Operation Airport: Sunday Edition
We’d deliberately picked a Sunday for travel — quieter roads meant we didn’t need to set off at some unspeakable hour. The flight wasn’t until 12:20 p.m., but with the usual three-hour check-in ritual, our taxi pulled up just after 6:00 a.m. and had us at Heathrow by about 7:30. Better to be early and bored than stressed and breathless.
Bags were checked in straight away, and Jane’s wheelchair was tagged without fuss. All smooth sailing... until we got stuck behind a bloke trying to bring one golf club onto the plane. Yes — as hand luggage. Because nothing says “inoffensive carry-on” like a potential bludgeoning device. He was at the assisted check-in too, dragging out the entire process. Eventually, the staff sent him upstairs to argue with someone else, and we were finally allowed to proceed.
Security, Sanity, and Sniffles
With check-in out of the way, there’s really no point dawdling before security. Queues can stretch unpredictably, so we headed through to airside. Plenty of shops and eateries awaited us beyond — though even without VAT, everything was eye-wateringly expensive.
Unfortunately, our flu decided to make a surprise comeback. What we’d hoped was the recovery phase turned out to be a short intermission. We didn’t feel up to eating, so we grabbed a drink and spent the next few hours simply wandering from one seating area to another, trying to pass the time and ignore the sniffles.
By 9:00 a.m., we still had a few hours to go. Having learned from previous Heathrow adventures that the departure gate is always a trek, we began the pilgrimage early — about an hour before they even announced the gate — just to get ahead of the stampede.
The wheelchair made everything far smoother. Sure, assistance is available, but it tends to involve corralling everyone into a holding pen before security, where there’s precious little to do or eat. With smooth airport floors, we were free to whizz about at will.
I’d also done my homework: the aircraft doing our flight in from San Francisco lands around 7:00 a.m., gets turned around (cleaned, refuelled, restocked), and heads back out. Unless there’s a fault, it tends to leave from the same gate it arrived at. That same plane ping-pongs back and forth for about a month before it’s pulled for safety checks — unless it misbehaves mid-rotation. Who knew aircraft were such creatures of habit?
Flight From Hell
When we reached the plane, they were already boarding those swanning off to the expensive seats — you know, the ones with champagne and actual legroom. But then came a rare perk: the wheelchair got us called to the front, and within minutes we were settled into our seats. Sorted. Or so we thought.
Unfortunately, that’s where we remained — stationary — for the next hour. No explanations, no movement, just a lot of recycled air and simmering impatience. Eleven hours on a flight is already punishment enough without tacking on bonus minutes for fun. Nothing to do but grit our teeth and try not to breathe too deeply.
Humidity? Never Heard of Her
Once airborne, things took a nosedive — not literally, thankfully, but our health certainly did. Whatever mild recovery we'd staged before boarding unravelled in record time. The cabin crew were great, gliding past with drinks like clockwork, but that didn’t stop us from feeling worse by the minute. It didn’t take long to realise the air was bone dry — like, desert in a heatwave dry. Maybe that explained why we’d started feeling so rough even before take-off. Nothing like low humidity to really dehydrate the soul.
Turns out, we weren’t the only ones falling apart. Before long, someone was stretched out by the emergency exit looking like they’d just staggered out of a fever dream. That became the unofficial infirmary — a rotating hotspot for fellow sufferers, each taking turns lying flat while the plane lurched ever onwards.
And as if that weren’t enough, a storm system over northern America decided to play air traffic control, re-routing us over Canada. We had to arc further north than planned before swinging left at Vancouver, hugging the coastline for an added 3,000 miles of “fun.”
So there we sat. Fourteen hours of non-movement, airborne misery, recycled air, and a flu that refused to be ignored. It felt like time had slowed to a syrupy crawl — by the time we landed, I was convinced I’d aged a decade and was one cup of orange juice away from a full-blown medical emergency.
Still, we survived. Just.
Arrival at SFO: The Last Shall Be First-ish
The thing about being first on the aircraft is you’re almost guaranteed to be the last off. It does give ground crew time to bring the wheelchair up and let airport assistance appear with their mysterious backstage pass to immigration, though. Honestly, I’m convinced they’ve got a secret shortcut — we somehow arrived alongside the entire plane-load anyway.
