The Prison and the Pea

Deportation. Topper. Turkish prison. Mashed peas. There are no better words to explain my London Heathrow Airport experience. Originating in Dulles, we had an uneventful flight into London. Once we arrived, however, our trip took a more exciting, and also more stressful turn. We decided to travel into the city, deeming our seven and a half hour layover a long enough time period for the two-hour roundtrip trek. Little did we know we would soon be blocked in our efforts to explore London by a mundane and unimpressive household appliance: the washing machine. Edward, one of our travelmates, had unfortunately allowed his passport to undergo a trip of its own in the spin cycle. It must have been on “machine wash heavy” because his passport looked as if it had endured Vietnam. It was as weathered as the Harker’s Islander shrimpers, and with just as much “character,” as Edward said.

Clayton and I easily went through immigration with only a little lighthearted jostling from the immigration agents (one asked me what my major was and when I told him I was undecided, he said, “Oh, so you’re just screwing your parents into the ground until you figure it out, huh?” Sorry Mom and Dad!) Edward was not as lucky. His jostling was far more serious – they informed him that since his passport wouldn’t scan because of the huge wrinkles traversing across the bar code, he had a 50/50 chance of being let in to Turkey. If he were on the less optimal side of that 50%, however, he would be deported back to the US, do not pass go, do not collect $200. So literally right after making it through immigration, we turned around and went straight through security to get back into the airport. Edward called Prof. Shields, the professor that is leading the program, who told him to risk it, but to wait from a phone call from her after she called some of her Turkish contacts. A few hours and one really great airport bench nap (for me) later, she called back. “You need to stay in London,” she said. “If you try to get through immigration and can’t, they’ll put you in a Turkish prison for 24 hours before deporting you.” Edward decided that staying at UNC Honors house in London for a few days would be a better idea than a Turkish prison for 24 hours. So as Edward was figuring out his accommodations in London , Clayton and I decided to find somewhere get some lunch. Our only requirement for this restaurant was that it must have fish and chips, because we are huge tourists. We ended up at Garfunkels, and Clayton ordered a Stella Artois, tripping over the second word a little bit and having to repeat himself to the waiter. A few minutes later, the waiter brought out Clayton’s bottle of beer along with a glass filled ¼ of the way with a clear liquid and asked, “This is how you wanted it, right?” A perplexed Clayton answered haltingly, “Yes…” The liquid tasted like Sprite syrup – Clayton decided to use it as a chaser until he finally got the nerve to ask our not-so-jovial what the heck he had ordered. “You ordered Stella with a top didn’t you?” he said. “It’s lemonade, you mix it with the beer.” Clayton did as instructed and it was AWFUL. Almost as bad as the mashed peas that he decided that he HAD to join the Clean Plate Club and finish everything on his plate – including the mashed peas. Mmmm, British food. Thankfully, we would be enjoying a far more delicious cuisine in Turkey.