Amsterdam to Manchester

Amsterdam's Schiphol airport looks really depressing, and the walk to my connecting flight was fucking long. Imagine dragging your luggage along for a 15-minute hike. It's ridiculous.



They do have a nice little display case of a model of the airport, made entirely from Lego. After all, Amsterdam is the home of these popular bricks.





The connecting flight is even worse than usual. It was supposed to be an hour long, but it feels like many times that. And if possible, the plane is so small and the seats so close together I can't even fall asleep properly.

Below us, tufts of white clods come together and form a beautiful, inviting blanket. But you don't realize how far away the clouds really are until you see a tiny little plane far below, plunging headlong into the fluffy mass. Then you get your perspective.

The plane descends over the English countryside. It all looks landscaped and pretty, a far cry from the depressing stretches of the American Midwest.



I grab my luggage then Customs asks to swab my bags for drug particles. I'm like, whatever, I'm way too early anyway. Funnily enough, I find myself trying to adopt a Brit accent, though not very successfully. Or at the very least, toning down the whole American thing and trying to sound more neutral. I also have to ask almost everyone to repeat themselves. Damn Brits, why can't they speak proper English?



Now I try asking Information how to get to the Film Festival's offices. Good thing they don't know the directions, since I call YP right after and find out I'm supposed to go to the hotel instead. Hop on the train, and off I go. It's only one stop, I should be there soon. Apparently the hotel is just a short walk away from Manchester's Piccadilly train station. Hooray.