Despite what Instagram leads you to believe, holidays and travelling aren’t always picture perfect. Everyone knows that when you step out of your comfort zone, there’s a risk of serious unfortunate events occurring, be it lost luggage, crime, or a ‘holiday belly’ – if you know what I mean. But, even if the logistics of your holiday goes swimmingly, there’s always a chance of a classic #travelfail.
‘What is a #travelfail?’ you ask. Well, it’s an experience that’s either embarrassing, awkward, or ridiculous, that takes place when you are travelling, and trust me, I’m #travelfail prone! I’ll be posting the most awful, but hilarious stories of my experiences in the UK and elsewhere.
Trigger warning – this post contains references to the after effects of a night out drinking!
On the last night of a holiday abroad, my friends and I made a terrible mistake. Despite the fact that we were in our mid to late twenties, and knew that we are way past the ability to pull an all-nighter like we did when we were teenagers, we found ourselves in a bar at near 5am, around 6 hours before needing to reach the airport.
Suddenly, the world seemed to become tiny as Bonnie and I stumbled towards the metro to catch the first train back to our apartment. The sun had just started to rise in the horizon as we gingerly climbed the stairs out of the station, and our key card slotted into the door at just gone 5am.
We fell into bed, with the room spinning like the drum of a washing machine, and started to drift off to sleep.
Suddenly, our front door flung open and I dived up in a groggy state of fight or flight, expecting to see some weirdo that had followed us home, but instead heard my two other friends collapse into the hallway. Feeling close to being sick, I slumped back into bed to try and get some shut eye.
In what seemed like seconds, my alarm screeched for me to awaken. It was 9am and we needed to get to the airport. Had we known we’d end up rolling in at 5am, we might have packed our bags, but no, all our belongings were scattered over the bedroom floor, the living room floor, the bathroom floor. Shakily, we tried to pack, but found that we were still steaming drunk. Helen couldn’t even stand and spent the morning crawling back and forth.
Somehow, we bundled into a taxi and were driven the 30 minute transfer to the airport. The longest, most disgusting 30 minutes of my life. With the 25c summer morning sun blaring down on us, darting between traffic, I was about as close to throwing up all over myself as I could have been. I had to bury my face into my hat while the other girls sung along to pop music. It brought back horrific flashbacks of the times I’ve had to get taxi drivers and boyfriends to pull over so that I could spew out of the open door.
Eventually, we pulled up outside the airport, and I couldn’t hold it any longer. With legs shuddering, I stumbled to the pavement and laid down, feeling the entire Earth shift underneath me. I desperately needed water, and reached out for assistance, but instead of mercy, the girls simply laughed. At least Helen came to join me on the floor.
It was 11.30am. Somehow, we made it through airport security without getting stopped, despite the fact that we probably reeked of alcohol. Our flight was in an hour and a half. We were desperate for chicken nuggets.
I looked up at the departures board.
London Stanstead – 2pm – delayed until further notice.
I near sank to my knees in despair, surrounded by duty free perfume and chocolates. Devastated, we wobbled through the duty free aisles, dry heaving at the sight of litre bottles of Vodka. We were stood dumbfounded in the middle of the airport terminal, stuck on the wrong side of airport security, still drunk from the night before, with no idea what to do. So I did what any woman who gives up on life would do.
It transpired that our wait would be over five hours, followed by the worst flight of my life, and then taking the wrong turn on the route home, so I guess you could say that the whole journey was a travelfail.