To make things more interesting, two A380s had landed just before us. With 450 people apiece, the woman pushing the chair was not about to get trapped behind that human tidal wave. Thankfully, once the flight crew cleared immigration, their desk converted into the accessible lane — and voilà, we were ushered straight to the front like VIPs with sniffles. Processed in minutes flat.
Then we noticed the paramedics.
Apparently, we weren’t the only ones wilting — passengers from our flight were dropping like overheated vegetables in a Tesco fridge aisle. Most likely dehydration, courtesy of that arid cabin and 14 hours of joyless altitude.
A few minutes later, we were at baggage reclaim, where our luggage was first off the belt (small mercies). From there, just a short stroll to arrivals, then one level up to departures, where BART — the Bay Area Rapid Transit — awaited us like a metallic chariot to downtown salvation.
From plane to platform in about 30 minutes flat. Frankly, I think that deserves a medal
To the city: Beam Us Up Barty
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| BART, Retro Futuristic |
There’s something undeniably retro-futuristic about BART trains. They remind me of Space: 1999 — even though there’s absolutely nothing in that show that looks like them. But if you’ve seen any sci-fi TV from the '70s or '80s, you’ll know the vibe: metallic, boxy, with a subtle hum of Cold War optimism.
The ride into the city took another 30 minutes, with the wheels making that tortured squeaking noise that can only come from a train that’s been around since disco was king. Half the ride is above ground, and the scenery — all rolling hills and brightly painted houses — really does give the impression that you’ve just pulled into an American daydream.
Luckily, being seasoned San Francisco visitors, we knew the drill once we disembarked. Getting to the hotel wasn’t half as bad as we’d feared. What really saved the day was the newly installed lift from the BART station straight into the Westfield shopping centre — no stairs, no drama. We swung by Walgreens, grabbed a couple of drinks, and popped out the west door. Two minutes later: hotel. Sweet, sweet horizontal rest at last.
The Pickwick Hotel, At Last
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| The Pickwick Hotel, 5th & Market St. |
By now we were both properly ill — the kind of ill where you're not even sure which end to hold a bucket under. Had the journey taken even ten minutes longer, I fear the BART train might’ve needed professional cleaning. Bags were abandoned in a pile as we crawled into bed and flicked on the telly for a token attempt at consciousness. Not even the blaring symphony of San Francisco fire trucks could rouse us.
We slept straight through until lunchtime the next day.
At least the worst part was over. I’ve never been madly keen on long-haul travel to begin with, and this one felt particularly punishing — a 20-to-22-hour marathon from the moment we got up in the UK to finally collapsing in that hotel bed. By now it was around 3 a.m. back home, and we were feeling every single one of those time zones.
Still, it was all for the greater good. San Francisco was waiting — vibrant, iconic, and packed with things we’d missed the first time round. And despite the rough start, we couldn’t wait to get stuck in.
Reflection on the Day: “Flu the Friendly Skies”
There’s a special kind of madness reserved for long-haul travel while ill — a blend of stubborn optimism, logistical acrobatics, and the slow realisation that your body has staged a quiet rebellion. We knew this flight wouldn’t be glamorous, but nothing quite prepares you for the surreal ballet of Heathrow at dawn, where golf clubs masquerade as hand luggage and flu symptoms play peekaboo with your immune system.
The day unfolded like a tragicomedy: smooth check-in, chaotic security, and a plane that doubled as a floating infirmary. We were dehydrated before take-off, delirious by hour six, and spiritually broken somewhere over Canada. The cabin air could’ve mummified fruit. And yet, somehow, we endured — wheeled, rerouted, and rattled all the way to San Francisco.
There’s humour in hindsight, of course. In the moment, it was just a blur of tissues, turbulence, and ticket machines that mocked our jetlagged brains. But even through the fog of illness, there were glimmers of grace: the wheelchair that turned chaos into calm, the BART lift that felt like divine intervention, and the hotel bed that welcomed us like a long-lost friend.
This wasn’t the triumphant arrival we’d imagined — more like a crash landing into horizontal survival. But it was ours. And in the grand tradition of travel misadventures, it’s the messy beginnings that make the best stories. San Francisco was waiting. We’d made it. Barely. But sometimes, barely is enough.
