Thank you to everyone who waited for this story. If, of course, anyone actually did. But here it is — this time I want to share the impressions from a business trip. And let me tell you — whatever they were, this was not your standard travel experience.

The Morning Begins

It all started on Monday morning. We got ( I did at least, don’t know about Ernest) up at 4:30 AM to prepare for the Utility Week UK exhibition in Birmingham. Nothing indicated that this day would turn into one long episode from a travel show with a tragically flawed script.

As morning go — it was chaos as usual: brushing teeth, putting on socks, and making a quick coffee. The first cup spilled entirely. The second cup? Not much better. One eye was still dreaming of the finale of some multi-season drama, while the other tried to locate the toothpaste. As I wiped up spilled coffee, I asked myself — why did I even pour it? The funniest thing is… I don’t even drink coffee.

But okay — it was early, I was sleep-deprived. Things happen.

There was no time for breakfast. I got dressed in my carefully pre-selected business trip attire from the night before. I checked that I had my passport, wallet, some cash, and the usual “travel survival” essentials. I opened the Waze app — my colleague Ernests had already sent his location. Whether he was already in the taxi or still standing outside, I didn’t know. But at least he was moving. A small victory.

I hunted down my new shoes — the ones I had only put on three times. Light, breathable, not leather but fabric — they felt perfect for flights. Though now, in hindsight, let’s just say they may not have been the wisest choice of the day. But time would tell…

At the Airport

Ernests finally appeared, and off we went to the airport. We’re used to arriving on time, checking in calmly, dropping off our luggage. This wasn’t our first rodeo — we’ve been attending exhibitions for over 10 years. Nothing suggested that this time would be any different.

We arrived at the airport without a hitch — no traffic jams, no nightmares. The check-in line was short — ten people, tops. Monday morning — most people were still asleep.

We had two large suitcases with us — one for personal stuff, and the other for exhibition materials and booth items. Everything was packed like a game of Tetris.

We had distributed the weight wisely: one bag was around 10 kg, the other closer to 30. Still under the combined weight limit. And usually, that’s all that matters.

Until the check-in agent asked if our second suitcase (the one that looked suspiciously like a golf bag stuffed with posters and brochures) was being checked in as oversized luggage.

We said, “No, why would it be?”

She replied, “Well… it’s not standard size. And it’s too heavy.”

We answered, “But the total weight is within the allowance?”

She shrugged. “Size is size.”

Okay. We agreed to pay. €100 — painful, but hey, we’re going to the exhibition, not starting a war.

I pulled out my card to pay — surprise! She couldn’t accept the payment. “You have to go to another counter,” she said. “They handle oversize luggage fees.”

So off we went — two wrong turns, three navigational errors, and finally, we reached the right counter. The lady there gave us a receipt that allegedly explained everything. But the next check-in agent looked at it like it was Sudoku written in Klingon.

We explained everything from the top: two bags, one big, one small, total weight under the limit, only paying for size.

She weighed the “golf” bag and said, “Oh, but this also counts as overweight. That’ll be €300.”

Again, we patiently explained — the other bag was only 10 kg, this one was 30. Combined we were fine. Eventually, she gave in. Understood that we weren’t golf tourists, but actual exhibition participants. She agreed that the oversize fee alone would suffice.

After about 20 minutes of airport diplomacy, we managed to pay the fee. Systems didn’t crash. Nothing exploded. And now — we had to go back to the original desk.

Because, of course, no one thought we could just do bag check in from there. That would be too easy.

Back at the counter, we found that the agent had already changed shifts. Now a new girl had taken over. She reweighed our bag and again tried to charge us for oversize and overweight.

We, now parroting our speech for the 4th time that morning, explained that the light 10 kg bag was already traveling through the labyrinth of airport logic and we would be extremely grateful if she’d just let this 30 kg go.

After 10–15 more minutes — bingo! She did.

Security & Beyond

Security was surprisingly uneventful — no confiscated toothpaste, no raised eyebrows at the brochures.

But then I noticed something. The airport floor. My new shoes. A match made in disaster.

