Obviously, this isn't how I wanted my first week in the United Kingdom to go. I had very carefully packed all of my cutest outfits, my favorite jewelry, my best shoes (minus my bright red high heels, I just couldn't justify the space they took up.) my shiny new digital camera's accessories, and a butt load of European converters, because Europe still hadn't figured out how to make a correct socket. (By correct, I mean one that fits all my electronics)
At first, I figured my loving suitcase would just be a few days late--within three days, three of my compatriots got their suitcases back. Mine was not among them. So began a harrowing saga of me calling Delta, my father calling Delta, us both threatening legal action, me crying, my dad yelling, me really hating the French, until voila! They said it was in the Charlotte Airport, and they would send it along pronto.
Then they didn't sent it along pronto. Atlanta claimed Charlotte never sent it. Charlotte said that Altanta was a smelly liar and they did SO SEND IT TO ATLANTA! Heathrow said stop your bickering, you inefficient idiots, and FIND THAT BAG, or the weepy daughter's scary father will sue our asses.
A very helpful Frenchman (possibly the same Frenchman who wasn't very helpful four days ago) made a few calls today, and apparently my bag is now magically at Heathrow Airport, which means that Charlotte retagged it (I have no idea why) sent it to Atlanta, Atlanta missed it because of the new tags but still sent it along to England. I am supposed to receive it late tonight.
Although, seeing how much Delta has LIED to me these past few days, I'm being warily optimistic.
It is not fun having to constantly borrow clothes and computer chargers from your new friends and feel like a total mooch. It is not fun to stress about buying new outfits when you want to put that money towards souvenirs and traveling. It is even less fun when you are phoneless and have to figure all these things out on my own, while my father loses sleep a continent away trying to help sort it.
So Delta, after this trip, I will never fly you again. Frankly, I had no grudge against you up till now. You were my first airplane. I was eight years old, visiting my Aunt Kit. The stewardesses doted on me and let me take a picture in the pilot's cockpit wearing his hat. I still have that picture. Look what you did, Delta. You have just pissed on all of those sweet memories. You made my eight-year-old inner child cry. She TRUSTED you, Delta.
Assuming my luggage DOES in fact get here tonight, expect more frequent blog posts, I have many many pics and stories to share.