I was turned back at Heathrowe on Friday the 13th. I’ve never bought into the superstitions ascribed to those days. But now, I feel terrified by the idea of another Friday the 13th. Granted, it was just over a week ago. So I may recover and be my old, cavalier self who isn’t put off by dark, mythological notions. I actually love black cats and bats and spiders and snakes and things associated with scary witches and Halloween. I want Friday the 13th to be stripped of its new association and returned to me, once again, as a magical day.
Meanwhile. I was denied entry to the UK. I was detained, not allowed to communicate with anyone and then told I could stay overnight, but must return the next day and go back on a 1pm flight and they’d return my passport as I got on the plane. I was very, very lucky to have a Friend there (Ann Howard, a lovely Quaker from Brighton), and she shepherded me to her daughter, Rebecca’s, flat in London where the beautiful little family hosted me and gave me comfort, soup and good, strong coffee in the morning. John Sheldon, a Friend from Warwick, drove all the way down and even was involved in an accident on the motorway, but arrived just in time and took me to Heathrow and then transferred his own money to my bank, so I could get from Montreal to Toronto.
I had the wrong Visa altogether. The Leaveners needed a special license, and I needed a Visa that cited that license.
I feel a right fool. I’m going to stay with my brother and his family in Rochester New York. I’m taking the bus on Tuesday morning. I’m gonna restore, I’m gonna reflect. And I’m gonna look for a good, new bourbon.