The soles were hard plastic. On tiles, they became skates. Every step forward slid half a step back. For a fraction of a second, I felt like Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk — just without the music. Or grace. Like duck to ice , which very need to toilet

Airport Adventure, Continued: The Gate, The Sprint, and Flying Philosophy

We had made it through security. Almost all of us, anyway — my self-esteem took a hit when I had to take off my belt, and they confiscated a small aerosol. The usual.

First order of business? Buy the most overpriced bottle of  Airport water known to mankind — because at that point, it felt like we were about to cross the Sahara on foot, not fly to Amsterdam.

Following long-standing travel tradition, we also picked up a couple of newspapers. Not because we’d read them, of course. Those would eventually return home with us, untouched, and sit on the kitchen table — our theoretical proof that we stayed “informed” during the trip.

We checked the departure board — gate to Amsterdam confirmed. Great! No problem. Off we go.

Finally, a quiet moment. We could actually talk to each other. During workdays, there’s rarely time for casual conversation — everyone’s too busy with tasks, deadlines, and juggling responsibilities. This was our little “mobile strategy forum.” We needed to coordinate, chat, vent, and laugh.

When we got to our assigned gate… it was completely deserted.

We rejoiced: “Perfect! The plane must be half-empty!”

We sat down, happily chatting, convinced we were ahead of schedule — maybe we could even stretch out and fly diagonally across the seats.

Then suddenly — the dreaded airport speaker crackled to life:

“Passengers Mr. [Redacted] and Mr. [Redacted] — please proceed immediately to gate X.”

Wait… what?

Are we late? Aren’t we already at the gate?

Turns out… we were at the wrong gate. Completely. A totally different flight to Amsterdam. Who knew there were multiple ones a day?!

Apparently, the information board hadn’t been updated. The real gate? At the complete opposite end of the airport. Past tax-free shops, around seven corners, and probably through a hidden portal to Narnia.

And so — it began.

The Great Airport Sprint

Full sprint. No warm-up. No warning. Just go.

Me — in my slippery shoes that turned into skates on tile. Possibly the first human ever to moonwalk unwillingly through an airport. Ernests — with the decisiveness of a professional sprinter — immediately took off, determined to be the one to reach the plane and hold it by the tail if necessary.

We arrived — barely.

With about 30 seconds between us, Ernests made it to the gate first, then I followed, gasping like I’d run a half-marathon in dress shoes.

We were the last passengers. But thank heavens — boarding was still open, and a few stragglers were still getting on. So no, we didn’t delay the plane. It hadn’t stood there waiting like a bride left at the altar. We just made it… barely.

At Last, Onboard

We climbed aboard, found our seats, stuffed the carry-ons above our heads, and finally — breathed.

We pulled out the overpriced bottle of airport water — liquid gold — and toasted silently. A triumphant moment.

And then, like a divine joke from the cockpit:

“Dear passengers, due to limited landing availability in Amsterdam, we’ll have to stay on the ground for about 30 minutes.”

Of course.

Thirty minutes of doing nothing. The exact time we needed to walk calmly, without panic or sprinting, from the original location to the correct gate.

But who could have known? The board said nothing. It all looked fine.

Still, we were inside the plane. The plane was still on the ground. Our bags were above our heads. Water in hand. Sweat drying.

That, friends, is half a victory.

Philosophical Reflections at 10 499 m (altitude).

As we finally caught our breath, a question floated into the cabin along with the recycled air:

“How did we end up at the wrong gate?”

Answer: Simple. There are multiple flights to Amsterdam. Multiple gates. We — seasoned travelers with over a decade of exhibition experience and just a few functioning brain cells between us at 4 AM — had simply followed the wrong Amsterdam on the board.

In hindsight, it seems logical. But in the moment?

“Of course there’s more than one flight,” we sighed. “But would it have killed someone to mention that?!”

It was a slightly humbling moment. But we shrugged. We were on the plane. That was all that mattered.

Two hours later, we’d land in Amsterdam — in our heads, we were already there. Canals, herrings, Dutch cheese, sleek architecture… a land of tulips and tax efficiency.

But this time, Amsterdam was just a pit stop. The real show was waiting in Birmingham.

Amsterdam: The Great Aerial Traffic Jam

Yes — not on roads, not on bridges or highways — but in the air and at the gates. Planes were circling above like tech geeks waiting for the new iPhone release — just instead of Apple stores, it was landing slots.

