The train came to a stop at Waterloo station. I took my final picture there, of the station sign and walked through the passport control and into Waterloo underground station. Jesus, everything had shot up in price. I got a one day travel card for much more money than I can ever recall paying as announcements flooded over the PA system, notifying customers that the Waterloo and City line wasn’t running at all, there were severe disruptions to the Central and Piccadilly line, minor delays on the circle and District line and part suspension of the Victoria and Northern lines. I had to dart around several lines to the station where an overhead train would take me to my dad’s place. Just as it had taken me two hours to get from Brussels to London, it took me a further two hours to get home, even though my dad lived some 15 miles away from central London.
I got a strong sense of humility having arrived in England by myself, having left by myself for Japan some two years previous. I surely felt stronger, ready to tackle whatever would be thrown at me. Japan had certainly given me new tools to tackle hard situations and I had learnt to appreciate true friendships, the effort needed to find happiness and being content with myself, as I am. This journey home was a struggle, as much of living in Japan was. But I couldn’t help thinking what was the point of such a struggle only to come home and forget it all? Perhaps I’d return one day. But for now I thought, let’s give England a chance.
Saturday 12 May 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Belgium: Brussels
I had only twelve hours in Brussels as I had arrived at 6am and was due to get the Eurostar into London that evening at the same time. I locked up my bag and walked into the vague direction of the city centre, stopping at a bakery for fresh pastries. I found myself in an area of small streets with nothing but private art galleries for rich people. I also stopped in a pleasant looking café to try an authentic Belgium waffle which was indeed very nice and surprisingly stodgy but the service was nonexistent. I had to approach the waiter to order and pay and he seemed pissed-off that I didn’t tip him.
After another thirty minutes of aimless walking, I came across a nice view of the city and noticed a huge silver modern-art type structure in the distance which was instantly familiar. I decided to make it my day’s goal to walk there. So I set off which only a small compass to guide me which one of the Tokyo Comedy store members had given me at my leaving part. The weather was on the cusp of being sunny so while I’m sure everything could have looked more beautiful than it did, it wasn’t as nice as I had expected.
I saw signs for the European parliament and followed them to find large dramatic modern steel buildings, covered in logos and lined with many flags. I wandered into the absurdly tiny and dull visitor’s centre only to find myself wandering back out minutes later. I wandered past some older building, with that characteristic sandy colour. I’m sure I would have been much more excited about them had I known the significance of them. I kept walking, using the compass as the vaguest of guides and found myself wandering out of the city centre. Surely I hadn’t already walked through the entire city centre? It seemed I had. I could spot the modern art metal thing anymore and finally decided to look it up at an internet café, most of which are strangely hidden in metro stations. I found it as a part of an international convention website, an Expo, and was surprised to see that it was a lengthy metro ride away, well outside of the tiny city centre.
I got a metro, and sure enough there it was on the station guide above the seats, marking as the “Atonium”. I got off in what looked like the middle of nowhere and passed a cinema and a few vague buildings to get the giant metal structure. It certainly looked impressive, both from afar and up-close. It was surprisingly busy, filled with people wanting to pass through the giant metal atom centre points to get to the top. I was happy just to take a few pictures. After all, this was probably the last thing worth seeing before I’d be home. Wow. Home. I had been holding out for some kind of dramatic welcome party, Waterloo station lined with people celebrating, ticker tape falling from the sky, champagne bottles bursting and general joy and elation. I had emailed friends, asking vaguely if they’d like to meet me in London as I arrived but the plans came to nothing as I realised I wanted everything or nothing. I found myself being drawn home by the thought of a familiar bed, familiar food, friends and a life more complex than just the three priorities of next place to sleep, next meal and next train ticket.
I dwindled through the main shopping strip and added yet another country onto my list of “countries I’ve eaten McDonalds in”. I found myself in the central business district, surely the most boring part of any city, but in Brussels it didn’t seem so different from the rest. I took each new corner, each new road hoping that I’d finally see something to get worked up about but had to resign myself to the fact that Brussels was a big disappointment.
I thought about my family back home and suddenly realised that I hadn’t got them any gifts. Well, here I was in Brussels, so Belgium chocolates all around. But as far as I searched up and down the streets, I couldn’t find a chocolate shop. This was the first capital city I’d been in where you’d struggle to see how the country’s stereotypes had come about. In the end, I popped into a small supermarket and bought boxed chocolates there, which were absurdly cheap but would have to make do.
I returned to the station well in time for the train, collected by bad from the electric locker and passed through passport control. It felt strange having to show my passport just to board a train. This was it. My last journey. I found my seat and sat down next to a middle aged woman who had been speaking posh London English on her phone. There was something for an aircraft feel to the Eurostar carriages. I half expected to be shown where the emergency exits were. I took a magazine from the netting in front of the woman’s seat and flicked through it.
“Ah! Isn’t that typical!” I said, “a train that runs between France and England and all the magazines are in French.”
She seemed to hesitate just slightly before answering, “well, they are my magazines.” The embarrassment rose inside of me and I apologised. She was fine about it, and it served to break the ice as we proceeded to chat about the English, the French and all the business she had been doing. I remarked that this was my last train from Shanghai and was pleased to get a big reaction from her. At least I’d be arriving in London with someone who appreciated the enormity of this journey.
I was looking forward to the novelty of the tunnel and coming out to England, what with having heard about the building of the tunnel throughout my childhood. But how exciting can a tunnel be? Not very much at all as I came to realised within seconds of entering the tunnel. The lack of visual stimulation outside stirred up feelings inside about my life waiting for me in England. Would things work out with Maki in a new place? Would I feel euphoric on arrival and how long could I make that feeling last? Would my plan to teach in a high school work out? Would it be fun? What would happen with Aki? Would I ever see her again? Would I ever see Japan again? And the train sped out of the tunnel and into the English countryside at sun-set. England looked much more pretty than I had remembered. Much less functional and more old-fashioned than Japan, with its little houses between hills and animals grazing.
After another thirty minutes of aimless walking, I came across a nice view of the city and noticed a huge silver modern-art type structure in the distance which was instantly familiar. I decided to make it my day’s goal to walk there. So I set off which only a small compass to guide me which one of the Tokyo Comedy store members had given me at my leaving part. The weather was on the cusp of being sunny so while I’m sure everything could have looked more beautiful than it did, it wasn’t as nice as I had expected.
I saw signs for the European parliament and followed them to find large dramatic modern steel buildings, covered in logos and lined with many flags. I wandered into the absurdly tiny and dull visitor’s centre only to find myself wandering back out minutes later. I wandered past some older building, with that characteristic sandy colour. I’m sure I would have been much more excited about them had I known the significance of them. I kept walking, using the compass as the vaguest of guides and found myself wandering out of the city centre. Surely I hadn’t already walked through the entire city centre? It seemed I had. I could spot the modern art metal thing anymore and finally decided to look it up at an internet café, most of which are strangely hidden in metro stations. I found it as a part of an international convention website, an Expo, and was surprised to see that it was a lengthy metro ride away, well outside of the tiny city centre.
