The Zombie Goes to Tea

In theory, I possess the ability to sleep on airplanes. In practice, I almost never do. No, it's not because the seats were designed by medieval torturers. I'm pretty much OK with folding myself into a small cube and passing out. It's the one place where being built like a dachshund is actually a plus. (If you have never seen a dachshund, this is what they look like, dressed as hot dogs: click to see) No, the reason I don't sleep on planes is because I'm always seated next to people who are either a) crazy; b) smelly; or c) possess some kind of sleep disorder that turns them into a space invader.

Allow me to illustrate. In category A, we have the man who kept me awake for seven hours while trying to convince me to come to Greece and meet his mother. In category B, we have the algae-covered man I shared a row with on a flight from Japan to Detroit. His carry-on was giant trash bag full of socks, and he smelled like the small mammal house at the zoo. Lastly, in category C we have the Rasputin look-alike with narcolepsy whose unconscious head bludgeoned me every twenty minutes on a flight from DC to LA. (If you don't know what Rasputin looked like, this is him: click here. I ask you, would you be able to sleep next to that?)

And on my flight to London last Tuesday, I was once again given a less than ideal seatmate. She also fell into category C. I should have known things were not going to go well when she piled her jacket, blanket, and pillow on top of me in order to buckle her seatbelt. I should really have known after she fell asleep twice while eating. But the moment I actually realized I wasn't going to get any rest was when she started tilting further and further to the side, like a stinky-breathed Leaning Tower of Pisa, until she took up more of my seat than I did. Where was I, you may ask? Pressed flat to the window like a tree frog. Eventually a flight attendant came to the rescue and woke her up. And then we repeated the whole process for six and half hours. Leaning Tower of Pisa. Tree Frog. Rescue. Repeat. All night long.

If you've ever flown east across the Atlantic, chances are you've arrived at the crack of dawn, about eight hours before you can check into your hotel. Such was the case for my arrival. It was hour 20 of being awake. Wrinkled and cranky, I left my bags at hotel reception and set out into the city to kill several hours. As time crept on, the sleep deprivation began to take its toll. My eyes got redder and would only open one at a time. This affected my depth perception, so I tripped a lot. I became too tired to focus, which caused illiteracy, aimless roaming, and an inability to speak in anything but moans. In short, I become a zombie. (Since I was in the U.K., think either 28 Days Later or Shaun of the Dead, depending on your taste.)

Technically, I could check into the hotel at 3:30. But I was meeting friends. They had made high tea reservations for four. I didn't have time to go back to the hotel. So I went, in zombie mode, to tea at Fortnum and Mason. I looked like hell. I could hardly sit up. I'm sure the waitress was surprised to see the bedraggled semi-conscious heap look up at her with one eye and say, "I'd like a pot of rose pouchong, please." After that, I mostly remember consuming lots of miniature food. (I'm somewhat concerned that the kitchens at Fortnum and Mason are staffed by Lilliputians.)

As the day, and then night, went on, I kept saying, "I should really go check in after this." And for reasons I don't quite comprehend, it just never happened. By the time I finally got back to my hotel, it was 1:30 in the morning. I had been awake for about 36 hours (at least I think it was 36, I lost the ability to count in the afternoon). I was surprised to discover that the woman who collected my bags was still on duty. Her coworker, who we will call Igor, eyed me suspiciously as I dragged myself into the lobby. I put my head down on the counter and said something like, "Left bags in the morning. Must need room. I sleep." He smiled and said, "Come with me. They are in the back. I must open [lengthy pause] the vault." Um, creepy. It was at this point that I noticed the dirty flickering overhead lamps and dark red stains on the floor. The dusty windows. The creaking doors. And the fact that the staff seemed to work all night without needing sleep . . . I am staying at a hotel run by Nosferatu, I thought. (I read the Twilight series three years ago, so clearly I'm an expert on these things.) They're were definitely vampires. I should have been concerned. Igor the Undead was about to turn me into his own personal Jamba Juice and all I could think was, "Damn it, now I'll never get to brush my teeth."

Needless to say, I survived. Igor handed me my bags, and I went to my room. I was still fairly sure I was going to be murdered in my sleep, based on the state of the room. That was obviously what had happened to the last occupant. But I was so exhausted I didn't care. "They can have me," I thought, "Just as long as I get to take a nap first." And with that, I, the tea-drinking zombie plopped on the bed and fell fast asleep.