LONDON IS A HUB FOR BUDGET AIRLINES. Ryan Air, Easy Jet, Whizz Air and others lure budget travelers with flights for as little as one English pound. That’s about the price of a Big Mac. They do it by cutting out the extras like meals, reserved seating and baggage allowance. They fly from runways so on the fringe they can hardly be called London airports. And they takeoff at absurd hours.

I like to boast to my friends back home in the States that, from London, I can be anywhere in Europe within a few hours. Well, it’s true that it’s only a 90-minute flight to the French Alps, but my flight doesn’t leave for seven hours and I’m already en route.

London’s Stansted airport is too far to drive to, and besides, friends with cars are a rarity in London, where the tube service will take you everywhere in half the time. But, Londons rail services begin too late for me to make my 6.25am flight. I’m on the 11.00pm Stansted Express the second-to-last train for the night. The train is packed full of people and suitcases for the 45-minute journey to the airport - a good amount of time to reflect on the fact that getting to the airport often costs about as much as your flight - £26 return.

My plan is to find a soft padded bench to spend the night on, and then find my travel companions, whom I have not met before. I responded to an ad for snowboarders on a travel website, posted by an Australian guy called Daniel. I’m slightly dubious about him because he writes all his emails in capital letters, but my desire to go snowboarding won out over my fear of PEOPLE WHO WRITE IN CAPITALS.

But there’s no empty seat to be found: Stansted is buzzing. It’s as though I’ve arrived at the shopping mall on a Saturday morning, only the shops are closed, and the people are pushing trolleys around, or setting up sleeping bags, or sitting around staring into space, or reading The Da Vinci Code (or if they’ve already read that, Angels and Demons).

I grab a trolley, as my bag and snowboard are heavy. I walk the entire length of the airport looking for a seat, suppressing any guilt that arises from disturbing those stretched out on sleeping bags with the loud rumble of my trolley. To compensate, I tiptoe and hold my breath. Floor space is precious; bodies and sleeping bags are everywhere. I eventually find a seat, and wedge myself between a middle-aged man and an elderly woman. The man is curled awkwardly between the armrests of his seat, his head leaning forward onto his bag, which is in turn propped up by his trolley. The woman is reading, but I can’t recognise her book it’s not a Dan Brown.

The row of seats back onto another row facing the opposite direction. There is a gap between the seat rows that is joined at the top by a flat metal surface, of about enough space to fit a man. In fact, almost the exact size of the elderly man perched there, tucked into his sleeping bag, breathing heavily in my direction. Old and young alike are sacrificing sleep and comfort to save a buck.

Surrounded by desperate and exhausted budget travelers, I prop my feet on my bag for security, close my eyes and bow my head. However, I’m too busy doubting that I’ll get any rest in such distracting and uncomfortable conditions, that I don’t.

I’ve brought Treasure Island with me, determined to finish reading it this holiday. That will most certainly send me to sleep, I think, rustling about through my bag looking for it. The curled-up man to my right looks my way, disapproving of the loud zipper noises. But Treasure Island only makes me want to take my own adventure around the airport: I need to be physically tired. I ask the old lady if she’ll keep an eye on my bags for five minutes, so that Louis Robert Stevenson and I can go get a coffee. I feel I have again breached the Code of Airport Etiquette: no moving about, no opening and closing bags, and no talking to strangers trying to sleep.

There are two 24-hour cafes in the terminal. I’m not hungry, but I buy a cappuccino and a sandwich. It’s midnight - only six hours and 45 minutes to go. I dawdle back past the sleeping bodies to my seat. There’s no need to hurry.

The curled-up man flicks his head up, grunts and curls back into position, his feet precariously close to my space. I struggle along with Treasure Island, trying not to think about other things, when my phone rings. Evil looks fly from every direction. Another breach of the Code.

“Hello?” I whisper. It’s Daniel. He is in the cafe with Adam, the third snowboarder. I gather together my luggage, causing more unrest from those around me. “Can’t you just settle?” their annoyed expressions ask.

I tiptoe back to the cafe, as the trolley scrapes and wobbles along. There are two men staring at me in the cafe. I’m excited because they look very continental: sipping lattes with their legs crossed, and wearing polo-neck sweaters. Just as I’m preparing for a week of espresso drinking and intellectual discussion, they turn their eyes away from me. I stop mid-stride, feeling embarrassed for blatantly staring so over-enthusiastically at them.

There are no other two-men combos at the cafe. I call Daniel. He is at the other cafe. Two 24-hour cafes in this small airport. You would almost mistake it for day, except for the eerie fluorescent lighting. Time has no meaning in Stansted, except in relation to when your flight taxis away.

They spot me easily, from the noise of my trolley and the sight of my red snowboard bag. After quick introductions, we decide to sleep. We can get to know each other later. It’s 1a.m.

We find a spot next to a check-in counter. I arrange my snowboard clothes into a soft bed and wrap my towel around some clothes to make a pillow. I use my duffel coat as a quilt. It’s surprisingly comfortable, and despite the motorised floor sweeper humming past every half hour, I sleep solidly until I am awoken by a repetitive, high-pitched voice asking: “Have you got your passport? Did you pack your own bags? Any sharp items?”

Soon, I’m on my flight to Lyon, already feeling jetlagged. I will no doubt tell my friends back home how I live just 90 minutes from the French Alps. They don’t need to know that you could technically make it to Tokyo in same time it takes me to get anywhere in Europe on a shoestring.

LOWDOWN LOWDOWN: AIRPORT SLEEPING ETIQUETTE
RULE 1: If you want to be at the top of the hierarchy of sleepers, arrive early to reserve prime space.
RULE 2: Save space for others at your own risk of passer-by’s muttering in your direction.
RULE 3: Be aware that trolleys are in fact incredibly noisy and for essential use only.
RULE 4: Talking is to be avoided, but in emergencies you many speak in a hushed whisper.
RULE 5: Do not approach anyone. It is like entering their home.
RULE 6: Switch your cell phone to silent.
RULE 7: Do not at any time, breach basic human rights by placing any part of your body over the imaginary half way mark between you and your neighbour.
RULE 8: If your neighbour is in breach of Rule 7, promptly assert your authoritare with a sharp elbow movement.
RULE 9: If you have read The Da Vinci Code, do not discuss the plot ruining it for everyone else.
RULE 10: Do not set an alarm. It has already been arranged that you will be woken by the sounds of airport staff arriving.

Photos by Geo D. Oliver/Photohype.com