Plan B

Finally, on Saturday morning, the day of our flight, Marnie and I found out that it had been cancelled. We had expected as much, but at least now we knew for certain, and could proceed with Plan B. The previous night, we had used the hotel's internet access to contact a friend in the US (Gab rules!) to contact another friend in London, Matt (who also rules, like, totally). His email to us was quite cheekily titled "A Port in a Volcanic Storm". We had a place to crash for the night.

We returned the rental car at Heathrow, which had in the previous few days become something of a ghost town. Please consult any recent apocalyptic film for appropriate visual reference (28 Days Later, The Road, I Am Legend, etc.). The sheer absurdity of the situation was summed up nicely by a group of stranded Italians, singing a broken English version of "Hey Jude".

We took the shuttle from Hertz car rental to the Heathrow terminal, hoping to speak to Virgin about how to proceed, but the doors to the airport were blocked. The airlines had instructed passengers not to travel to the airport, but a handful of people stood outside the terminal anyway, luggage in hand, looking confused and desperate. We took the tube into Victoria Station in central London, then got the train to Matt's place in Pinge, southeast of the city center.

I have rarely been so happy to see someone in all my life (though I'm not much of a people person to begin with). While we had already entered scheming mode as to what to do next, not having the burden of finding a hotel was a huge relief. We crashed out the couch, inhaling obscene amounts of pizza, and decided to put aside any further travel plans for the evening. In retrospect, this was perhaps not the wisest decision