When it rains, it f---in poors.

Made my first crying phone call home today. Not bad - I've been in a foreign land where I don't understand the language and plenty has gone wrong; so I think seven whole days and a disasterous missed-flight experience warrants some tears and support from mommy and daddy. Sometimes you just want to hear from your parents that it will be fine, even when you already know that yourself...

The drama began when I checked to see how long it would take to get from Heathrow (where my bags are) to Gatwick (where my flight is). 180 minutes. That alone was longer than my layover. So after sobbing and whatnot, I bought another ticket for the RER and a ticket to London on the shuttle from Le Gare du Nore (back in Paris) to Waterloo Station. Arrived in London a little after 3 - it was still rushed but slightly more plausible. So I rushed right over to the Heathrow, grabbed my bags and caught the bus to make it to Gatwick by 6.

However, the bus hit a little bit of traffic. About an hour's worth, to be exact. So as I barged into Gatwick and made it into the check-in desk at 6:45 for my 7pm flight, the woman just shook her head. "Sorry," she said - not that I believed her, "you've got bags. Go to the ticket desk." She clearly wasn't interested in helping me - she wanted to go home for the day before I even arrived at her counter.

Despite my tears, the lady at the desk managed to tell me the only other flight today was from Heathrow (yes, where I had just come from) and there was no way to make that. And the ticket was no longer valid today, so I'll have to buy another tomorrow. Apparently she didn't realize I spent hundreds of dollars in wasted money today to catch the flight the stupid bus made me miss. Literally, hundreds of dollars on tickets I used and didn't use, fines for changing my mind, cash to get from one airport to another. Not to mention I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday (had to play house arrest last night at my cousin's appartment because I didn't know the code to re-enter after 7). And I've got no pounds left because I spent them all on the bus ticket and the choo.

For some ridiculous reason I was under the impression that when you wanted something bad enough, the whole universe conspired to make it so. Today I realized the more you went something, the more obstacles you will encounter.

All I wanted to do was sleep in a familiar bed, wake up to that beautiful view, buy some white peaches and rosé, and maybe get a start on job-hunting - or at least go to the beach... Instead, I get to sit on the cold, hard floor of Gatwick's airport for a good 12 - 15hrs.

I even look like a mess - but I'm pulling the psychological pieces of me back together (of course I say this with tears streaming down my cheeks - not that I know why there are tears. There's no use in crying and the only way to fix this is to suck it up and figure out another way to my paradise. Crying's for sissies. I'm moving to France and I can't handle this little set-back? Let's not be ridiculous). Still wrapped up in my safari jacket, wearing my favorite traveling cap (the beat-up straw hat full of holes and loose ends that I took from the beach at Cap Camarat years ago), I'm curled up on the floor beside a mound of luggage. My red eyes are surrounded by smeared mascara and God knows what my hair looks like (at 5am when I woke up this morning I didn't really care). And I've been wearing these jeans for a week (stained my other pair the first day). But looks aren't everything, you know...