The captain announced that there was no gate ready for us, and no buses to bring us to the terminal. So — technically, we had arrived in Amsterdam… but also, we hadn’t.

Status Update:

40 minutes of sitting inside a parked plane. Wings in the air, wheels on the ground, and our souls suspended somewhere in “please wait” mode.

But finally — yes! We were officially in Amsterdam. Buses arrived, and we were escorted off the aircraft like VIP guests (the slightly delayed kind). No incidents. No scandals. No lost baggage — emotional or otherwise. Surprisingly… smooth.

By this point, we were seasoned veterans — wise teddy bears, if you will. After our early morning gate fiasco, we took nothing for granted. Now we triple-checked every gate number, flight detail, and signage. You never know — maybe there’s a Birmingham in Texas too.

Transfer Time: Two Hours of Professionalism

Since this was a transfer flight, we had about two hours between connections. And this time, we used them wisely — no wandering around like contestants on The Amazing Race.

Instead, we:

• Replied to emails
• Caught up with colleagues
• Did some actual work
• And, most importantly — checked the gate location at least three times

A mistake now would be downright unprofessional.

We had become airport ninjas — alert, focused, always one gate rotation ahead.

And yes — this time, everything went right. We boarded the next plane on time, heading for Birmingham. A short 50-minute hop across the sea. Basically, a slightly overpriced tram with wings.

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The Amsterdam Mystery: “Mangur is Dead”

While we’re still in Amsterdam, I must mention a crucial human innovation — something that, for people like me (with extremely stylish but catastrophically slippery shoes), is no less than a divine gift: → Built-in sliding walkways.

These magical belts were my salvation. I had honestly started considering renting anti-slip chains for airport use. But no — Amsterdam Airport, as always, had thought of its visitors and their soles.

In general, Schiphol is nothing new for us. We’ve been here many times. We know it so well we could give tours.

But there’s one thing that always confuses me and also weirdly fascinates me.

Whenever you step onto one of those sliding paths, a voice plays that standard announcement:

“Mind your step.”

Or so they say.

Because I never hear “Mind your step.” I always hear:

“Mangur is dead.”

Every. Single. Time.

And each time I find myself wondering — Who is Mangur? Why is he dead? Who did it? And why, as a simple passenger on my way to Birmingham, must I be informed of this tragic news every time I want to glide across the terminal?

I truly feel for Mangur’s family, his  people, his fans… But honestly, I just came here to make a transfer. Did I really need this emotional burden?

Now, it’s become a tradition. Every time I fly through Amsterdam, I listen carefully. Will they say it again? Will Mangur be dead… again?

And yes. He is. Always. Still.

Mangur is dead

The Flight to England: Red Bull Pilots & Vanishing Colleagues

Everything continued smoothly. Until… it didn’t.

The pilot took off from Amsterdam and suddenly — it felt like he remembered what freedom tastes like. The plane started swerving — right, left, up, down — as if it had broken free from airport rules and was finally allowed to “stretch its wings.”

We, the passengers, shared the same thought:

“Is he training for the next Red Bull Air Race?”

But all was well. Maybe he just wanted to make sure the steering still worked in all directions.

Eventually, the aircraft stabilized, and the rest of the flight was smooth. We even got snacks — yes, really. Despite the short flight, they served us refreshments. Thank you, KLM airline. You understood our journey wasn’t short emotionally.

Arrival in England: Passport Control & Brexit Realities

We had landed in England. Finally!

But as the saying goes — don’t celebrate too early.

The captain announced:

“Welcome to Birmingham. Please proceed to passport control.”

Ah yes. Passport control. Because Brexit is real, and so is the queue to prove your identity.

We joined the masses — a cheerful, tired, but determined human river flowing toward border control.

On the way, we made the usual stop — restroom, a sip of water, a brief exhale. I waited for my colleague, Ernests, and we merged into the crowd together, shuffling slowly through the airport’s winding corridors.

To call it a “queue” would be generous. It was more like a moving organism — a sea of people that twisted and turned, reshaped itself, moved upstairs, then downstairs, then right, then left, then right again.

Eventually, the lines narrowed. The “snakes” began — that classic back-and-forth path where humans are finally funneled into individual passport control lanes.