I got a metro, and sure enough there it was on the station guide above the seats, marking as the “Atonium”. I got off in what looked like the middle of nowhere and passed a cinema and a few vague buildings to get the giant metal structure. It certainly looked impressive, both from afar and up-close. It was surprisingly busy, filled with people wanting to pass through the giant metal atom centre points to get to the top. I was happy just to take a few pictures. After all, this was probably the last thing worth seeing before I’d be home. Wow. Home. I had been holding out for some kind of dramatic welcome party, Waterloo station lined with people celebrating, ticker tape falling from the sky, champagne bottles bursting and general joy and elation. I had emailed friends, asking vaguely if they’d like to meet me in London as I arrived but the plans came to nothing as I realised I wanted everything or nothing. I found myself being drawn home by the thought of a familiar bed, familiar food, friends and a life more complex than just the three priorities of next place to sleep, next meal and next train ticket.
I dwindled through the main shopping strip and added yet another country onto my list of “countries I’ve eaten McDonalds in”. I found myself in the central business district, surely the most boring part of any city, but in Brussels it didn’t seem so different from the rest. I took each new corner, each new road hoping that I’d finally see something to get worked up about but had to resign myself to the fact that Brussels was a big disappointment.
I thought about my family back home and suddenly realised that I hadn’t got them any gifts. Well, here I was in Brussels, so Belgium chocolates all around. But as far as I searched up and down the streets, I couldn’t find a chocolate shop. This was the first capital city I’d been in where you’d struggle to see how the country’s stereotypes had come about. In the end, I popped into a small supermarket and bought boxed chocolates there, which were absurdly cheap but would have to make do.
I returned to the station well in time for the train, collected by bad from the electric locker and passed through passport control. It felt strange having to show my passport just to board a train. This was it. My last journey. I found my seat and sat down next to a middle aged woman who had been speaking posh London English on her phone. There was something for an aircraft feel to the Eurostar carriages. I half expected to be shown where the emergency exits were. I took a magazine from the netting in front of the woman’s seat and flicked through it.
“Ah! Isn’t that typical!” I said, “a train that runs between France and England and all the magazines are in French.”
She seemed to hesitate just slightly before answering, “well, they are my magazines.” The embarrassment rose inside of me and I apologised. She was fine about it, and it served to break the ice as we proceeded to chat about the English, the French and all the business she had been doing. I remarked that this was my last train from Shanghai and was pleased to get a big reaction from her. At least I’d be arriving in London with someone who appreciated the enormity of this journey.
I was looking forward to the novelty of the tunnel and coming out to England, what with having heard about the building of the tunnel throughout my childhood. But how exciting can a tunnel be? Not very much at all as I came to realised within seconds of entering the tunnel. The lack of visual stimulation outside stirred up feelings inside about my life waiting for me in England. Would things work out with Maki in a new place? Would I feel euphoric on arrival and how long could I make that feeling last? Would my plan to teach in a high school work out? Would it be fun? What would happen with Aki? Would I ever see her again? Would I ever see Japan again? And the train sped out of the tunnel and into the English countryside at sun-set. England looked much more pretty than I had remembered. Much less functional and more old-fashioned than Japan, with its little houses between hills and animals grazing.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Germany: Berlin
I got off at a surprisingly small station. I’d been expecting a Waterloo style station but instead found myself in a six platform station which just a few small shops and cafes. I went immediately to a big are with “DB” on the front, assuming this was some kind of reservation office. I found the international desk and told the fluent English speaking lady what I wanted. Now, I had a price of about £80 in mind for the two journeys together, as I’d seen this price on the internet. Instead, she said the Berlin to Brussels train would be €115 and the two hour Eurostar from Brussels to London would be €225. That’s €340 altogether, over £200! I said there must be a cheaper way, especially the Eurostar fare. She assured me there wasn’t. Just then a younger with carefully designed facial hair and a wry semi-smile took over. So I explained everything to his again and he gave me the same prices.
“But I know the Eurostar price is cheaper on the internet” I said, pleading with his static face.
“That’s the cheapest” he insisted. “OK, take me as far as Brussels. I’ll work it out myself from there” I replied.
“OK, as you wish” he said, with the manner of someone who had just listened to a friend state that he wanted a few days stint in Las Vegas to repay all his debts.
I suddenly remembered there was a youth discount and the Berlin to Brussels price was reduced to €74. Within thirty minutes I had checked in to a local hostel, been online and booked a train in two days time from Brussels to London for £40, a third of the price he assured me was the cheapest, even though my having to ask for the youth discount clearly contradicted this.
Berlin looked good in the low early evening sun as I wandered around looking for a restaurant. I got speaking to a Korean girl who was studying piano in Dresden. She walked me to a cheap Italian place which turned out to be very nice. In my random wanderings, I had picked up a free booklet in a Dunkin’ Donuts which at first glance looked like some advertisement supplement but was in fact a great little guide of the city, featuring maps, restaurant and bar reviews and details of where and when you could meet in order to get a free 4 hour walking tour of the city. I notice a nice review of a jazz bar so I took the metro and spent the evening there, drinking excellent blonde beer and chatting to an old man from Leipzig who worked for Amnesty International and had worked with many leaders of the world. He had even dealt personally with Nelson Mandela. We became beer-fuelled best friends and he made me promise to write to him.
That night as I went to bed in the hostel, I noticed one guy across the ten-bed room who was vaguely looking at me. It was late and I wanted to turn the light out after some reading. As I started reading, I noticed he went to do the same.
When I woke up, I peered over and saw the he was just waking up. I got out my book and started reading again in an attempt to quickly warm up my brain and sure enough, he started reading too. Isn’t doppelganger a German word?
I went for a shower in a strange large room with a timer button for the water and transparent doors. Five minutes later he came in to have a shower. Was this guy trying to talk to me or something? I quickly forget about it as I went for an overly sweet breakfast of apple pie, coconut macaroon and coffee at a local bakery. I checked out and put my big bag away before going to Dunkin’ Donuts for 12.30pm, the meet up time for the free tour. It was simply great. For hours me were shown around Berlin’s most famous spots with all the interesting stories entertainingly told. I met new people, learnt important new things and my love of Berlin quickly blossomed.
The most interesting thing I learnt was how the fall of the Berlin wall came to be. Summarised, an important member of the German government was a famous alcoholic and had forgotten to attend an important meeting to discuss ways in which the government could appear to be helping the people to once again be able to cross the wall. At this time the government had no such intention but as protests were escalating, they just wanted to offer a phoney carrot. In bold print, some people could cross the wall but the small print would show that actually nothing had changed. So one day, this important government guy was giving a speech when he noticed a memorandum about the missed meeting, entitled “meeting about the new freedom to cross the wall.” So he included his into his speech which suddenly caused the bored journalists and officials to listen. He simply announced that people could free cross the wall, based on the wording of the memorandum. One journalist jumped on this, asking when this new freedom came into effect. The question was repeated as the government guy hastily improvised and famous said “as of now” and that was it. The crowds formed at the wall, all demanding to be let across and they were, albeit with water canons feebly trying to deter them.
