I had imagined Friday night as the perfect homecoming: seeing my parents and friends and having the first Munich beer in three months (no offence).

So you can all guess that didn’t work out as planned. Finding out that my flight had been cancelled because of extreme snow closing the Munich airport (I know we normally tend to boast about Germany being amazing when it comes to coping with the snow) and the Lufthansa helpline unhelpfully hopeless, I left for Heathrow in a hurry (sorry about those dirty breakfast plates in the kitchen, flatmates) to find out if any other flights were heading towards Munich at all.

Then the first snowflakes started to fall on Gillingham just as I got on the train. A bad sign? Most definitely.

After a few hours queuing, I was told there would be no flights to Munich (or really anywhere in Western Europe) until the next day. By that time, my father had managed to contact the Lufthansa desk back home to book a replacement flight for Saturday evening. Not really worth going all the way back, then, so off I went to the Sofitel (if it was anywhere else, I’d definitely recommend it – but now who would go on holiday in Terminal 5?).

A couple of Skype calls, a sandwich and a haircut later – well, I did have a lot of time to kill (fun fact: the hairdresser was an Essex boy who had given up a career in building for this trade because he wanted to “work with women”) – I was convinced I would be home the next day.

New morning, new hope. Or so I thought. Turning on BBC News as soon as you wake up is not necessarily one of the best habits you acquire at the CfJ: the gloom hit me right into my sleepy face. Another record snowfall across the UK (I do have a feeling you say that every time there is a snowfall, but I might be wrong). Still, despite many cancellations until the afternoon, my flight was not due to take off until 8pm, so I thought I’d be fine.

I went to Terminal 1, from where my flight was supposed to take off, to see what was happening. The Underground had already been affected by the snow and the express train was also running only sporadically. But it got worse.

The Lufthansa desk in Terminal 1 is located in area K. The queue started in area A. Enough said. It wasn’t even a queue anymore, just heaps of luggage with its owners.

By this time, both runways were closed and all flights had been suspended or cancelled, but some evening flights still looked as if they would go ahead.

Then, a little later (not that that we were making any progress), my flight was cancelled as well. A couple from L.A. standing near me were not impressed and called the Heathrow chaos “what you’d expect in a developing country” – wait, didn’t someone say something similar recently…but I had other things to worry about. Trying not to cry in front of BAA staff because you suddenly realise you will not make it home for the second day in a row was definitely one of them.

Oh dear. There was no way I would get a flight home for Sunday – or even get to the ticket desk by then. Also, there was no floor space in the terminal left and all the hotels in and around Heathrow were obviously full, so I decided it was time for my little ingenious emergency plan: escape the Heathrow mayhem, make my way back into London and try to get on the next Eurostar.

To add to the fun, once I got to Paddington Station, the weekend tube works (plus the snow) were fully in place. The platforms were so packed that someone on the opposite side was accidentally pushed onto the rails. Luckily, nothing happened, but I guess I can’t complain I eventually made it to St.Pancras in one part – even if it took a while.

Clearly, my Eurostar plan had not been that ingenious: the ticket office had already been stormed by a mob of grumpy people disillusioned with air travel. I did manage to get a ticket to Paris for Sunday afternoon in the end. A general point about this weekend: massive thanks to whoever invented credit cards.

The next afternoon I walk into St. Pancras, two hours before I actually have to be there (there’s a German stereotype for you). I’m standing next to a German journalist and her son who are trying to get to Brussels, and it takes us more than five hours until we get through to passport control and into the departure lounge. Anyone trying to jump the queue gets to feel the anger of the Eurostar mob. Not a pretty scene.

As many trains are cancelled or delayed, the emergency timetable means that everyone with a ticket for today will be placed on any train, original departure times and classes are all happily forgotten, everyone is just glad to get out of here.

The woman at the desk says “you will be on the next train to Paris, here’s your ticket”. For a second, I consider giving her a hug. Later that night, we are finally moving. I had planned on catching up on a little sleep, but that doesn’t happen as there are lots of French people trying to engage me in a conversation about this crazy weekend. They are lovely, though. They also have chocolate and I’m desperate for anything you can eat.

We emerge from the Channel tunnel. The packed carriage applaudes. We get to Paris Nord just before midnight and it takes me a minute to believe my luck that I’m now back on the continent. There won’t be a train to Munich until the next day. By 1.30 I have arrived in a hotel where, judging from the ladies hanging around at the bar, I suspect at least some of the rooms are rented per hour rather than per night. Not that I cared.

The breakfast is really good, though, and in a sugar rush I decide to make the most out of this crazy situation, so I leave my luggage there and take the Métro to Pont Neuf, where I walk along the slushy banks of the Seine towards Notre Dame. After a hot chocolate I head to Gare de l’Est to wait for my TGV to Munich. It is delayed, too, but waiting for an hour and a half doesn’t feel like anything by now and I’m just glad to be moving closer towards home.

We’re already in Germany when the train stops and the lights go out. Some technical problems. Really? We make it to Stuttgart where we’re all taken into a different train. There’s a lot of German complaints about the delay. I doubt any of them has waited as long as I have and try to give them an evil look.

So what’s the verdict on this 96 hours delay? Well, it wasn’t exactly a horror story, as I’m sure many people experienced this weekend but not exactly the best way to start the Christmas holiday, either. I know that many CfJers have been badly affected, too (good luck to all of you!). I also don’t feel like queuing again for a few months.

It is now late Monday night and the train is rolling into Munich’s central station. I’m absolutely exhausted – but seriously, I can’t wait for that beer. Welcome home.