And then — we saw them. The machines.

Automated passport scanners. “Thank you, England. Thank you, technology. Thank you, God.”

There were many of them, and the queue — though long — was moving quickly.

Ernests and I were close. Sometimes I was ahead, sometimes him. We exchanged the occasional comment about work or, you know, why anyone still travels at all.

Then — suddenly — drama.

As we approached the scanners… Ernests disappeared.

One second he was there, the next — gone. I looked behind me. No one. Not one person, not two, not ten meters back. Just… gone.

And the line, like a conveyor belt, pushed me forward. There was no space to stop. No way to go back. No one to ask.

“Maybe he dissolved into the air like a newspaper caught in the wind?” “Maybe a hidden portal opened, and he got sucked into another dimension?”

I had no options. The passport scanner stood waiting. I scanned my document, the machine compared my face, and verified I was a normal, honest, professional tourist-businessman.

And that was it.

I crossed the border. Alone. No partner. No Ernests. Lost somewhere between the plane and the passport gates.

Where was he? Had he turned into a cup of English tea? Had he somehow gained British citizenship en route?

No one knew.

England, Phase II: “Without a Colleague”

I had made it through passport control. I hadn’t been arrested, deported, or sent back to mainland Europe — which, given my constant paranoia about border checks, already felt like a solid win.

But one small thing clouded that victory:

No colleague.

We were supposed to be a duo — like Johnny and Robin, Kirk and Spock, Chip and Dale. (Okay, let’s not confuse that last one with Chippendales — that’s an entirely different business trip.)

Now, I was alone. Not quite like missing a limb… but definitely like missing GPS.

I walked to the luggage carousel with a tiny flame of hope in my heart — maybe he was already there.

I waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. I even managed to grab my own oversized package — at least I think it was mine.

All I could remember about Ernests’ suitcase was that it was red… or maybe that was just in a dream?

I started to wonder — had he seen the light, reconsidered life, and just quietly turned back to the continent?

But no. Logically, he had boarded the plane — you can’t board without a passport.

The Bell, the Border, and the Disappearing Passport

And then — the phone rang.

That’s when I learned about the next grand twist in our plot: Ernests, my travel companion, had vanished… somewhere between the plane and passport control.

That’s a distance of about 142.35 steps — give or take.

He was now trying to get back to the airplane. But as we all know — the border control gates are not a revolving door. They are one-way tickets to the next stage of life.

So now, Ernests was stuck in limbo — between two realities. The plane was gone. Border control wouldn’t let him return. He had his ticket… but no passport. Like a Wi-Fi user with no connection. Like British tea without milk — it exists, but something’s definitely missing.

And there I was — standing alone by the baggage carousel, watching people come and go, while my travel partner remained suspended between the aircraft and the United Kingdom.

---

Rescue Mission: A Passport, a Policeman, and the Return of the Duo

I don’t know what higher power intervened — maybe fate, maybe dumb luck — but somehow, someone heard the metaphorical scratching at the door.

Ernests, looking like a sad kitten stuck in a bureaucratic shoebox, had been spotted by a few kind airport workers and one rather concerned airport police officer.

A few even promised to go back onto the aircraft and search the cabin. But no luck. The passport wasn’t there.

And then — a miracle. One of the officers asked Ernests for his name again, pulled something from his pocket, and said:

“Is this yours?”

It was. The passport. Found. Intact. Delivered back by a literal airport angel in a fluorescent vest.

Whether the passport had fallen somewhere, been picked up by a kind stranger, or simply respawned from another dimension — it didn’t matter. It was back.

A heartfelt thank you to the UK border police and airport staff — they weren’t like grim characters from some cold procedural drama. They were helpful. Human. Heroes.

Roughly 30 minutes (or exactly 2 minutes and 40 seconds according to my stopwatch of anxiety) later, Ernests had made it back through passport control. He had returned to our world.

The suitcase? Also fine. Untouched, unbothered, and still the same color — or at least we believed so. We loaded it onto a trolley and made our way toward the exit.

---

Final Stretch: Jungle Paths, Mystery Words, and a Hotel Check-In

Of course, just as we reached the arrivals area, we were stopped by police.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Amsterdam,” we replied.

