We Left London
Hello! I’m Matthew, and not too long ago, my family and I packed up and moved from a small town in Wyoming to the bustling streets of London, England. “Howdy, London!” is my way of sharing our adventures with friends and family. But if you’ve stumbled across this and we’ve never met—welcome! I’d love to hear from you, so feel free to drop a comment below and introduce yourself. Now, let’s dive in!
After 163 days, we finally had enough. We packed our bags and left London. Okay, okay, not forever—we just took a quick weekend trip to...
Let me tell you all about it.
It was a Friday. Tiffany and I had spent the day toiling at our respective jobs, while the boys, heads down in their books, endured another day at school. After the final bell rang, and with a couple of hastily packed backpacks, we met at the train station to begin our first adventure outside the city since moving across the ocean.
Meeting on the platform, we boarded the tube and headed toward the airport. You’ve probably heard of Heathrow—the gateway to the world, with over 80 million passengers a year and flights to 200 destinations in 80 countries. It’s a magnificent airport, not far from home, ready to whisk you away to anywhere your heart desires.
We didn’t go there.
Our flight was out of Stansted Airport. Stansted is so far from London, I’m not even sure it’s in the United Kingdom. After three trains, two delays, a short hike, and an Uber ride that would qualify as a road trip, we finally pulled up at Stansted.
We tumbled out of the car and hurried inside, praying for short security lines. Stripping off belts, shoes, trousers, jumpers, and well everything else, I prepared for the scanner, only to be pulled aside for a more thorough pat-down. Still, we pressed on, following signs to our gate, B-1075. After another train ride and a trek that could rival reaching base camp at Mt. Everest, we arrived, joining a queue that stretched endlessly before us.
You might wonder why we didn’t fly out of Heathrow. Good question. One perk of living in London is the absurdly cheap plane tickets, but with those bargains come certain sacrifices—like flying from a random airport nowhere near where you live.
At Stansted, there are no jet bridges. You hike out to the plane, parked at the end of the runway. As we approached our chariot, I heard a clunking sound from the left engine, eerily reminiscent of our old John Deere tractor before it broke down in the hayfield. But what do I know about planes? I’m sure it’s perfectly normal.
The captain enlisted passengers to load luggage into the cargo hold, a sure sign of budget travel. We climbed the stairs, the cold wind biting across the tarmac, and I squeezed into my seat next to a former sumo wrestler who had undoubtedly let himself go. I scanned for Tiffany and the boys, hoping they’d found their seats as the flight attendant, with a strong accent, welcomed us aboard and wished us a pleasant flight.
After a quick safety demonstration, which I watched like my life depended on it, the engines roared, and we lumbered down the runway. Soon, we were soaring above the lights of London, heading east.
Not long after, the flight attendants announced they’d be coming down the aisle with snacks, drinks, lottery tickets, and cigarettes, all available for a donation of plasma or an exorbitant amount of euros. I skipped the treats, snuggled up to my seatmate, and hoped Tiffany wouldn’t be too jealous as we jetted across Europe to land in…
Until next time,
Matthew
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What a cliff hanger! Can’t wait to hear about the rest of your trip!
Love, love, love your hilarious blogs. Anxiously waiting for phase 2 of your trip.