During the tour I had bumped into an Italian girl on two occasions and it was a little awkward. She was clearly shy and we had already done the “goodbye and have a good life” thing at the end of our first meeting. But at the end of out second meeting, I fumbled and said “well, see you… again” and kept cursing myself for sounding like a stalker. As it happened, we met a third time as I was walking through the city centre in the evening. We went for dinner and she really opened up. But then she started talking about letting God into my life and I didn’t quite know how to respond.
My over night sleeper to Brussels was in fact just a seat. It seemed that the DB facial hair guy didn’t like me after all and had booked me a seat, even though I clearly asked for a sleeper. And who followed me into the six-seat compartment three minutes later? Yes. Mr creepy copy-everything-I-do man. Having never spoken a word to each other, I opened with “so, we seem to be following each other all the time” to which he agreed, which to me confirmed one of two things. Either he had also noticed we’d been doing a lot of the same things or he really had been actually following me for some unknown reason. But actually he was a nice guy and he had a good chat although I moaned a lot about not having a bed .When I approached the conductor and told her that I had the wrong kind of ticket, she looked at it and said “no, this is right, it’s a seat ticket.”
“No, I’m supposed to have a bed.”
“Oh no no no. This is a seat ticket. It’s a ticket for a seat and you’re in the right place so it’s OK.” Fortunately I had three seats to myself and the arm-rest reclined so I laid down and slept surprisingly well. As I woke up we were just pulling into Brussels.
“But I know the Eurostar price is cheaper on the internet” I said, pleading with his static face.
“That’s the cheapest” he insisted. “OK, take me as far as Brussels. I’ll work it out myself from there” I replied.
“OK, as you wish” he said, with the manner of someone who had just listened to a friend state that he wanted a few days stint in Las Vegas to repay all his debts.
I suddenly remembered there was a youth discount and the Berlin to Brussels price was reduced to €74. Within thirty minutes I had checked in to a local hostel, been online and booked a train in two days time from Brussels to London for £40, a third of the price he assured me was the cheapest, even though my having to ask for the youth discount clearly contradicted this.
Berlin looked good in the low early evening sun as I wandered around looking for a restaurant. I got speaking to a Korean girl who was studying piano in Dresden. She walked me to a cheap Italian place which turned out to be very nice. In my random wanderings, I had picked up a free booklet in a Dunkin’ Donuts which at first glance looked like some advertisement supplement but was in fact a great little guide of the city, featuring maps, restaurant and bar reviews and details of where and when you could meet in order to get a free 4 hour walking tour of the city. I notice a nice review of a jazz bar so I took the metro and spent the evening there, drinking excellent blonde beer and chatting to an old man from Leipzig who worked for Amnesty International and had worked with many leaders of the world. He had even dealt personally with Nelson Mandela. We became beer-fuelled best friends and he made me promise to write to him.
That night as I went to bed in the hostel, I noticed one guy across the ten-bed room who was vaguely looking at me. It was late and I wanted to turn the light out after some reading. As I started reading, I noticed he went to do the same.
When I woke up, I peered over and saw the he was just waking up. I got out my book and started reading again in an attempt to quickly warm up my brain and sure enough, he started reading too. Isn’t doppelganger a German word?
I went for a shower in a strange large room with a timer button for the water and transparent doors. Five minutes later he came in to have a shower. Was this guy trying to talk to me or something? I quickly forget about it as I went for an overly sweet breakfast of apple pie, coconut macaroon and coffee at a local bakery. I checked out and put my big bag away before going to Dunkin’ Donuts for 12.30pm, the meet up time for the free tour. It was simply great. For hours me were shown around Berlin’s most famous spots with all the interesting stories entertainingly told. I met new people, learnt important new things and my love of Berlin quickly blossomed.
The most interesting thing I learnt was how the fall of the Berlin wall came to be. Summarised, an important member of the German government was a famous alcoholic and had forgotten to attend an important meeting to discuss ways in which the government could appear to be helping the people to once again be able to cross the wall. At this time the government had no such intention but as protests were escalating, they just wanted to offer a phoney carrot. In bold print, some people could cross the wall but the small print would show that actually nothing had changed. So one day, this important government guy was giving a speech when he noticed a memorandum about the missed meeting, entitled “meeting about the new freedom to cross the wall.” So he included his into his speech which suddenly caused the bored journalists and officials to listen. He simply announced that people could free cross the wall, based on the wording of the memorandum. One journalist jumped on this, asking when this new freedom came into effect. The question was repeated as the government guy hastily improvised and famous said “as of now” and that was it. The crowds formed at the wall, all demanding to be let across and they were, albeit with water canons feebly trying to deter them.
During the tour I had bumped into an Italian girl on two occasions and it was a little awkward. She was clearly shy and we had already done the “goodbye and have a good life” thing at the end of our first meeting. But at the end of out second meeting, I fumbled and said “well, see you… again” and kept cursing myself for sounding like a stalker. As it happened, we met a third time as I was walking through the city centre in the evening. We went for dinner and she really opened up. But then she started talking about letting God into my life and I didn’t quite know how to respond.
My over night sleeper to Brussels was in fact just a seat. It seemed that the DB facial hair guy didn’t like me after all and had booked me a seat, even though I clearly asked for a sleeper. And who followed me into the six-seat compartment three minutes later? Yes. Mr creepy copy-everything-I-do man. Having never spoken a word to each other, I opened with “so, we seem to be following each other all the time” to which he agreed, which to me confirmed one of two things. Either he had also noticed we’d been doing a lot of the same things or he really had been actually following me for some unknown reason. But actually he was a nice guy and he had a good chat although I moaned a lot about not having a bed .When I approached the conductor and told her that I had the wrong kind of ticket, she looked at it and said “no, this is right, it’s a seat ticket.”
“No, I’m supposed to have a bed.”
“Oh no no no. This is a seat ticket. It’s a ticket for a seat and you’re in the right place so it’s OK.” Fortunately I had three seats to myself and the arm-rest reclined so I laid down and slept surprisingly well. As I woke up we were just pulling into Brussels.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Poland: Warsaw
I got off the train to a grey dreary Warsaw and half expected to see another “Trevor” sign. But alas, I didn’t see it. In fact I didn’t see anyone very much, let alone any “very tall” people. After 45 minutes of yet more waiting (not forgetting the previous evening’s wait for Chris) I went to an internet café to see if he’d emailed me and to get his phone number so I could call him. A young Polish guy noticed me struggling with the attendant as I tried to explain that I wanted to use the internet (what the hell else did he think I was going to do in an internet café?!) and said I could use his phone to call Machiek.
