The morning I started out for Belgium I was not in the most coherent of mind states. I had set the alarm for 3:45am to catch a bus that would take me to the airport.
When I got on the bus it occurred to me that I had no idea what terminal I was supposed to get off at. I didn't know if there would be signage. I did a quick scan of the bus for people my age or younger with big bulging backpacks, or at least big bulging beards. Good strategy as any to follow them, I figured. Alas, there were no other people on the bus except exhausted looking airport workers, or people who had wheeling suitcases so large they'd get laughed out of any hostel they attempted to check into. Right, I thought, no travelers.
I attempted sleep, because one thing my almost 30 years have taught me is that's as good a solution as any when presented with a problem. When I couldn't catch a moment's rest due to the incessant and high-pitched gossip being exchanged by the two women in front of me (yes, yes I was grumpy) I tapped one of them on the shoulder.
"Excuse me. Do either of you know where to get off for Ryan Air?"
"Yes. Terminal 3." One of the women said.
"Great, thank you." I said. Hoping that I sounded genuine and not sarcastic. I have a tendency to sound sarcastic when tired.
We arrived at Manchester Airport and the sleep-ruiners stood up. I at once felt grateful I'd chosen the seat I had. They were both wearing jackets that were labeled, "Ryan Air." I bet on them to know what they were doing and ended up following them all the way to the gates.
When I actually got to Brussels I, as usual, had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. Sometimes that works out really well for me. Sometimes it means that I pay as much for a round trip airport-city-airport bus ticket as I've paid for my return flight instead of the 5 euro it would have cost me had I booked it online. Whoopsies.
When I got on the bus it occurred to me that I had no idea what terminal I was supposed to get off at. I didn't know if there would be signage. I did a quick scan of the bus for people my age or younger with big bulging backpacks, or at least big bulging beards. Good strategy as any to follow them, I figured. Alas, there were no other people on the bus except exhausted looking airport workers, or people who had wheeling suitcases so large they'd get laughed out of any hostel they attempted to check into. Right, I thought, no travelers.
I attempted sleep, because one thing my almost 30 years have taught me is that's as good a solution as any when presented with a problem. When I couldn't catch a moment's rest due to the incessant and high-pitched gossip being exchanged by the two women in front of me (yes, yes I was grumpy) I tapped one of them on the shoulder.
"Excuse me. Do either of you know where to get off for Ryan Air?"
"Yes. Terminal 3." One of the women said.
"Great, thank you." I said. Hoping that I sounded genuine and not sarcastic. I have a tendency to sound sarcastic when tired.
We arrived at Manchester Airport and the sleep-ruiners stood up. I at once felt grateful I'd chosen the seat I had. They were both wearing jackets that were labeled, "Ryan Air." I bet on them to know what they were doing and ended up following them all the way to the gates.
When I actually got to Brussels I, as usual, had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. Sometimes that works out really well for me. Sometimes it means that I pay as much for a round trip airport-city-airport bus ticket as I've paid for my return flight instead of the 5 euro it would have cost me had I booked it online. Whoopsies.
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