And we could already see it in their eyes — the Amsterdam Stereotype Filter™. Drugs? Edibles? Something suspicious in our suitcase?

Thankfully, this time we were clean. And lucky. We weren’t detained.

We made it outside and called a taxi. Sure, the hotel was only 500 meters away, but between us and it were jungles of shrubbery, suspicious fences, a couple of highways, and a very real chance of ending up on a BBC “lost tourists” documentary.

Better safe than sorry.

In about 20 minutes, we finally reached the hotel — tired, but together.

---

The Receptionist and the Mystery of “Exy”

At reception, we were greeted by a friendly girl with a bright smile who seemed delighted to see us. She started asking something — enthusiastically — repeating the same word again and again.

“Exy?” “Are you here for exy?” “Exy! Yes?”

She said it ten, maybe fifteen times. It took a while, but eventually, it hit me: Exy = Exhibition. Aha!

“Yes, yes!” I nodded. “We’re here for… Exy.” I hoped I hadn’t just accidentally signed up for a reality show or yoga retreat.

Regardless, the check-in went fine. Our room was booked. Keys received. Numbers confirmed.

We also added breakfast to our stay — because running around in the morning without food didn’t sound like a winning strategy. It wasn’t included in our booking, so we paid separately. Minor issue, no big deal.

We dropped off our main luggage and only kept the essentials we’d need for booth setup the next morning.

And the best part?

The exhibition hall was just 200 meters from the hotel entrance. We were practically neighbors.

---

The Setup That Wasn’t So Simple

In high spirits and light steps, we made our way to the exhibition center, ready to finally set up our stand and end this day on a productive note.

We carried our “Finnish bag” — named not for geography, but because it was roughly the size and weight of a granite block. It was packed with booklets, screens, marketing material, power cables, giveaways, and hope.

A few extra bags dangled from our arms, filled with backup gear and survival snacks.

The first 200 meters to the entrance? A success.

But then — the plot twist.

The entrance to the exhibition hall was only the beginning. From the entrance to our actual booth? 1.5 kilometers.

And we felt every centimeter.

The exhibition complex was massive — possibly one of the largest in the UK. There were escalators, staircases, slippery floors, occasional friction, and the occasional existential crisis.

And the tiles. My God, the tiles.

For those who remember my saga of the slippery shoes — these tiles were Olympic-level ice rink material. Two steps forward, one unintentional slide back. Basically, I was dancing… while hauling a suitcase… in business attire.

We took turns. Ernests dragged the bag. Then I dragged the bag. Then we just dragged ourselves.

Panting, sweating, staggering — we finally made it to the hall.

And then…

They wouldn’t let us in.

Not because we weren’t registered. Not because we looked suspicious. Not because we smelled like desperation.

No.

Because we didn’t have the correct vests.

The Quest for the Vest, or: How to Legally Enter an Exhibition Hall in the UK

We were kindly — but firmly — sent away to get safety vests. Thank you. Thank God that a few corners, three turns, two corridors, and one and a half existential crises later, we stumbled upon a small shop selling the sacred garments.

I’ll be honest — as I stood there on the slick tiled floor, eyeing the police officers nearby who already had the correct vests, I had a thought… maybe even one and a half thoughts:

“Couldn’t I just borrow one… for a minute?”

But no. Not yet. I wasn’t that desperate. Not enough to mug a British officer for a vest.

So I gathered myself, remembered that robbing the police is usually not the best business strategy, and marched off to buy my own official, fully legal, Day-One-of-Setup-Compliant Safety Vest™.

Because in England, during exhibition setup hours, you don’t even get to dream of entering the hall without wearing one.

And yes — the old saying still holds true: Always have a plan B. And also a plan “Don’t Touch the Policeman.”

---

Booth Setup Begins (and Almost Ends in ER)

Properly equipped at last, we solemnly made our way to our booth location. By now, we knew this day wouldn’t go according to plan. The sheer adventure volume we had endured in the last six hours had already surpassed our previous ten years of exhibition trips combined.

We were cautious. To the point of paranoia.

But sleep deprivation was still a factor — we’d only managed a nap around 4 AM. No real sleep. No rest. Just a half-hour snooze while rattling through airport turbulence, forehead pressed against the airplane window.

