For those who know me, one of the struggles I have in life is accepting joy. Things go too well and I just start "freaking out." I know it is neurotic and i take my medicine daily and meditate. In fact, when I left for the UK, my family and friends told me, in very stern terms, "Don't F it up, Brian. You had better enjoy yourself or we will hurt you real bad"
Okay, okay, so I am working on it. I thought everyone worries about such things. Right? Wrong.
So, for the past six weeks, while being here, I have worked to, as my family says, "Not F it up!" And, I am proud to say, I haven't. In fact, ever since my second day here in the UK--when that wonderful off-duty police officer found my lost passport--I have been riding a wave of good luck. Even my friends, family and colleagues have laughed, commenting that my stay seems to be going rather well. In response to my good fortune I have tried to send back to the world good karma, taking no
extra advantages of anything and just trying to stay in a Zen-like
posture of joy and acceptance of all that I am getting to experience. My former students Stephanie and Tina know what I am talking about.
Then I decided to fly Easy Jet.
Everyone here warned me. Don't do it. Yes, the flight is cheap, but if it goes wrong, you are, as they say, "done for." I was unswayed. Like some drunken gambler I rolled the dice. I was flying from London to Dusseldorf to visit my friends and colleagues, Jürgen and Christina Klüver, who live in Essen--they are just brilliant, by the way, and I had great fun visiting them. Anway, the flight is an hour, roughly 655 kilometers. How bad could things get?
To begin, I did my homework. I read a bunch of "survival guide" postings on how to travel Easy Jet and other such discount airlines all over Europe. To be fair, when things go well, these discount airlines are the best deal in town--my round-trip flight was 55 pound. However, like health care in the United States, when things go wrong, they really go wrong.
I also made a slight change to my travel luggage this trip, expecting to make a few short flights. The big thing amongst seasoned travelers now, given the crazy increases in checked-in luggage, is to go with the backpack. The one I got--which is made by Patagonia--is awesome: no wheels, hardy, durable, full of lots of smaller compartments, easy to access, etc. And, most important, weighs no more than a feather. No jerking my arm out of its socket on stone roads or pulling a muscle carrying my bag up three flights of stairs to catch a train.
So, I was ready. I would fly out of London, as that is where my brother Warren's recent visit with me ended.
First hurdle. Easy Jet doesn't fly out of London. Sure, they say that, but they actually fly out of a smaller airport to the east, called Gatwick (nice airport by the way). So, I had to book a train from London to Gatwick. Done. Common, is that all you got?
Second hurdle. The flight times are either insanely early or late. To fly to Dusseldorf I had to get up at 3:00am in the morning, catch the train, and get to the aiport. Again, done. I am kicking butt.
Third hurdle. Flying back from Dusseldorf (another wonderful airport) I had to leave late. I would arrive in Gatwick at roughly 18:45pm (6:45pm). Once at Gatwick, I had a train booked to get me back to London, via the Victoria Station--leaving about 7:45pm. From there I had to hop on the Tube to Kings Cross, about a 15 minute ride. Then, catch the train out to Durham--about a three hour ride--arriving in Durham about 1:00am in the morning the next day. Phew. Okay, this one is a bit of challenge. But done, train booked. I am still hanging in there.
Then things went horribly wrong--but, more in the fashion of slowly turning up the heat on a lobster. I got on the plane in Dusseldorf, so far so good. "Ladies and gentlemen, sorry, but we are going to be delayed. A bla bla bla is not working." Okay I can handle that. No big deal. Breath.
Fifteen minutes later, now the engineers are here to fix it. Okay, we are still good on time.
Half hour later, now we have to get gas. What? When did they suddenly realize that?
Okay, now the ground crew is gone. They got bored and left and sometime soon they will be back.
What? Aren't they on the job? (By the way, the pilot on this plane was the nicest guy and so were the stewards and stewardesses. No complaints from me.) I decide to close my eyes, take my medicine, and fall asleep. Maybe this is all a dream.
Over two hours later we finally leave. I am panicking now. There is no way I am going to make my train.
We finally get to Gatwick. But, here it comes again, I can feel it. "Ladies and gentlemen, due to our delay we have nowhere to dock." Another delay.
At this point, i think to myself, if i run like a gazelle with my peg-leg knee, which won't be pretty, i have about eight minutes to work with and can make it all happen. Okay, just breath.
Things are moving along. I think this is going to work. Nope. Delays in passport then customs. It is now all starting to fall apart. What am I going to do? I run through my statistics again. While the margin of error is about 30 seconds, I think I have, actually, three minutes to work with and still make it.
