15 July 2001 - landing in london

They lost my luggage.

I knew it. Had a funny feeling already. I headed for baggage claim at Heathrow as if to the gallows.

A friend of mine who lost his luggage once described to me the experience of seeing the carousel slowly empty out, and all the other passengers leave you. Only one bag is sitting on the belt, and it’s not yours. The electronic display that bore your flight number goes blank and the belts stop turning. And you can do nothing but sigh out a very pissed but resigned, “shit.”

It was British Airways that lost his luggage too. I wanted to start that sentence with the word “coincidentally,” but I think it was more than that.

The guy at the lost baggage counter initially told me that my bag is actually in the building -- it just went to the wrong belt. He told me to wait for a bit. I waited for 20 minutes. My bag didn’t materialize.

Then he asked me to file a report, saying that the bag was still in Madrid. I asked him how come he told me earlier that it was in the building? No reply. In my head I was making sweeping generalizations about the British and this country that I never had any desire to visit anyway.

I went to another attendant to ask what they do to the bags that came out of the carousel but were unclaimed. He casually showed me to their storeroom and I chatted with the employees there as I looked around desperately. Very sympathetic, these people.

I had already been here for an hour and was ready to freak. They told me that my luggage was probably still in Malaga. For Pete’s f*cking sake, can they be more inefficient? Did they need a computer to make that one up?

Grumbling and really pissed off I headed out, making a mental note that I will call the hotline every 30 minutes tonight until they memorize my reference number so much they’d dream of it.

Because of the whole delay, I missed the car pick up that the company arranged for me – so I hailed a cab. Pity I was so cross because the driver seemed friendly enough. It took me an hour to get to the city. Traffic was hell. For a while, we were so not moving I felt like I was back in Manila.

True to the plan, I called the hotline twice.


Passed by Harrod’s, the first London landmark I recognized. The cab also went by a very ornate old-style building that looked like a cross between a cathedral and a train station. Apparently this was the Natural History Museum.

The streets were getting narrower and I looked out my window and saw a small square with teenagers lounging about. There was a guy sitting on top of one of four stone lions, with the fountains in the background and a lone, tall pillar with a man on a horse atop it. The pillar was Nelson’s Column, the square Trafalgar’s Square. Aside from Big Ben, this was the one landmark I wanted to go to badly.

Reached my hotel, St. Martin’s Lane, at around 10:00 p.m. Angela once told me that it was one of these Iain Shreager or whatever hotels – apparently really posh, great location and highly rated.

It didn’t look like a hotel for one. It looked like a nighclub. The lobby was dimly lit and had floor to ceiling frosted windows, the counter was a bare white slab of a desk, they had funky yet uncomfortable seats, and the attendants all looked like they jumped out of a fashion magazine. Beyond the lobby I could see two bars, one was packed with people in suits and the other had this mood-lit sort of hall. The whole place looked like the reception area for a disco that I had to ask if I was at the right place.

A guy named Mark was my bellhop who looked more like he was auditioning for a boy band. He offered to show me to my room seeing that I had no luggage to help with. On the way, he was great with describing the hotel and its amenities and mixing it with small talk (“Really? I love Spain.”) In hindsight, I wonder if I just missed out on something.




For a pricey hotel my room was tiny. Very avant-garde though. You had floor to ceiling windows and a clear plastic chair on a bare white, drawer-less desk. The light switch by the king size bed allowed you not only to dim the lights as desired, but change its color to match your mood. (I switched it to red that night.)

Mark asked if he can help me with anything, and I told him I could use an iron and a board since I had to wear the same set of clothes the next day. He got it for me promptly and promised to help check if the airline sends over my bag. I didn’t have any loose change so I gave him the smallest bill I had, which happened to be US$10. Argh.

Just to reiterate how posh this hotel was, in the entertainment cabinet, they had a mini bar, a small TV and a DVD player. Apart from the mini bar items, they also had CDs, aromatic candles, souvenir towels and a cap – for sale of course. There’s actually a price list for an extra toothbrush or towel or shaving kit, and they charge you extra for room service. In the guest book, apart from the pricey in-room dining menu, they also had a list of DVD’s you can rent for a night – ranging from Hollywood blockbusters to adult videos (straight and gay). This place was a laugh and a half.


Phoned up Angela to see if she’d like to join me for a quick dinner.

Met her and her dad at the lobby. I loved Angela’s dad. Very funny, insightful, young-at-heart fellow in his 60’s. It was great seeing him again. I met him twice before, first time in Singapore, next in Hong Kong. Angela grew up in England – her parents having moved to Lincolnshire in the early 1960s and managed a chain of Chinese restaurants. She and her sister, Lizzie, moved to Hong Kong for work in the mid-90s, but her Dad still phones them up every night to check on them. He’s the sweetest guy.

Tonight, her Dad was bunking in her room because he was going to pick up Lizzie at Heathrow early next day anyway.

I kept calling Angela’s dad “Sir.” Later, he insisted I call him “Uncle Peter” because he was no "sir." But I started calling him "Sir Uncle Peter" anyway. Meanwhile, he always dropped the “r” when he calls my name, and his “e” sounds like a “u.” So he pronounces my name as “Pussy.”

Apparently, the hotel was right at the West End, and we had to just go to a parallel road to hit the busy, touristy area where all the theatres are.

Eager to just get dinner over and done with, we went to a fast food place with an open air dining area. Throughout dinner, Uncle Peter kept telling me that I should eat Chinese food, which was more filling. I was just having a slice of pizza because I lost my appetite with the whole luggage mess-up. In between conversations, he’d make funny side comments at the waitress, and later teased me that she liked me.

Across from where I sat was a souvenir shop and I decided to dive in to check if by some chance they sold socks and undershirts and stuff. I couldn’t bear the thought of buying a “London” shirt, so I settled for a shirt with the “Underground” logo. No socks or undies (with everything bearing the Union Jack, who knows what kind of boxers you’d get at these places!)

Angela and her dad took me for a bit of a stroll while keeping an eye out for any place that sold socks.

We were at Leicester Square and at 11:00 p.m., the place was still tourist-infested. It was double-layer weather, around 17 degrees Celsius, I think. We headed on to Picadilly Circus, one of London’s many shopping meccas. Most notable for me was the fact that HMV and Virgin and Tower Records were all here. I knew I’d be back.

Uncle Peter was playing tour guide and showed me Chinatown, which was in the next block. He has been here in England for decades, and he still knows this part of London back to front.

It wasn’t much of a wander. We entered a shopping center called The Trocadero. I was still on the look out for socks and undies. Found one shop that sold girlie stuff -- among them lots of girlie socks in purple and pink and what have you. Wouldn’t wear them if they fit me.

Before midnight we were back at the hotel – which seemed to be alive with the nightlife, especially the bar downstairs.

It was an early day next day so I ran some steam in the shower and let my clothes air overnight. Tomorrow I would meet some of the big bosses at the headquarters of our company’s international operations for the first time. And what they would see is this Asian producer in grungy travel clothes. So much for a first impression.