Is it fair to refer to it as "across the pond?" I'm pretty sure the Atlantic Ocean doesn't appreciate it and I definitely felt betrayed.

Okay, so I am notoriously bad at keeping these sorts of things updated, as my Live Journal friends can attest to, but I am going to try really hard to keep you all apprised of the important stuff. So here goes.
I left Portland around 10:30pm on Sunday the 20th. The flight, from PDX to DC, was packed. I didn't have very interesting people in my row, but I think the older lady next to me was pleased because we both spent a good chunk of the flight doing Sudoku. They showed the movie the Sentinel, I'd seen it, but was able to just watch the last of my Netflix on my laptop. The flight was 5 hours and we got into DC at 6:30 local time. I had three hours to wander around, before my flight out. I needed to drop off my Netflix in the mail, but after wandering up and down the terminal I was getting a bit discouraged. I went to the 1st class lounge and asked, apparently Dulles Airport no longer has mail service?!?!? I don't even know how that might work... So I am still carrying around my Netflix, it'll probably cost me a small fortune to mail them back to the states. Oh well, the best laid plans...
My flight to Heathrow was much more pleasant, though of course much longer. The plane was fairly empty; apparently since the latest terrorist situation, the Dullas to Heathrow flight has been losing passengers. United's loss was my gain, as everyone was able to stretch out a bit. I had the nicest older couple who rotated back and forth sitting next to me. They were going to visit their 7 year old granddaughter who lives outside of Oxford, while her parents are on Holiday. They were quite excited. They got even more animated when they found out I was from Oregon and knew about McMenamins. The couple, who I actually could tell you quite a bit about, except for their name, were planning on doing a tour of all the McMenamins hotels next time they came to Oregon. Besides the extra space, this flight actually feed me and I was able to get a few winks of sleep.
I got into Heathrow at 9:30pm. I had no idea that the hardest part of my journey was still to come. I flew through immigration with no problems and didn't even get stopped at customs as everyone had already gone home. Hmmm. I then went to find the express train that the hostel had listed as the easiest way to get to my temporary home. Mind you I had my travel pillow, a huge 30+ pound bag on wheels, a mid-sized duffel bag (also quite heavy), my laptop in a messenger bag (not a laptop purchased to travel with) and my purse. I could barely move and of course after a few steps something would adjust and the whole arrangement would have to be picked up off the floor. So after what felt like the journey of a lifetime I reached the info desk and asked about the express. It soon became apparent that the express took me no where near my hostel, so the nice women pointed me back in the direction I'd just waddled from and told me to take the tube. The ticket area for the tube was a mad-house even though, by now, it 10:3o. There was only one ticket machine that took cards or notes, one that took coins, and one lone ticket booth with a person selling tickets. Sadly the relief of finally getting my ticket was quickly replaced with desperation when I realized that I had to get up a huge flight of stairs with my four belongings, if I wanted to get to the tube. Fortunately, after five minutes and even less steps a young man came along and carried my heaviest bag up the stairs for me. Now before you make any comments about how my "good-looks" helped me out of this dire situation, let me remind you that I had been traveling for 14 hours straight, I hadn't showered in at least 24, I wore no make-up, and I hadn't slept more then a few hours total. No, this was a case of pity and sexism. Wonderful, beautiful sexism. I can't even imagine how pathetic I looked trying to get all those bags up the stairs and the young man, must have realized I probably was incapable of actually getting to the top by myself. Just as a side note: this situation of being stuck at the bottom of stairs in the tube tunnels with all my bags repeated itself three more times before making it above ground; each time I was helped, each time by very young men and teenagers. It certainly gave me hope in regards to the current generation of men.
So when I finally made it out of the subway station, I realized had no clue where I was going next. I thought that I understood the directions the hostel had given, but I've since realized that directions are given very differently in the UK and generally make a few too many assumptions. I flagged down a black cab, who told me that it was close, but at that point I just wanted to climb into a bed, any bed, even a bunk bed. So I got in (note: cab drivers in London do not help you with your bags, even if you look extremely pathetic) and he proceed to take me four blocks and charge me 3 quid. Welcome to London! I thought my long journey to reach a bed was ending, but I was quite wrong. I checked in at the front desk, which was buzzing with a lot of activity, even though it was a Monday and almost midnight. Then I got the bad news, "Unfortunately you are on the top floor". "There's what like three floors?" I asked, hope oozing through my question. "Five" was his unfortunate reply. To make matters worse, in the UK they start with the Ground floor and only after you've climbed a set of stairs do you make it to the first floor. So I left my heaviest bag at the bottom of the steps and began up my six flights of stairs. The first trip wasn't that bad, do-able. By the second I was dripping in sweat, seeing stars and could have been a cast member in the next zombie movie made in London, no make-up required. It was only after I had gotten all my stuff up the stairs that I realized we didn't have lockers in our room. Back down the stairs I went to put my laptop and other valuables behind the front desk. I figured I would call and check in with the parents while I was downstairs and by the pay phone. My mom had very generously bought me a great international phone card from Costco before I left; but when I went to use it, I was informed the card was not active. I tried and tried, but I quickly realized that either my mom had very generously stole the phone card from Costco or, only slightly more likely, the idiot cashier didn't actually activate the card. Great!!! Totally beaten I slowly trudged up the six flights again. I was exhausted and was thrilled to finally be climbing into bed. I figured I'd get a good solid eight hours, as they served breakfast until 9:45. I suppose I've always been an optimist, but then I'd also never stayed in a hostel before. Around 3:00 am the guy in the bunk below me quite considerately climbed quietly into bed; fifteen minutes later he proceed to not so considerately start snoring. Loudly. I was contemplating placing a pillow over his face, you know just to stop the snoring, and wondering what penalties there were for that sort of thing in the UK; when in came three of my other roommates. Not so quietly; especially considering it was now 4am. I couldn't do it anymore, so after maybe two hours of moderately good sleep I went down stairs and used my trial credit on another phone card to call my mom. It was the best five minutes I'd had since stepping on the plane in PDX.
My adventure had begun, a bit more difficultly then I had hoped, but ever the optimist I finally feel asleep at 5 am thinking, this is going to be fun.

What to expect from my next postcard: My first day wandering around London, the first batch of pictures and traveling to Edinburgh...