Let me set the scene: 8 a.m. at a modern day British haunted mansion. After a 5:30 a.m. wake up, a series of sad goodbyes, and an hour-long bus ride, my friends and I arrived at London Heathrow Airport. With hours still to go before our 11:20 departure, we decided to take the AirTrain to the gate and split up from there: half of us would stay with all of the luggage, while my friend Uma and I went to find breakfast. Big mistake.
We arrived at Gate B38 and immediately found seats. Uma and I left our luggage in the (hopefully) responsible hands of our friends Will and Nina and set off to track down some food.
A quick circle around terminal B taught us that there was no food to be found, and my friends needed coffee.
“There’s not even a Starbucks?” Uma asked Will, who had traversed one half of the terminal while we checked the other.
“Nope,” he promised, and sent us on our (not so) merry way back to terminal A, where we knew we had seen a Starbucks and a Pret À Manger.
The adventure started out great. The AirTrain came right away, and we got on with confidence. Clearly, we were experts at navigating London Heathrow Airport.
…At least, we thought we were until the train came to a stop. Not at terminal A, but at terminal C.
“This…doesn’t seem right.”
We filed off of the incorrect AirTrain and onto the correct one, sending a video update to Will and Nina as we did.
“We got lost,” I told them.
“We did not get lost,” Uma interjected. “This airport is just dumb.”
And how right she was. Just as the AirTrain finally pulled into Gate A, the doors opened. On the wrong side. The area from which we had entered the first AirTrain was within sight, and we tried to wait for the doors to close on the right so we could exit to Gate A on the left, but a stern security guard told us we had to choice. We had to get off the train.
So we left the train and hopped on the escalator, searching frantically for someone, anyone, who could help us get back to our friends. We were informed by multiple kind (if somewhat judgemental) airport employees that our only option was to go through security. Again.
So we waited in line behind a family with so much luggage they must have required a separate plane just for their suitcases. Finally, though, they passed through each checkpoint and it was our turn. And suddenly, we were back where we started: at the first terminal of the airport, surrounded by food options.
We got food and returned to our terminal without issue, but there was one trial waiting for us back at the gate. A teenaged trial named Will.
We exited the AirTrain for the final time and beelined to our friends, hands full of food and drinks and passports, oh my. But Will had his hands full, too. What was in them? A Starbucks coffee.
“Hey, did you guys know there’s a Starbucks right here in this terminal?”
On second thought, scrap the guide to getting lost at LHR. Maybe just don’t go. Especially without a responsible adult to lead the way.