Machiek had gone to the wrong station which was a fair mistake as I had told him the station since my ticket displayed the wrong arrival station. Anyway, he was a great guy. Relaxed, laid-back, ambitious (he had cut-off his studies to focus on making films) and very friendly. We immediately got on well, talking mostly about movies, then girlfriends, then beer, then cities amongst other things. He advised me to stop off in Berlin if I could as it was a very interesting and beautiful city. Warsaw is generally an ugly city but has some nice spots, much of which was rebuilt as 95% of the city’s buildings were destroyed in the second world war. He treated me to a kebab (again! Not much fibre in my diet in those days) and a beer in a jazz café in the ‘old town’ which is remarkably similar to the ‘new town’. The apartment I had to myself for the night was beautiful and was extremely central, being across the road from the grand neo-classical city hall. He made tea as I watched his first short film which wasn’t bad but was clearly somebody’s first film.
I couldn’t sleep well because I kept worrying about waking up in time to catch my train to Berlin as I had no alarm so I was fairly early, well, so I thought I’d be, for my first sit-down train ride during the day since Shanghai to Nanjing which just seemed worlds away. As I approached the station I realised I was going to need to eat something so I bought a “megaburger” from a take-out kiosk in the station. It was horrible. The burger was still frozen in the middle. When I complained she just reheated the remaining burger and handed it back. It was then I realised how much I was missing the love, care and attention that Japanese people put into everything they make or do.
As I walked up to my seat in the train, I noticec a young german girl in my seat. I showed her my ticket.
“Umm, this is my seat I’m afraid.” She looked around her before replying,
“Well this is my seat so sorry.” I waited a beat, just looking at her.
“My ticket says seat 42. You’re in seat 42.” She shouted over to some older guy who was in charge of the huge group of kids she seemed to be a part of. He shook his shoulders in a manner that suggested I was clearly nuts. She repeated, “well, this is my seat. This is the right seat, I’m sorry.”
I waited for someone else to realise their mistake, which the dumb German guy eventually did, some five seconds later.
The ride was the smoothest yet, like a Japanese bullet train, although this Polish train wasn’t so fast. I was really playing things by ear now. I had no accommodation booked in Berlin and no idea if I could get a reasonably priced ticket for two more trains to London via Brussels. The train passed mostly quaint green landscape, no heavy industry and no big towns. It was very nice although I kept wishing I had saved some money for a coffee and a Mars Bar on the train. The guy must have past eight or nine times.
Machiek had gone to the wrong station which was a fair mistake as I had told him the station since my ticket displayed the wrong arrival station. Anyway, he was a great guy. Relaxed, laid-back, ambitious (he had cut-off his studies to focus on making films) and very friendly. We immediately got on well, talking mostly about movies, then girlfriends, then beer, then cities amongst other things. He advised me to stop off in Berlin if I could as it was a very interesting and beautiful city. Warsaw is generally an ugly city but has some nice spots, much of which was rebuilt as 95% of the city’s buildings were destroyed in the second world war. He treated me to a kebab (again! Not much fibre in my diet in those days) and a beer in a jazz café in the ‘old town’ which is remarkably similar to the ‘new town’. The apartment I had to myself for the night was beautiful and was extremely central, being across the road from the grand neo-classical city hall. He made tea as I watched his first short film which wasn’t bad but was clearly somebody’s first film.
I couldn’t sleep well because I kept worrying about waking up in time to catch my train to Berlin as I had no alarm so I was fairly early, well, so I thought I’d be, for my first sit-down train ride during the day since Shanghai to Nanjing which just seemed worlds away. As I approached the station I realised I was going to need to eat something so I bought a “megaburger” from a take-out kiosk in the station. It was horrible. The burger was still frozen in the middle. When I complained she just reheated the remaining burger and handed it back. It was then I realised how much I was missing the love, care and attention that Japanese people put into everything they make or do.
As I walked up to my seat in the train, I noticec a young german girl in my seat. I showed her my ticket.
“Umm, this is my seat I’m afraid.” She looked around her before replying,
“Well this is my seat so sorry.” I waited a beat, just looking at her.
“My ticket says seat 42. You’re in seat 42.” She shouted over to some older guy who was in charge of the huge group of kids she seemed to be a part of. He shook his shoulders in a manner that suggested I was clearly nuts. She repeated, “well, this is my seat. This is the right seat, I’m sorry.”
I waited for someone else to realise their mistake, which the dumb German guy eventually did, some five seconds later.
The ride was the smoothest yet, like a Japanese bullet train, although this Polish train wasn’t so fast. I was really playing things by ear now. I had no accommodation booked in Berlin and no idea if I could get a reasonably priced ticket for two more trains to London via Brussels. The train passed mostly quaint green landscape, no heavy industry and no big towns. It was very nice although I kept wishing I had saved some money for a coffee and a Mars Bar on the train. The guy must have past eight or nine times.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Crossing Belarus
As soon as I saw the train I felt it was going to be a good journey. My room mates were an Asian-looking Russian guy whose name I always forgot and a fairly young Russian woman who was called Xena. He spoke some English and she seemed to understand most of what we said. It was a strange compartment, having only three beds and a big area close to the roof which I initially thought was my bed as all the beds hadn’t yet been unfolded. This really tickled the Russian guy and it broke the ice as he explained where I’d be sleeping. Soon into the journey they got out the Vodka and I drunk extremely strong Vodka and cokes with them with seemed to roughly followed a 1:1 ratio. A space physics university professor from the next compartment also invited me for Vodka with his room mates who were folk musicians, and gave me a special tape entitled “For Friends”. The pressure applied by the guitarist to drink more and more Vodka was a little worrying. Maybe only my falling over unconscious, or better still dead, would satisfy him.
I put my watch back two hours as Warsaw, and indeed the rest of Europe until I arrived in England, was two hours behind.
I woke up with a sharp hangover, even though I had followed the advice of the university professor the night before and had continually eaten during the drinking of Vodka. Very few Russians drink Vodka without food. Whereas back home such advice would be to potentially lessen a hangover, I couldn’t help but wonder if such advice in Russia is to simply stop you from dying from the stuff. Perhaps it is the constant eating while drinking that makes Russians such big burley people. Either way, I once again felt like a complete lightweight. Maybe it was the beer just before going to bed that did it for me. Either way I felt lousy. It was then about 7am. My body was still on Moscow time. You’d think that train travel across the world wouldn’t allow for any jet-lag but there must be such a thing as train-lag because I had it.
Suddenly the guitarist came into my compartment with a glass of beer for me, which he insisted I drink. I bypassed my initially shock and disgust and forced myself to drink it to please him. Jesus I though, how far do I have to go for this guy?! It tasted awful, it being first thing in the morning, as the warm lager went down but almost immediately it took the edge of my hangover. I felt tired for the rest of the journey but was unable to sleep. The time passed uneventfully apart from the drunk guitarist whose drinking knew no boundaries. A few days previous I had arranged for a globalfreeloader to meet me at Warsaw station so I could stay at his place for the night. I had no information about him other than the fact that his name was Machiek and he was extremely tall, therefore easy to spot.
I put my watch back two hours as Warsaw, and indeed the rest of Europe until I arrived in England, was two hours behind.
