Upon hearing that I’m studying abroad, people love to give me advice on the various ins and outs of the experience. Jet lag in particular is a popular topic of discussion. Seeing as I’ve never spent more than a few hours tops on a plane, most of what I knew about jet lag was gained from movies and the stories I heard from other people. Suffice to say, I wasn’t really sure what to expect from my 9 hour flight, but I was interested to find out about this jet lag business for myself.
As far as I can tell, jet lag is the wrong word. I don’t think that “lag” effectively describes the sensation of finding yourself 5 hours ahead of where your brain expects to be. A 10:30 PM flight which didn’t actually leave till about 3 hours later already had me staring bleary-eyed into the seat in front of me and I hadn’t even left the States yet. All I can say is thank heavens for the on-flight movies otherwise I might have gone legitimately crazy. Armed with a baby sized pillow and square red blanket, it’s no surprise that I got more frustration than sleep. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t find sleeping in the upright position remotely comfortable; not to mention the bumps and jostles from the flight attendant cart as it strolled right into my knee a few times. So sleeping aside, I took to the movies to help pass the time. I watched One Day (meh), Monte Carlo (yes always), The Big Bang Theory (Sheldon), and a few others that I abandoned before completion. With an egg filled English muffin, granola bar, orange juice, and some tea I greeted the morning and stumbled my way off the plane shortly after.
What came next was a fuzzy journey through customs and baggage claim trying to hang on to all of my carry-on and temperamental scarf. As soon as I lugged my suitcase off the turnabout, I re-stuffed it with the seven pounds (or more) I had to take out to check it. With a lighter backpack and my fancy British pounds at the ready, I set off to track down a cab. I wandered around towards the exit and tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about when the taxi guy asked me where I needed to go. Luckily, I got the friendliest cab driver in all of England and he was super helpful when I clearly didn’t know exactly where my flat was. Needless to say, he gave me his card when he dropped me off because we’re best friends and stuff like that. I spilled into my room, and the rest is history.
All this to say that “jet-lag” is just not the right word for how I felt during all of this and the rest of the night. I’ve decided to call it “The Daze.” I didn’t really feel lagged or behind. I just felt dazed and hazy. I knew the things that I needed to do to get from one place to another. I knew that I was in London. I knew that I was unpacking and walking around my flat. But apart from the things that I knew, I didn’t think about much else. I didn’t think beyond the things that were right in front of me, and jet-lag doesn’t begin to describe that sensation. After having a few days to let it all sink in, I’m surprised that I made it here in one piece, but happy that I had a safe journey. Although, I’m still never really sure what time it is.
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