The parents have arrived

Wednesday I was sitting in the arrivals lounge of Heathrow's Terminal 4 waiting for the Northwest Airlines flight from Minneapolis. My parents would soon be landing. I was grateful that they weren't on one of the early morning flights--driving around the M25 during rush hour is grin-and-bear-it experience at the best of times (usually without the grin, no matter how good the CD collection).

I checked the expected arrival time of the Northwest flight in the morning before I set off: the 'scheduled 12.15' had turned into an 'expected 11.40'. I needed to get my skates on and I mentally crossed off a couple of last minute jobs around the house. I always liked having the house ready and looking nice before they arrived--the child in me trying to impress, 'see how tidy my room is!' But I hated being late for my parents and had only been late once or twice in the 19 years they've been visiting, so I convinced myself that their jet lag would prevent them from seeing that I missed a couple of jobs. Of course the reality is they will not even care because I know they aren't coming for a room inspection but for a good visit and a chance to see how my world is getting on.

I arrived early. As I walked into the waiting area I checked the arrivals board. The time had changed to 'expected at 12.25.' Better early than late, I decided and turned to the Starbucks where I ordered both food and coffee I didn't want but knew it would buy me enough time in a more comfortable seat. I pulled out my book to read, concentrated hard on the book because a couple of Americans behind me were having a loud conversation about the people they had sat next to on the plane ('a very well behaved little girl and a baby that slept spread eagled on his mother's lap the whole trip!'). I wondered briefly if we all have loud conversations (we = Americans).

I couldn't concentrate. I reflected on the years of these meetings. They had started with me taking the Gatwick Express from Victoria to Gatwick to meet my parents, then tube across London to the East End where I lived the budget life of a student. I felt truly advanced in the world when I could afford to pay for a taxi from Victoria to get them and their suitcases back to Whitechapel. And now I am driving around one of the busiest roads in the world, collecting them, and taking them back to my home in a very pretty part of Essex.

This was the first time I had collected them at Heathrow. Once the arrivals board read 'baggage in hall' my habit has always been to study the people coming through the doors. Do they look like they've come from Minnesota? Silly, because many people have just made a connecting flight through Minneapolis/St Paul so my assessment procedure is flawed from the beginning. I look for Vikings, Twins, U of M clothing. I then listen for the accent. 'You betcha!' And the long vowels. I heard someone say 'oh yeah, it was a really good flight, really comfortable.' It sounded Minnesotan.

I began to see the red and white luggage labels of the Northwest flights coming through so I gave up on the book and wandered over closer to the doors, watching as each of the trollies edged around the corner, owners following, pushing, wearily scanning each of us for their people. Each burst of people through the electric doors made everyone around me strain forward as they studied each face then sink back slightly and wait again. I wondered how many of the people around me were expats from Minnesota like me. I almost turned to the woman next to me and said something, just to start a conversation--the American in me, but then the British influence took over and I closed my mouth and turned back to watching the new arrivals.

I was thinking of my fellow blogging expats and wondered how many times each of you have gone through this! I wondered how many of you would have started the conversation or how many of you rush around for a week before your family arrived getting jobs done like mad (we repainted the hall last weekend), or how many of you have completely different experiences with waiting in arrivals for your family's visit.

Michellouiis an American who has lived in the UK for 19 years. Although she loves Britain, she remains steadfastly American and now has a Mid-Atlantic accent to match her Mid-Atlantic culture. Her Blog is Mid-Atlantic English or How I learned to stop worrying and love the host culture (tips for enjoying your life abroad).

Photo credit: caribb

Comments

[A Modern Mother]

Hope you have a great visit!

[Michelle]

Thanks, its going well if a bit distracting. Dad is now building a tree house for his grandaughter which is quite nice...

[Brit In Bosnia]

I love having the parents come and visit. But, it can get quite stressful, my mother and I trying to share the same kitchen space (I never do it quite right...) and going from no contact to being together all day.

Hope the tree house is coming along nicely!

[fitflop]

I think each child miss the love and warm of parent and I wish ti see them visiting as sooner as possible. And the idea of Tree house is simply mind blowing.