with my kids and friends stateside about the ongoing situation. My emotions ran the gamut from abject fear to total numbness. But no matter how badly I felt, I was constantly cognizant of the horrors suffered by the people in those planes, the towers, the Pentagon, and all their families on the ground. Knowing that nothing I felt could possibly compare, I was ashamed of myself for having such self-pitying thought.
At 4 p.m. that afternoon, the announcement was made by Continental airlines that they still had no plane to fly. It would be the next day before they knew anything more. There was no way I was venturing very far from that airport; I was going to be standing at that desk when they called for standby passengers. It would be the folks who were physically present who would get on the plane bound for Glory and I intended to be one of those folks. But I was so beat, I knew I had to give up for the day, so I located the hotel reservation desk again, and asked for a B&B near the airport this time.
A dark Turkish man in a rattletrap red van came to get me and took me to his family-run “B&B.” He was very kind as was his sweet English wife, but their place left a lot to be desired. Smokers ran rampant and the walls were paper-thin at best. In short, it was a “flea bag” hotel, but I did not care, I was so tired and desperate. One bright spot was that there was another Texas woman staying there who was apparently an old friend of the host family, making me feel a tad bit safer. That evening, she took me to a neighborhood grocery store where we bought our supper. It was comforting to hear someone speaking in a familiar dialect.
After breakfast the next day, my Turkish host took me safely back to the airport where I rushed to the Continental desk - again. To my surprise and relief, within 30 minutes I was on my way. We all stood in long lines for another couple of hours as every passenger was body-searched twice and our bags hand-searched thoroughly. But none of us cared. We were actually grateful for the extra security. Prior to September 11th, we would have been incensed at the thought of being searched.
The flight home was uneventful, thank goodness. We were due to arrive in Houston around 5:00 p.m. Texas Time. I waited until around 3:00 p.m. to call my kids from the plane phone and tell them I was actually on my way home, thinking I did not want them to be over-worried for the entire flight time. They were so excited and relieved all three wanted to drive to Houston to pick me up when I landed. Ordinarily I would not have asked them to drive all that way, and I did have another connecting flight to Austin, but I was not interested in flying one more mile than necessary.
When the plane landed, there was a rousing round of applause from a plane full of grateful passengers. And when I deboarded that plane, I was tempted to get on my knees and kiss the ground. That Houston, Texas skyline never looked so good. Houston, Dallas, Dime Box or Austin, I did not care. I was home.
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