So physically — we were there. Mentally — somewhere in a broken elevator.

We arrived at our stand. And we couldn’t tell — were the builders still working? Or had they finished and just forgotten to clean up the plastic sheets, scattered tools, and maybe a hammer or two?

No matter. Our mission was simple: Put up posters. Attach lamps to highlight said posters. What could possibly go wrong?

We got to work. The posters were from a new shipment and mounted using adhesive strips — worked like a charm. The lamps? Miraculously attached themselves without swearing or missing screwdrivers. Even the TV turned on. Even the remote was there.

Things were going too well.

That’s when it happened.

---

The Fall of a Champion (a.k.a. White Roll, 130 Kilos, and a Moment of Silence)

I stepped onto a chair to hang a poster at the top of the wall. I was focused. Determined. Slightly sleep-deprived. And I didn’t see it — a white plastic roll, left on a white carpet, directly beneath me.

Roughly 25 cm in diameter. Perfectly cylindrical. Perfectly invisible. Perfectly placed to become a trap for a man in the “exhibition mammoth” weight category.

I pressed the final corner of the poster to the wall. And then, as I stepped down — backward, of course — I landed squarely on that roll.

Time froze.

In that instant, my body — all 130 kilos of it — began a slow-motion ballet dive toward the concrete floor.

While airborne, I had time to reflect on life:

• Why didn’t I buy insurance?
• What would poor Ernests do, stuck manning the booth alone while I lay casted in some NHS hallway?
• Would the British doctor diagnose me with “business casual injuries”?

But then — instinct kicked in. Years of skiing came rushing back. I tucked. I rotated. I amortized.

I landed.

Not with grace… but with survivability. I bounced. I wobbled. I stood.

Ernests claimed the ground shook like a moderate earthquake, but I was back on my feet.

Yes, my backside hurt. But my dignity remained intact.

After that, everything else felt easy.

---

Finishing Touches, Sympathy Tools, and a Long Walk Back

No more falls. No more surprises. The chaos box of setup was officially closed.

Though… there was one unexpected twist: Our neighboring booth crew began offering us tools — levels, spatulas, sticky strips — anything we might need.

Was it generosity? Pity? Or fear that our next maneuver might take out their booth too?

Either way — they were incredibly helpful.

They had been polite before, but after my accidental acrobatic performance, there was a noticeable shift in their attitude. A sort of… tender kindness. Like you offer to someone who’s probably going to break something else unless you distract them.

Eventually, we finished everything. The cursed roll was taken to a corner and ceremonially sliced in half, just to make sure it didn’t try any more tricks like “How to Turn a Human Into a Meteorite.”

No more risks. We were done.

---

Back to the Hotel (No More Surprise Rolls)

That feeling — of a job well done — is hard to describe. Relief. Triumph. Fatigue.

We walked back to the hotel. This time — no detours, no golf bag ventilation shaft drama, no surprise escalators or hidden traps. Just a straight, smooth walk.

Maybe it felt shorter because we knew it was over. Maybe because by then, we had lost all feeling in our legs.

---

Evening Mission: Food and Horizontal Thinking

Our plan for the evening was as clear as a €3 coin: Eat. Sleep. Do not attempt anything ambitious.

We knew this day had given us enough adventure. For the next 12 hours, we owed the world nothing.

We had a warm meal, exhaled deeply, shuffled to our rooms… and collapsed.

---

Tomorrow would be the real exhibition day. With fresh energy, clean vests, and hopefully no more flights — in any sense of the word.

The Next Morning: Breakfast Diplomacy and the Exhibition Proper

We woke up with renewed strength and a firm commitment to finally look like serious professionals — not confused tourists with backpacks and sore backsides.

Cleaned up, presentable, and filled with purpose, we headed downstairs for breakfast.

This wasn’t just any breakfast. This was the first day of the exhibition. Which meant: eat plenty, eat confidently — like true diplomats. We proudly announced our room number at the breakfast desk (with all the authority of someone delivering credentials to the UN) and proceeded to the buffet.

It was all there — the full British breakfast glory: Eggs, bacon, beans, sausages, grilled tomatoes, toast, and even a vintage toaster that smelled like it had once been powered by Victorian coal.