I woke up with a sharp hangover, even though I had followed the advice of the university professor the night before and had continually eaten during the drinking of Vodka. Very few Russians drink Vodka without food. Whereas back home such advice would be to potentially lessen a hangover, I couldn’t help but wonder if such advice in Russia is to simply stop you from dying from the stuff. Perhaps it is the constant eating while drinking that makes Russians such big burley people. Either way, I once again felt like a complete lightweight. Maybe it was the beer just before going to bed that did it for me. Either way I felt lousy. It was then about 7am. My body was still on Moscow time. You’d think that train travel across the world wouldn’t allow for any jet-lag but there must be such a thing as train-lag because I had it.
Suddenly the guitarist came into my compartment with a glass of beer for me, which he insisted I drink. I bypassed my initially shock and disgust and forced myself to drink it to please him. Jesus I though, how far do I have to go for this guy?! It tasted awful, it being first thing in the morning, as the warm lager went down but almost immediately it took the edge of my hangover. I felt tired for the rest of the journey but was unable to sleep. The time passed uneventfully apart from the drunk guitarist whose drinking knew no boundaries. A few days previous I had arranged for a globalfreeloader to meet me at Warsaw station so I could stay at his place for the night. I had no information about him other than the fact that his name was Machiek and he was extremely tall, therefore easy to spot.
Thursday 10 May 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: More Moscow
I was left to tackle Moscow by myself the next day which I did by walking around the Red Square area, aimlessly, but that wasn’t until I spent the morning trying to get my next train ticket: Moscow to Warsaw, Poland’s capital. First I went to the train station where it took thirty minutes to find the correct ticket office only to be told I needed a Belarus visa, as the train would cross Belarus, a vague new post USSR country I knew nothing about except the capital is Minsk. She handed me the address of the Belarus Embassy which I found an hour later, arriving at 11.55am only to be told that visa applications were accepted from 10 to 12 and I was too late, regardless of the fact that it was actually before 12. I was insane with frustration and started to seriously consider how I could get to England around Belarus. There was nothing I could do until the next morning.
That evening I met Maria and her sister for a tour of Moscow’s pretty area during sunset including the main university, which we wouldn’t enter due to obscene security. It seems Russia is as paranoid as America. We settled in a semi-bohemian café having eaten cheap street-vendor pies and chatted about travel horror stories. I told them about Fabio getting attacked and Maria responded with a “I can do better than that!” style gusto as she launched into a story of how she was mugged at knife point and nearly raped within the same day. I was a little perplexed at the glee with which she told the story, almost like she was proud of it and happy for it to happen again. Her naivety was worrying. If these events didn’t make her stop and think, how easily will she allow such things to happen again?
And so the next morning I arrived at the embassy just before 11am to a queue of about twelve people. I waited for just under an hour until it was 11.55am and again I was thoroughly pissed-off with the prospect of having to come back yet again. I went up to the counter, put on my best “little boy lost” look and struck lucky. This seemingly hard Russian woman was an English speaking and middle-aged who mothered me a little: my photo was too big for a visa but that’s ok, I hadn’t made a copy of my passport, that’s ok, she’ll do it. I needed to pay exactly $45 in US dollars with bank notes that were no older than three years. Crazy. Luckily, a guy next to me offered to exchange some of my roubles for dollars but I had no idea how much money I had. He gave me a $50 note and I just about had enough roubles, according to him. She gave me change even though there was a notice on the counter window saying that no change could be given. She chatted to me about my journey.
“So you’re a traveller?”
“Yeah, from Shanghai to London by train”.
“And you don’t speak any Russian?”
“No, none… yeah, I guess it is kind of difficult.”
She laughed, “well, good luck. Are you writing a book about it?”
“Actually, I’m trying to.”
“Good luck. Be careful with your money and your passport.” When all else fails, use the “little boy lost” look.
I had to return at 4pm to pick up my new Belarus-friendly passport which now allowed me a narrow two day window to pass through Belarus, so I had to get a ticket on thee days. So I went to the railway station, queued for thirty minutes to be told I was in the wrong queue, queued for a further twenty minutes and managed to get a Moscow to Warsaw ticket to leave three days later. Then I met Vania and we walked through a nice lively studenty street with lots of street musicians, stalls and pickpockets. One guy started to walk by me while firing questions to me, edging closer and closer. After a meal at a cheap school-canteen style restaurant we went back to Vania’s place, a tatty apartment on the edge of the Metro system.
The next day I spent two hours in Moscow’s main museum, the Pushkin gallery which was surprisingly bad. It cost 300 roubles for foreigners (100 for Russians) and an extra 250 roubles for an audio guide which was pretty much essential as none of the exhibits featured any English. This was Moscow, a capital city, and there was no English.
Most exhibits featured ancient Greek copies of plaster casts, which are incredibly boring even with an English guide. The highlight was a twentieth century room with some famous Monets, Gauguins and Van Goghs, although I didn’t recognise them myself. Chris was to arrive in Moscow that evening, having spent a week in Mongolia and four days on the train. By coincidence, he was due to stay at Vania’s, having contacted him some days before. I went to meet him at a rather strange train station where the platforms were across the street from the main ticket office and waiting hall. It was a novelty to see him and to take him to a park, where we were due to meet Vania later where we caught-up with each other.
I spent most of the next day on the internet in Vania’s home, emailing friends and starting to apply for teaching jobs in London. The plan was to live with Maki and another person in London, renting a place. Maki would continue her degree at the London College of Fashion that she interrupted to work back in Japan to save money for her return to London. And I’d get a job as a high school music teacher. May was the peak month of teaching vacancies so I was trying to get ready, get started early, although the most I could do was ask for application forms to be sent to my home, ready to fill on my arrival. Not the nest things to do upon arriving home after such a change in life.
I met Maria and some of her friends in the evening. Chris was supposed to show up but never did so we left to buy a few bottles of a local speciality: honey beer. It was sweet and strong and gave me chronic heartburn, but of course the Russians had no problem. We sat by a huge fountain, lined with huge gold statues of women, each one depicting one of the new states created by the demise of the USSR, although of course, they all looked the same to me. The surrounding area was peaceful. People were roller-skating or drinking. The area was once a large soviet exhibition, which supposedly showed the USSR’s great achievements. At one end there still remained a couple of small passenger Aeroflot planes and a small space rocket which looked old and faded. We walked around and bought kebabs which reminded me that I really was getting closer to home, and then we went home with the sun going down at around 10pm.
Again I did pretty much nothing the next day before leaving to meet Chris which was to be our last few hours together on this journey. The plan was to meet at a station at 6pm. I was hoping to take a walk around red square so I could get some photos of St. Bail’s cathedral just before dusk but again Chris showed. I waited until 7pm until I walked away thoroughly pissed off. I need to return Vania’s keys to Chris so Vania could get them (Chris was going to stay for a few more nights) so I had to go all the way back to Vania’s place to throw them under the door and back again, which was pretty much my last few hours in Russia. I did however get some nice pictures of St. Basil’s at dusk, which was surprisingly important to me. A song in Japan called “Kremlin Dusk” had meant a lot to me as it was playing when me and Aki first dated, more specifically when I first stayed over at her place and felt really happy. And I always pictures the scene of Kremlin under a nice sunset and here I was, actually in Moscow, staring at the Kremlin under a cloudless pink sky.