Sweating and out of breath, I get to the Gatwick train station at the airport. I look up at the board as I am running and see that the train to London I need leaves in two minutes. However, I have to stop, first, and get permission to board, as my ticket was for two hours ago. It is now 9:00pm. The last train out of London to Durham leaves Kings Cross at 10:00pm. I rehearse in my head, once again, the statistics: the train from Gatwick to London (Victoria Station) is a half hour and the tube ride from London (Victoria Station) to Kings Cross is fifteen minutes. I can make it. But, now, talking to this guy, I have less than a minute to get on the train and he is taking his bloody sweet time.
"Yeah," he says, "You really need to get on the next train. Yes, I see, okay, you are going to Durham. Yeah, you really need to get on the next train." Inside I am losing it 45 seconds, 44 seconds, 43 seconds... 3 seconds, 2 seconds, times up.
"Yeah," he says, "You should have just gotten on the train that left. Now you are not going to make it."
Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!
Okay, the next train is at 9:15pm. I get on it. Again, one last time through the new statistics I compute. I would get into Victoria Station at 9:45pm and have ten minutes to work with to get to Kings Cross--even though, the ride can take 15 minutes. Then I hear it. Nooooooo!
"Ladies and gentlemen, sorry but there is a train delay....."
Everything has fallen apart. So, on the train to Victoria station I book a hotel and call it a day. At least I can go get a shawarma and free internet in the hotel. I pass out from too much vodka at 1:00am
I wake up at 7:00am in a sweat. I need to get out of here. Quickly I pack and am off to Kings Cross. What I do not know awaits me, though, is a bit of bad news, as I was told incorrectly by the train guy last night that I could still use my ticket the next day. WRONG! I get to Kings Cross with a half hour to go; I can have some breakfast and relax. Phew! I lost 87 bucks on a hotel, but that is life.
Then, in the back of my brain comes pessimistic me. There is no way your ticket is going to work today, Brian, despite what the guy at Gatwick train told you. You had better go find out.
Ten minutes later, "Sorry sir, that ticket is no longer valid. You will have to buy another one."
"How much," I ask?
Now, mind you, up to this point I have bought all of my tickets online and paid about 10 pound to 50 pound for a train ride, as British trains are expensive. Because the ticket I now need is for the same day, it will be 150 pound (that is 238 American dollars) to travel three hours. I freak. I don't have that kind of money.
"Well, sir, if you wait for the 9:30am train, it drops to 116 pound." "Thank you," I say, "that is a bit better." I buy it.
By the way, the people at East Coast train are very helpful and caring.
Okay, so it is time to board the train. I get on and, it just so happens, one of the professors at Durham that I have gotten to know is on the train. We have a lovely chat for about an hour. Then the train stops. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then I hear it: "Ladies and gentlemen, sorry, but there is going to be a significant delay. In fact, this train is not going one foot further. It seems the train track up ahead has broken. Sorry, but you need to get off the train and hope for the best."
What? How does a train track break? Short of Superman waving it around like a pencil, is that even possible?
Here, however, is where my story goes quite a different direction. I am in the UK, not the states. If I was in the states, it is at this point that just about everyone would start losing it; the focus of all conversation on what just happened and how awful it all is. Not here, however. These are the British. So, what do they do differently?
They just get up and get off the train. No whining, no complaining, just queuing and waiting. I luv these people; I really mean it; they are teaching me so much, particularly how spoiled I am as an American! In fact, it is even raining outside and everyone just stands there, sucking it up, and waiting for a train to come--which, by the way, we have been told, is already filled.
Almost a half hour later the train on the other track arrives. We all get on, and there I stand, in the isle, for the next four hours--as we now have to take a detour, adding an hour to our ride--every now and then getting a chance to sit down when someone leaves. What is amazing to me is that, all around me, folks are making calls to this person and that, all in a rather pleasant mood, letting others know that their entire day has just "gone to hell;" so, would they be so kind as to make other arrangements and, well, perhaps a pint at the bar tonight will make things better. Yes!
So, almost 24 hours later, I finally arrive in Durham. It is 3:30pm.
I am tired and worn out when I hear, from behind me, a lovely sing-song British voice, female, saying to me, "Sir, your train was delayed, yes?" "Yes," I say. "Well, you can get reimbursed." "All 116 pounds?" quite!
"Say that again," I clear my throat.
"Yes, sir, as the station agent here I am letting you know that if you call tomorrow morning they will fix everything and send a check for your full reimbursement."
Too wild. Turns out that the train track breaking, like so many things here, has turned fortune back again in my direction. The next day I call; they handle my situation without issue; the check is on its way. I think to myself, see Brian, your friends and family were right. Life is what it is. So, enjoy yourself and don't F it up." I am trying.
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