I really enjoyed the apartment and if I were to return to Tivat, I could stay there again. The only issue with the location is the access to taxis. Occasionally, I’d see one coming into the block of apartments, but it was a coin toss if they were dropping off or picking up. To find an available one, I’d have to drag all my crap to the main road and hope for the best.
I’d managed to get to the road, but before I even had a change
to flag someone down, a beat-up old car pulled up next to me. A guy leaned out and asked if I needed a
ride. I said yes but … this did not look
like a cab. There was no signage anywhere
or a meter that I could see. I asked the
price to go to Tivat Airport and he said 10 euros. More than reasonable, but …
The dude got out to move a bunch of stuff around in the back
seat just to get my bags inside. With no
other room in the back, I took shotgun while being wary the entire time. It was a short trip to the airport but a long
walk to the terminal. The reason for that was the guy wasn’t allowed to drive up to the main gate. So, nope.
Not an official cab. But at
least he got me there is one piece and didn’t try to gouge me (either literally
or figuratively).
Once again, the travel gods are looking out for me even when
I make some sketchy decisions.
While there were tons of folks hanging outside of the tiny
airport, the inside was practically deserted.
There were few seats inside, which is why everyone was out front. I joined them to wait for a good 45 minutes before
check-in began. Then it was off to wait
some more to get to security. Then it
was more waiting for the flight to be called.
So, yeah. It was a
travel day.
Less than two hours later, I was back in Türkiye. I just did my routine from two weeks earlier in reverse and cabbed it back to the same hotel I stayed in before. The next morning, I had my last Turkish breakfast for a while
then cabbed it back to Istanbul Airport for the big non-stop
flight.
I do really like Turkish Airlines. The food is good and the seats don’t numb the
butt as much as some other airlines. While
I did have an aisle seat (not my preference), the middle seat remained
empty. The other single woman in the
window seat agreed that we got lucky.
The flight was actually decent for being my umpteenth trip
across the pond. Then it was the usual routine while back in the states. I’d managed to book the Airbnb I’d had the
last time for a couple of days.
Seeing Trump 2024 signs on the way to the apartment was just
depressing. Being in the country is already a bummer. I didn’t need more
confirmation that I really don’t want to return to live in the U.S.
Amidst the other errands I had to run, I took full advantage
of the tub and dyed my gray hair away. That’s
the one perk(?) of coming to the U.S. It
feels like a reset, a refresh before beginning the adventure again. Except …
I had something of a moment in that apartment in
Woodstock. It was time to decide my next
move and I was at a loss. My Schengen days had reset which was great. I wanted to return to Portugal (shocker) but
was still having a difficult time finding housing that didn’t break the bank. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. I didn’t want to get on another plane, but I
definitely didn’t want to remain in the states.
I considered extending my stay just to give me more time to
plan but the place was booked. I was
supposed to leave the country in the next few days and had no idea where I was
going.
I felt a little lost and unwanted. Not a good feeling.
Fortunately, it was brief.
I managed to find a new home for a week and make the arrangements to get
there.
Whew.
***
Ah. Heathrow.
I’ve just now discovered (after more than a year of travel)
that heading to London is a good, cheap way of getting out of the states. You can get a non-stop flight to an airport
that can connect you to anywhere in Europe.
The problem, as always, is security.
I had to retire my trusty carpet bag while in the states as
it was getting really worn. I replaced
it with a small roller bag that can be used as a carryon. It was an adjustment having two roller bags
and trying to move them around (escalators are so much fun). Easier on my shoulders, but still a
challenge. While checking the big bag into
Vueling Airlines (a new one for me), the lady asked if she could also check in
the little bag. Hey, as long as there
was no fee – sure.
And look at that. With
one less bag, getting through security should be a breeze, right? There’s nothing in my computer bag and it has
NEVER been flagged before. Easy, yeah?
Sigh.
It got flagged. My
shoulders slumped as I walked over to the screening area. After waiting for the previous person to get
checked, I stepped up to the counter … only for the officer to leave the
station. Okay. Is someone else coming for shift change or am
I just going to stand here until I miss my flight? There’s no reason for this in the first place.
Eventually, a woman showed up to do the screening. She’s scanning, she’s taking stuff out, she scanning
again and not finding anything. But, she’s
sure there’s something there. I’m
thinking if it’s taking this long to find something, maybe it’s not worth
finding? But still, she pressed on.
Turns out there was a tiny bottle of hand lotion, well under
the 100 ml limit, that I had slipped into the bag and forgotten about. And why wouldn’t I forget? That thing has probably been in there for
months and no other airport has cared.
But this was Heathrow.
The airport where any liquid passing through security is treated like an
explosive.
After all that, she didn’t even throw the lotion away. All that time and energy spent on nothing.
To say the least, I was a bit perturbed.
So much so that after I’d repacked all my crap and started hunting for my gate, my distress must have been visible. I passed by a woman standing in front of her
retail store. She asked if I was
okay. Without stopping or so much as looking
at her, I said “I will be. Thanks for
asking.”
Maybe Heathrow isn’t the best way to get out of the
states. For the sake of my blood pressure,
I might need to avoid it in the future.
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