That evening I met Maria and her sister for a tour of Moscow’s pretty area during sunset including the main university, which we wouldn’t enter due to obscene security. It seems Russia is as paranoid as America. We settled in a semi-bohemian café having eaten cheap street-vendor pies and chatted about travel horror stories. I told them about Fabio getting attacked and Maria responded with a “I can do better than that!” style gusto as she launched into a story of how she was mugged at knife point and nearly raped within the same day. I was a little perplexed at the glee with which she told the story, almost like she was proud of it and happy for it to happen again. Her naivety was worrying. If these events didn’t make her stop and think, how easily will she allow such things to happen again?
And so the next morning I arrived at the embassy just before 11am to a queue of about twelve people. I waited for just under an hour until it was 11.55am and again I was thoroughly pissed-off with the prospect of having to come back yet again. I went up to the counter, put on my best “little boy lost” look and struck lucky. This seemingly hard Russian woman was an English speaking and middle-aged who mothered me a little: my photo was too big for a visa but that’s ok, I hadn’t made a copy of my passport, that’s ok, she’ll do it. I needed to pay exactly $45 in US dollars with bank notes that were no older than three years. Crazy. Luckily, a guy next to me offered to exchange some of my roubles for dollars but I had no idea how much money I had. He gave me a $50 note and I just about had enough roubles, according to him. She gave me change even though there was a notice on the counter window saying that no change could be given. She chatted to me about my journey.
“So you’re a traveller?”
“Yeah, from Shanghai to London by train”.
“And you don’t speak any Russian?”
“No, none… yeah, I guess it is kind of difficult.”
She laughed, “well, good luck. Are you writing a book about it?”
“Actually, I’m trying to.”
“Good luck. Be careful with your money and your passport.” When all else fails, use the “little boy lost” look.
I had to return at 4pm to pick up my new Belarus-friendly passport which now allowed me a narrow two day window to pass through Belarus, so I had to get a ticket on thee days. So I went to the railway station, queued for thirty minutes to be told I was in the wrong queue, queued for a further twenty minutes and managed to get a Moscow to Warsaw ticket to leave three days later. Then I met Vania and we walked through a nice lively studenty street with lots of street musicians, stalls and pickpockets. One guy started to walk by me while firing questions to me, edging closer and closer. After a meal at a cheap school-canteen style restaurant we went back to Vania’s place, a tatty apartment on the edge of the Metro system.
The next day I spent two hours in Moscow’s main museum, the Pushkin gallery which was surprisingly bad. It cost 300 roubles for foreigners (100 for Russians) and an extra 250 roubles for an audio guide which was pretty much essential as none of the exhibits featured any English. This was Moscow, a capital city, and there was no English.
Most exhibits featured ancient Greek copies of plaster casts, which are incredibly boring even with an English guide. The highlight was a twentieth century room with some famous Monets, Gauguins and Van Goghs, although I didn’t recognise them myself. Chris was to arrive in Moscow that evening, having spent a week in Mongolia and four days on the train. By coincidence, he was due to stay at Vania’s, having contacted him some days before. I went to meet him at a rather strange train station where the platforms were across the street from the main ticket office and waiting hall. It was a novelty to see him and to take him to a park, where we were due to meet Vania later where we caught-up with each other.
I spent most of the next day on the internet in Vania’s home, emailing friends and starting to apply for teaching jobs in London. The plan was to live with Maki and another person in London, renting a place. Maki would continue her degree at the London College of Fashion that she interrupted to work back in Japan to save money for her return to London. And I’d get a job as a high school music teacher. May was the peak month of teaching vacancies so I was trying to get ready, get started early, although the most I could do was ask for application forms to be sent to my home, ready to fill on my arrival. Not the nest things to do upon arriving home after such a change in life.
I met Maria and some of her friends in the evening. Chris was supposed to show up but never did so we left to buy a few bottles of a local speciality: honey beer. It was sweet and strong and gave me chronic heartburn, but of course the Russians had no problem. We sat by a huge fountain, lined with huge gold statues of women, each one depicting one of the new states created by the demise of the USSR, although of course, they all looked the same to me. The surrounding area was peaceful. People were roller-skating or drinking. The area was once a large soviet exhibition, which supposedly showed the USSR’s great achievements. At one end there still remained a couple of small passenger Aeroflot planes and a small space rocket which looked old and faded. We walked around and bought kebabs which reminded me that I really was getting closer to home, and then we went home with the sun going down at around 10pm.
Again I did pretty much nothing the next day before leaving to meet Chris which was to be our last few hours together on this journey. The plan was to meet at a station at 6pm. I was hoping to take a walk around red square so I could get some photos of St. Bail’s cathedral just before dusk but again Chris showed. I waited until 7pm until I walked away thoroughly pissed off. I need to return Vania’s keys to Chris so Vania could get them (Chris was going to stay for a few more nights) so I had to go all the way back to Vania’s place to throw them under the door and back again, which was pretty much my last few hours in Russia. I did however get some nice pictures of St. Basil’s at dusk, which was surprisingly important to me. A song in Japan called “Kremlin Dusk” had meant a lot to me as it was playing when me and Aki first dated, more specifically when I first stayed over at her place and felt really happy. And I always pictures the scene of Kremlin under a nice sunset and here I was, actually in Moscow, staring at the Kremlin under a cloudless pink sky.
Monday 7 May 2007
The Wedding
I had a wedding yesterday, in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, near Wolverhampton. Last week I booked my train tickets. It would take three and a half hours to get there and two and a half to get back on a direct train. The wedding was on a Sunday and I figured that since I had work the next day, I’d need to get there and come back in the same day, but of course, we have a bank-holiday the next day (what does the ‘bank’ part mean?!) which meant I could have stayed over and enjoyed the party in the evening.
I knew the bride from University, Grace, a girl my age who I’ve seen once in five years so I was a little surprised to be invited. She asked me to play piano before the meal. It was one of those weddings where I knew very few people there so there was a lot of awkward standing about, and walking with intent to other areas of the courtyard as if I knew everybody there, when in reality I was seeking out the 3 people I knew in the whole congregation.
As weddings usually go, it started awkwardly and quickly warmed-up with the aid of that great social lubricant, alcohol. We asked each other the same questions and as I’d describe my job, the phrase “bloody nightmare” and “can’t wait to quit” would soon follow.
So I got picked up from Wolverhampton after a long train ride and a horribly early morning for a day off and after a 5 mile drive from Grace’s brother who picked me up form the station, found myself at the church. That’s not too far I thought, I’ll be able to get a cab back to the station easily enough. But after the ceremony, we all got in cars and drove a further 15 miles to the reception venue. How on earth would I get back to Wolverhampton station?! It would cost a bomb.