I had already taken my morning omelette, placed toast underneath it, and was about to compose the perfect breakfast harmony on my plate…

When — suddenly — she appeared.

Out of nowhere, the receptionist.

Not a new employee. No, the exact same lady who had sold us breakfast the evening before, with the warmest of smiles.

Now, with British politeness and a gaze that somehow combined both “excuse me” and “you are a danger to society”, she informed us:

“Your booking doesn’t include breakfast. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the dining area.”

There we were — caught between beans and betrayal. Omelette in hand. Honor on the line.

Thankfully, I had the email confirmation of the payment still warm on my phone. And I’m not unfamiliar with using digital receipts as weapons of diplomacy.

Roughly four minutes later (which, in hungry-breakfast-minutes, translates to at least six), the situation was resolved. She apologized. We sat back down. I filled my teacup. Order was restored.

Only later did we realize: That had been our British Breakfast Exam. And we passed.

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The Exhibition Begins: Badges, Anxiety, and the Unexpected Guest

We returned to the exhibition — this time as official participants, proudly wearing our badges around our necks like medals of honor.

We’d already survived the registration queue, the vest crisis, and one surprise flip over a plastic roll. Nothing could stop us now.

The venue was buzzing — a full house, busy, loud, energetic. Exactly how it should be. Our booth was perfectly located — right near the center, surrounded by satisfied visitors, in the middle of the action.

We waited for our first guests. And of course — that familiar tension crept in. Anyone who’s worked in sales or marketing knows the feeling:

Someone approaches. Your hands start sweating. Your heart rate spikes. Your brain launches into ten different sales pitches at once.

Is this the client? The big deal? Or just someone lost, looking for the bathroom?

In 90% of cases — it’s neither. But that feeling… that’s what fuels the job.

We sat calmly behind our booth, double-checking that everything was in place — brochures, giveaways, displays, all ready.

And then, our first visitor arrived. Curious. Engaged. Full of questions. We smiled. We answered.

And it turned out… they were our biggest competitor.

Of course. Because in life, you wait for one thing — and something entirely different walks up and shakes your hand.

---

The Exhibition Wrap-Up: Snacks, Bears, and Final Flights

Overall, the exhibition went really well. The organizers had thought of everything — snacks, coffee, tea, water, all for free for participants. Major respect.

Everything was reasonably well organized, and there was nothing to complain about.

Visitor turnout? Great — and not just by UK standards. In terms of quantity and quality, the crowd was comparable to similar events across Europe.

No outlandish surprises. Just a well-run show.

But eventually, we had to face the next chapter: Getting home.

As usual, the exhibition is never the last challenge. The final boss is always the journey back.

We had to be up at 4 AM again to pack our things and get to the airport.

We left the room with our luggage, rolled up to the elevator…

And there, waiting for us, was a two-meter tall plush bear.

It looked like it had spent the whole night joyriding the elevator.

We looked at each other.

“Is this a sign of good luck… or exactly the opposite?”

In Latvia, there’s the concept of the “lucky bear.” But in England? The reputation seemed a bit more… ambiguous.

Was this a mascot of joy, or was it the British version of the Russian chaos bear?

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Airport Adventures and the Clock That Lied

We made our way to the airport, still wondering what kind of symbolism the elevator bear carried.

At Birmingham Airport, everyone was awake and heading somewhere by 4 AM. The security check lines were massive — longer than anything we’d seen before. We stood for half an hour just waiting.

But everything else — surprisingly smooth.

We boarded our flight to Amsterdam, where we had our transfer.

And this time — I have to say — we were lucky.

The Lucky Bear™ had apparently done its job.

We had enough time to explore duty-free, buy some souvenirs, and relax before the final flight.

We even triple-checked the gate.

Sat down, opened our emails, finally picked up the magazines we’d been dragging around unread the entire trip.

But then — we almost missed the plane.

Why?

Because we were still living on UK time — an hour behind.

Even though we were following the clock… we should have been acting faster than the dial suggested.

We made it to the gate on time only because we had left early — suspiciously early — without trusting the watch.

Had we followed the clock exactly, we would’ve missed the flight.

So yes — this time, it wasn’t strategy or planning that saved us.

It was the Lucky Bear.

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See you next time, same chaos, new country! 😄🐻✈️