S1E1: A Break for the Coast
By: Daniel Machlup
Tags: Fun, Covid Diaries, Travel, Friends, Coast

Although I had a pleasant five-and-a-half-month, pandemic-orientated, stay in the UK - I was glad to bid farewell to the bad weather, below par food and pessimistic attitude — in favor of a few weeks of surf in Spain and Portugal before heading to the US.

I had my farewell in Regent’s Park on Saturday. Although running late for my own party (obviously), I made stop at Waitrose. In a rushed blur, I purchased a full trolley of party essentials. While sprinting to my Uber across a busy Finchley road, the trolley realized it was too far from its home base, and decided to automatically lock its front left tire, resulting in the trolley tipping over, and me running around trying to collect the scattered limes, tonic waters and falafels off the sidewalk. Once the final Guac dip was packed away, a flustered Waitrose attendant coming running out to tell me that I had forgotten to pay for everything and could I please return to settle my £140 bill…

I arrived 30 minutes late in a sweat. After setting up my volleyball net (which turned out to be a child’s size volleyball net) and booking my flight to Portugal for the next day (and checking in simultaneously), I poured my first G&T and began to socialize. I have a very eclectic crew from many different friend circles. I loved watching the intra- and inter-mixing of these circles. The sun shone for the day, people laughed, drinks flowed, we had ample ice and friends were always ecstatic when their song played on the collaborative playlist. I was kid in a candy store with all my best friends there, bouncing from group to group. We stayed in the park past sun set. The day was described by a friend as — and I quote — “bro, honestly the best park event I’ve ever been to” .

The 14 of us left in the park went to dinner and luckily organized a table to seat us all. The energy remained high, and the drinks and banter continued to flow. We said some impromptu speeches and ate outstanding pizza.

We took the bus back to Jonni G’s house afterwards — only to realize that someone had forgotten all the leftover alcohol and food at the bus stop. Jonni and I took two electric scooters back, driving confidently (and stupidly?) to find our box of alcohol waiting patiently on the side-walk. We played Jenga and drank cocktails into the early hours. Matty K and I had some hilarious conversations in the kitchen where we cried with laughter. As we were preparing to leave, a great Spanish song came on and we began to dance. The remaining 6 of us stood in a circle around the tiny coffee table, dimmed the lights, put on sunglasses and proceeded to dance individually in our own worlds for the next 20 minutes.

The next day, in a hungover and delusional, over-exhausted state, I packed up my London life. This includes 4 cookbooks, a mini-volleyball net (+ ball), a yoga mat (+ 2 blocks), an over-priced umbrella and an extremely comfortable pillow. Phil walked me to the station where I audibly bid fairwell to our crappy apartment, the cool bar on our street that I never went to, the health store where I buy spices and vegan chocolates and the small park across the road where we witnessed many people urinate.

I lugged my three large bags to Luton airport, checked-in, went through security and was day-dreaming about landing on the Portuguese coast in the near future. However, as the expression goes, “People make plans and God just laughs”. My airplane was a stones throw away, when the lady asked me to give her my UK or EU residence card — neither of which I own. The women simply looked behind her to the two strong gentlemen with earmuffs and said, “please remove his bags from the flight”.

I waited outside gate 20 for an hour and a half to be escorted out of the airport. During that time, I thought of all the consequences of not being able to leave the UK. Primarily the fact that my UK visa expires soon and that I had missed the last repatriation flight to South Africa. No country would be willing to take in a stranded SAFA. It was the first time I’d ever really felt trapped by my South African passport. There was a brief moment, where the anxiety got so large, that it actually imploded in on itself, and then completely disappeared. I realized in that moment that it doesn’t really matter and there’s nothing that I can do about it. Some people are going to jail for life right now, which is way worse than my situation, and even they will get through it. All I can do is remain in the UK, and see what happens, with a worst case that I’ll never be able to travel back to England. I realized that I can live a happy, meaningful and fulfilled life without ever returning to England anyway.

Armed with my new positive attitude I organized my way out of the airport. I spoke with the managers of EasyJet who assured me that I could fly to Paris the next day as they have different Covid visa requirements. I headed back to Farringdon station where a chipper Matty K was waiting to help carry my bags back to his place. We stopped off at a vibey roadside pub, where we had two pints. I was filled with content. I was planning on having a beer in Lisbon, but instead, I was having one in London with my best mate. Did the location really matter? Life is what happens while we’re making other plans. This was life; being stuck in an airport is life. Portugal and my future were the other plans. It all needs to be viewed as one journey, not a constant looking forward to those other better(?) moments. I got back to DMT (Dan Matt Tom) Headquarters and I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I woke up bright and early, repacked my bags, did some pushups and sit-ups, and made my way to the Eurostar train for Paris. The ticket attendant ran off with my passport, returned 20 minutes later and said that I can’t actually go to Paris…. But, that I can go to Amsterdam.

So here I sit, just outside of Amsterdam. I now need to road trip for 2,235 kms to get to the start of my road trip.