I'm So Bored with the U.S.A. (t-minus one fortnight)

Passport? Valid.
Plane tickets? Purchased.
International credit card? Acquired.
Olympic tickets? Waiting at will-call.
Textbooks? Buried in my closet.
Suitcase packed? AHAHAHAHAHAHA


After discussing this trip at last night's dinner out, it has finally sunk in that I'm leaving IN TWO WEEKS. And so now that I've finally processed that this trip is real, and not some elaborate hallucination, or a dream that's going to happen "maybe some day"...the nightmares have started. Don't get me wrong, I'm far too excited about this trip to be nervous. At least consciously. But in the wee hours of the morning, my subconscious came to the the rash decision that it is not only terrified, but also a firm believer in Murphy's Law.

No, there wasn't a plane crash or anything lifted from the plot of Taken. I made my flight and even managed to get some sleep on the trans-Atlantic leg. But then I landed. I was told that instead of having to camp out at the luggage carousel until my bag finally appeared, I could just show my ticket and ID and pay fifty cents (because quarters are obviously standard currency in the U.K.) and they would have my bags for me, like a coat check. (Tangent: If this were a real thing, it would be pretty wonderful). And this is where everything goes from picture-perfect study abroad travel to "really, Brain?" 


Instead of picking up my luggage at a counter, and had to go to a trailer behind the airport. Seems normal, right? While I wait in line, I grab my ticket and driver's license, and fish a pair of quarters out of my pocket. I get to the front of the line and slide this collection of goodies across the counter. The insanely ghetto (think Bon Qui Qui) clerk looks at my ticket and starts stumbling around the trailer, looking for my bag. A minute later she comes back. Unapologetically: "We don't have it."


This can't be real. "Are you sure? It has to be there." There are six weeks of life-necessities in that suitcase, not to mention a considerable portion of my wardrobe. "Mmmmmmhmmmmmm. They don't always make it." Okay, fine--they can ship it to Oxford, right? So I ask. "Naw, it's not on the wrong plane. It's gone. Sometimes they just donate a couple bags."


Needless to say I couldn't go back to sleep.