I can never forget about “Four Weddings and a Funeral” when attending the meal at weddings. But I was placed at a table full of couples, apart from one brightly dressed attractive girl who seemed way too sensible to want to talk to me. You have to make quite an effort not to get drunk at weddings, what with the free champagne and wine. I played piano, finished, sat down again, and looked at my watch: 6:30pm. My train would leave at 8.30pm. That meant I had about an hour here before I’d need to leave and we hadn’t even started main course yet.
I put off having to organise anything, hoping for a magical solution, which never materialised. So I thought, oh forget it, I’ll just stay, knock myself out with booze and make sure I collapse somewhere inside, ideally with a carpet, or better still, with that sensible pink-dress girl. But suddenly, I met a friend at 7.45pm who said he was getting a cab to go back to a station which would be on the way to Wolverhampton so I got in the cab with him and after the 5 minute drive to his station, asked the cab driver if he could get to Wolverhampton station by 8.30pm. It was 8pm now, so he sped most of the way.
Twenty-eight minutes and a horrendous cab fair later, I got out at Wolverhampton station at 8.28pm. I rushed straight to the first platform where I saw a big Virgin train waiting. Ahh! Just like in the movies! Made it at the last second. It was as if everyone on the train was happy to see me and glad I had just made it in time! I thought I’d confirm with the train guard “this is to London yes?” and he said “London? No, that’s across the bridge on platform 4, you’d better hurry.” And so followed a panicked dash across the biggest railway bridge I’ve ever seen with an unnecessary amount of stairs, and the obligatory slap on the train door, from the outside, seconds after it closed on me. I’d missed it. I turned to the station attendant who said “stay here. There’s another at 9.30pm. We’ll try to get you on that one.”
So I sat for an hour. I’d forgotten to pack my book so I felt the hour going by slowly as I played snake on my ancient phone, lost interested, realised there was nothing else to do in Wolverhampton on a Sunday night, played snake again, got bored etc. 9.30pm came, as did the train. The station attendant told me to speak to the train guard and explain that I’d missed the train before. I immediately know this train guard was an utter bastard. For a start he was from London.
“No sir, you needed to be on the train before.”
“Yes but the wedding overran, I missed the train by seconds. Can I not just get on this one? It doesn’t look busy at all,”
“No sir, you read the terms and conditions of the train ticket yes?”
“Er… what?”
“Yes? And you would have read that you can’t ride on any other train than the one you missed.”
“But this is the last train to London.”
“Do you have £80 sir? The ticket will cost you £80.”
“Oh come on. I’ve already paid… I…”
“It’s £80. Goodbye sir.”
And the train went. That was it. 9.30pm in Wolverhampton, 140 miles from home. On a Sunday night. Having missed the last train to London. I was stunned that such bastards existed. Well, no, I’d met them before. They’d knocked me off my bicycle and they worked at my school.
So I exited the station trying to engage my brain. Maybe I could get a coach? I walked through Wolverhampton and found a coach station.
“Are there any coaches to London left tonight?” I asked. It was now 10pm.
“Er… yes, a 2am to London.”
That was it. I really didn’t want to be on a coach all through the night.
“But if you get a local bus to Birmingham, you’ll be able to get an earlier coach since they leave every hour there, on the hour.”
Great. So I took this local bus into Birmingham, which took an hour and a half with the last half hour spend standing by the driver so he could tell me where to get off.
So at 11.30pm I found myself in the middle of Birmingham. After asking three people, I found the coach station and went into the dingy lonely waiting room. Ah! There it is! The 12am coach to London… oh… no, from London. I was looking at the arrivals board. So where was the departures list? So, it turns out there is no 12am coach to London, and no 1am coach, and not even a 2am coach. The first coach to London was at 3am. How is it that every thing is wrong?!
After a few minutes of throwing my fists around as if having some kind of psychotic boxing match with an invisible person, I started wandering around drizzly Birmingham, now desperately tired, looking for a place to just wait and lie down.
I had just over 3 hours to kill. God I hate killing time, so much. But I had no choice. So there I was, still in wedding attire, looking for a dark spot to settle down for three hours. I found a set of empty market stalls, under a roof. I didn’t want to lie on the filthy ground so I needed something to lie on. I figured a bin-bag would do it. So I took one of the stuffed bin backs from the back of a pub and went to a large bin to empty it. I was lucky as the bag contained old pub curtains. So I took one of these and wandered back to the stalls. I put down a curtain and lied down, like some high-class tramp in my suit. But people kept walking by, and some guy pissed on the ground just a few yards away from me. So I needed a new spot. I wandered around for about an hour looking for a suitably dark spot, so tired by now. I settled for a shabby lorry park behind some lorries so I couldn’t be pissed on by any drunken clubbers walking home. Of course I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if it was the fear of being found by some nutter, or having one of the lorries suddenly reverse over my face, or the stink of the smoke on the curtains. But eventually 2.30am came so I got up, freezing and stiff, and walked to the lonely coach station.
The ticket machines weren’t working properly. Of course. Why should they?! That would have been way too much to ask. Only on the six attempt did the machine randomly accept my debit card and spit out a paper ticket for the 3am trip home. As I was in the remarkably busy line to the coach, I was told my the driver that he couldn’t accept my ticket because the booking reference number was wrong.
“I don’t know what that means” I said, “I bought a ticket for the 3am coach.”
“No no” said some dickhead manager who came over when he heard my voice rising, I was starting to loose it “you see, the ticket machine has issued you with the wrong journey. So we can only let you on this coach if it’s not full.”
A 3am coach to London on a Sunday night is packed. How do you explain that?
I was losing it now.
“Look, what the hell?! I’ve just paid for this ticket, it has today’s date, the right route and the right time, now if you know the journey I’ve had so far…”
“Look sir, the computer has issued you with a ticket for tomorrow’s journey. The sysem’s not working properly”
“WELL THAT’S NOT MY FAULT IS IT?! THAT’S YOUR FAULT!””No sir. It’s the computer. The computer’s all wrong so…”
“SO THAT’S YOUR FAULT!”
“Well no sir, not my fault.”
“OF COURSE IT IS, YOUR COMPANY’S FAULT.”
“Well you could write a letter of complaint to …”
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE. WE BOTH KNOW THAT FUCK-ALL WILL HAPPEN IF I WRITE A FUCKING LETTER OF COMPLAINT. NOW WILL YOU LET ME ON THIS FUCKING COACH.”
And by chance, just by chance, some polish guy wasn’t allowed on the coach so there was a spare seat for me. I got in at London Victoria station at 6.30am and into my house at 7.30am, some 8 hours later than I had planned.
I knew the bride from University, Grace, a girl my age who I’ve seen once in five years so I was a little surprised to be invited. She asked me to play piano before the meal. It was one of those weddings where I knew very few people there so there was a lot of awkward standing about, and walking with intent to other areas of the courtyard as if I knew everybody there, when in reality I was seeking out the 3 people I knew in the whole congregation.
As weddings usually go, it started awkwardly and quickly warmed-up with the aid of that great social lubricant, alcohol. We asked each other the same questions and as I’d describe my job, the phrase “bloody nightmare” and “can’t wait to quit” would soon follow.
