Free Travel, Part 1: The Monday I earned my adulthood

And now to work on the oft-promised update of what happened on Free Travel. Free travel period consisted of us students being able to go off alone or in groups or with our choice of traveling monkey to wherever the heck in Europe we cared to be. For the two professors traveling with their wives, Free Travel was the time when they had no obligations whatsoever and could enjoy the end of their 3 month vacation without those pesky students about and lectures to prepare. For the venerable Dr. Aarnes, Free Travel meant finally getting to see his family again, as he flew home the second us students were gone.

On Saturday, November 18, I checked out of the Royal Nasty, where I PAID MY PHONE BILL (more on this later), and hopped a train from London Marylebone to Stratford-upon-Avon with Chandler, Hayley, and Mordoch the Avenger (aka Murdock). That night I saw a very interesting production of Pericles by the RSC (oh how I’m missing professional theatre), and Sunday Murdock and I went to church and hung around Stratford while Chandler and Hayley went to Birmingham for the day. Mordoch and I also saw The Prestige, which is a magnificent film and definitely worth seeing in theatres. We stayed in the same B&B where we were before, and it was really nice to see Richard and Sue and the kids again. All-in-all, a good start to Free Travel.

Then there was Monday. This is what was supposed to happen: Chandler and I get on a train from Stratford to London, take the tube to another London station, then get on the Chunnel train to Paris. What actually happened was this: Chandler and I wake up late; we then find out that the B&B does not take credit cards, so Chandler has to go into town (a decent walk) to get to an ATM. We get a late start on our walk to the train station, and I stress about it, but we arrive with about 10 minutes to spare. Whew, crisis averted. Just when we were breathing easy again, we find out that our train to London has been cancelled. CANCELLED. Now take a moment to note that our Chunnel tickets are non-refundable and non-exchangeable, which means if we don’t make it on the appropriate train on time we are screwed and will be spending the rest of free travel in a London train station because we will not be able to afford new tickets or new accommodations. Ok, back to the cancelled train—the train company has hired a bus to take us to the next station where we will be able to take another train to London. But the bus is late. We end up taking a taxi to the next station with two other random Furman students we ran into at the station (that was bizarre), and by a genuine miracle of God the train there is late and we are able to make it on board. Again, I am stupid enough to think “Whew, crisis averted,” a phrase which I now believe to be a jinx on travelers. The train is set to arrive in plenty of time for us to make it to the Chunnel. But wait! Our train to London ends up behind a delinquent train that breaks down at every station it stops at, which results in massive delays to our train. There is no telling when we will make it to London. By now Chandler and I are laughing at this incredible sequence of bad circumstances that may very well prevent my ever seeing France. But it’s stress-laughing.

We finally arrive in London, and yes, we have enough time to get to the train! Alright, I’m thinking, we’ve made it here, everything’s going to be fine. Despite my reading the tube map wrong and making us change lines when we really didn’t have to, we got to Waterloo station, where the Chunnel leaves from, with about 15 minutes to spare before we have to check-in for the train. Just enough time to buy a couple of bagels for our lunch (it is 1:00 pm now) and get on board to eat them. Mission accomplished: we scan our tickets, bagels-in-hand, and proceed to security. Not that I had a single other problem with security on this trip, mind you, but apparently something in my suitcase created suspicion in the x-ray guard, who passed my bag off to the search table then promptly disappeared without telling anyone what she had seen in my bag, resulting in my carefully-packed suitcase having to be completely unpacked before the entire population of hurrying businesspeople and security guards populating the screening area. The very nice lady searching my suitcase can’t seem to stop mentioning how she doesn’t know whether we’ll make the train or not. My entire personal effects are spread out on a table. I am near tears. The suitcase is finally put back together in random order, and we have 7, count ‘em, seven minutes until the train leaves, and the platform is a considerable distance from the security point. We run—down hallways, down stairs, past curious dogs and moths, down the platform, hop onto the train—HOORAY! And then we realize, oops, we’re on the wrong car (we could tell by the extra-large comfy seats indicating first class)! So we hop back off the train, and run run run run run run down the platform. I am carrying a heavily loaded backpack, my messenger bag, and dragging my thank-goodness-it-rolls heavy suitcase behind me. I’m sure it made a great image. And despite what the movies may have led you to believe, running down a platform is neither attractive nor romantic. I was sweating, exhausted, breathing hard, and surrounded by a green haze of stress. You should take all possible precautions to avoid these circumstances.

But the good news is we made it to our seats just as the train left the platform, and 2 ½ hours later arrived in Paris, where a confused Asian immigrant cab driver barely got us to our hotel alive. And I imagine that if there is traffic in hell, it closely resembles French traffic.

Well, it is now 1:01 am, and I am tired of writing, and I’m sure that you are tired of reading, so I will post this now and update on the rest of free travel at some later point. Don’t worry, Monday is by far the longest part of the free travel postings.