So I got picked up from Wolverhampton after a long train ride and a horribly early morning for a day off and after a 5 mile drive from Grace’s brother who picked me up form the station, found myself at the church. That’s not too far I thought, I’ll be able to get a cab back to the station easily enough. But after the ceremony, we all got in cars and drove a further 15 miles to the reception venue. How on earth would I get back to Wolverhampton station?! It would cost a bomb.
I can never forget about “Four Weddings and a Funeral” when attending the meal at weddings. But I was placed at a table full of couples, apart from one brightly dressed attractive girl who seemed way too sensible to want to talk to me. You have to make quite an effort not to get drunk at weddings, what with the free champagne and wine. I played piano, finished, sat down again, and looked at my watch: 6:30pm. My train would leave at 8.30pm. That meant I had about an hour here before I’d need to leave and we hadn’t even started main course yet.
I put off having to organise anything, hoping for a magical solution, which never materialised. So I thought, oh forget it, I’ll just stay, knock myself out with booze and make sure I collapse somewhere inside, ideally with a carpet, or better still, with that sensible pink-dress girl. But suddenly, I met a friend at 7.45pm who said he was getting a cab to go back to a station which would be on the way to Wolverhampton so I got in the cab with him and after the 5 minute drive to his station, asked the cab driver if he could get to Wolverhampton station by 8.30pm. It was 8pm now, so he sped most of the way.
Twenty-eight minutes and a horrendous cab fair later, I got out at Wolverhampton station at 8.28pm. I rushed straight to the first platform where I saw a big Virgin train waiting. Ahh! Just like in the movies! Made it at the last second. It was as if everyone on the train was happy to see me and glad I had just made it in time! I thought I’d confirm with the train guard “this is to London yes?” and he said “London? No, that’s across the bridge on platform 4, you’d better hurry.” And so followed a panicked dash across the biggest railway bridge I’ve ever seen with an unnecessary amount of stairs, and the obligatory slap on the train door, from the outside, seconds after it closed on me. I’d missed it. I turned to the station attendant who said “stay here. There’s another at 9.30pm. We’ll try to get you on that one.”
So I sat for an hour. I’d forgotten to pack my book so I felt the hour going by slowly as I played snake on my ancient phone, lost interested, realised there was nothing else to do in Wolverhampton on a Sunday night, played snake again, got bored etc. 9.30pm came, as did the train. The station attendant told me to speak to the train guard and explain that I’d missed the train before. I immediately know this train guard was an utter bastard. For a start he was from London.
“No sir, you needed to be on the train before.”
“Yes but the wedding overran, I missed the train by seconds. Can I not just get on this one? It doesn’t look busy at all,”
“No sir, you read the terms and conditions of the train ticket yes?”
“Er… what?”
“Yes? And you would have read that you can’t ride on any other train than the one you missed.”
“But this is the last train to London.”
“Do you have £80 sir? The ticket will cost you £80.”
“Oh come on. I’ve already paid… I…”
“It’s £80. Goodbye sir.”
And the train went. That was it. 9.30pm in Wolverhampton, 140 miles from home. On a Sunday night. Having missed the last train to London. I was stunned that such bastards existed. Well, no, I’d met them before. They’d knocked me off my bicycle and they worked at my school.
So I exited the station trying to engage my brain. Maybe I could get a coach? I walked through Wolverhampton and found a coach station.
“Are there any coaches to London left tonight?” I asked. It was now 10pm.
“Er… yes, a 2am to London.”
That was it. I really didn’t want to be on a coach all through the night.
“But if you get a local bus to Birmingham, you’ll be able to get an earlier coach since they leave every hour there, on the hour.”
Great. So I took this local bus into Birmingham, which took an hour and a half with the last half hour spend standing by the driver so he could tell me where to get off.
So at 11.30pm I found myself in the middle of Birmingham. After asking three people, I found the coach station and went into the dingy lonely waiting room. Ah! There it is! The 12am coach to London… oh… no, from London. I was looking at the arrivals board. So where was the departures list? So, it turns out there is no 12am coach to London, and no 1am coach, and not even a 2am coach. The first coach to London was at 3am. How is it that every thing is wrong?!
After a few minutes of throwing my fists around as if having some kind of psychotic boxing match with an invisible person, I started wandering around drizzly Birmingham, now desperately tired, looking for a place to just wait and lie down.
I had just over 3 hours to kill. God I hate killing time, so much. But I had no choice. So there I was, still in wedding attire, looking for a dark spot to settle down for three hours. I found a set of empty market stalls, under a roof. I didn’t want to lie on the filthy ground so I needed something to lie on. I figured a bin-bag would do it. So I took one of the stuffed bin backs from the back of a pub and went to a large bin to empty it. I was lucky as the bag contained old pub curtains. So I took one of these and wandered back to the stalls. I put down a curtain and lied down, like some high-class tramp in my suit. But people kept walking by, and some guy pissed on the ground just a few yards away from me. So I needed a new spot. I wandered around for about an hour looking for a suitably dark spot, so tired by now. I settled for a shabby lorry park behind some lorries so I couldn’t be pissed on by any drunken clubbers walking home. Of course I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if it was the fear of being found by some nutter, or having one of the lorries suddenly reverse over my face, or the stink of the smoke on the curtains. But eventually 2.30am came so I got up, freezing and stiff, and walked to the lonely coach station.
The ticket machines weren’t working properly. Of course. Why should they?! That would have been way too much to ask. Only on the six attempt did the machine randomly accept my debit card and spit out a paper ticket for the 3am trip home. As I was in the remarkably busy line to the coach, I was told my the driver that he couldn’t accept my ticket because the booking reference number was wrong.
“I don’t know what that means” I said, “I bought a ticket for the 3am coach.”
“No no” said some dickhead manager who came over when he heard my voice rising, I was starting to loose it “you see, the ticket machine has issued you with the wrong journey. So we can only let you on this coach if it’s not full.”
A 3am coach to London on a Sunday night is packed. How do you explain that?
I was losing it now.
“Look, what the hell?! I’ve just paid for this ticket, it has today’s date, the right route and the right time, now if you know the journey I’ve had so far…”
“Look sir, the computer has issued you with a ticket for tomorrow’s journey. The sysem’s not working properly”
“WELL THAT’S NOT MY FAULT IS IT?! THAT’S YOUR FAULT!””No sir. It’s the computer. The computer’s all wrong so…”
“SO THAT’S YOUR FAULT!”
“Well no sir, not my fault.”
“OF COURSE IT IS, YOUR COMPANY’S FAULT.”
“Well you could write a letter of complaint to …”
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE. WE BOTH KNOW THAT FUCK-ALL WILL HAPPEN IF I WRITE A FUCKING LETTER OF COMPLAINT. NOW WILL YOU LET ME ON THIS FUCKING COACH.”
And by chance, just by chance, some polish guy wasn’t allowed on the coach so there was a spare seat for me. I got in at London Victoria station at 6.30am and into my house at 7.30am, some 8 hours later than I had planned.
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