The Eurostar didn't exactly chug into Waterloo station. I suppose it swooshed. A distinction that got lost somewhere in the excitement brought on by arriving.
We're here! We're going to live here! Here, here, here!We swooshed in from Paris where the My Man had had one of what would be many Very Important Meetings on the continent. Our lives, intermingled in various bags and boxes, were mostly in tow. A couple of items had been sent ahead by post. If I remember correctly, they (our lives) fit into 6 good-sized duffel bags, a couple of 'carry-ons', and the couple of boxes that had been shipped.
Excitement turned to mild dread as the train applied a slow brake on its swoosh, and I thought of the prospect of transporting the 6 good-sized duffel bags and couple of carry-ons off the train and onto the platform. An activity that would probably cause a little glisten of sticky sweat and My Man to grumble and mumble about how we have too much stuff .....
Oh, this is going to suck. 5 minutes of uncomfortable heaving and then it will be over. You can get through this.And really, it didn't suck that bad. It was probably only a couple of minutes of uncomfortable heaving and a couple of minutes of uncomfortable hurling. And then, there we were, the Mista and me, on the platform at Waterloo station; our first steps into this, our new terrain, behind us.
Excitement returned. We may have hugged or high-fived or given each other a secret knowing look. Probably not, though. We did look around for those always-available, always-free, and ever-handy trolleys to help us with our load.
Excitement turned to panic.
The always-available, ever-handy trolleys were right there, neatly snuggled into each other, and yet menacingly attached to each other with a chainlike doohickey, which, required 1 British pound to release 1 always-available, ever-handy trolley.
"God Damn it!"
I thought the Mista was going to have a coronary, while I meantime was internally abandoning myself to helplessness.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Someone, "Help!"And as if on cue, a group of travelling television cameramen passed by. As they did so, they must have been struck by my forlorn, vacant stare, the My Man's throbbing forehead vein, and the ludicrous amount of luggage surrounding us. Without even an exchange of words, one of the cameramen reached into his pocket and gave us not 1, but 2 Great British pounds.
I love you.This leads me to two points:
1. Thank you, whoever you are. Wherever you go, may good karma follow.
2. What genius decided to make a buck off the always-available, always-FREE*, ever-handy trolleys by requiring the use of local COINAGE in the international section of Waterloo before the decent folk alighting from the train have even had the chance to hit an ATM, visit a Thomas Cooks, or buy a pack of chewing gum to break the local paper currency that they, being the foresightful people that they likely are, might have sourced from abroad and brought along with them from their Euro dominated origins? Whoever you are, may shitty karma follow you around like the plague.**
*Always free in Europe, anyway. When the idea was introduced to the States, we of course charged for the convenience from the get-go. This was one of the first superior characteristics of Europe that I noted: free trolleys.
**I've been on the Eurostar once since, but I didn't need a trolley; so I didn't notice if the charge-for-a-trolley-and-require-a-pound geniusness still applies. Hopefully some sense has prevailed since 2001.
Swooshing isn’t just for trains. The black cab swooshes away from Waterloo station. Our lives fit neatly into the uniquely-British, taxi-passenger compartment. My Man fiddles with his pocket and some newly acquired coinage, secured at the station in an exchange of a pound note for a soft drink. I look out the window at the river. I assume the bridge is Waterloo bridge. It isn’t. Years later I’ll know it is Westminster bridge that the cabbie has taken to cross the Thames, to loop around the square that sits in front of the Houses of Parliament and the side of Westminster abbey, to head up Whitehall. I see a street sign. Charring Cross. I look out the taxi cab window at bookshops. I recall that there is an association between Charring Cross and bookshops. I do not recall the why behind the association or the where I might have learnt this tidbit. The bookshops look faded and dingy. Just like London. Even though London hasn’t been my first choice, excitement titters within. I have a hard time maintaining my composure. I think the bookshops must be full of Charles Dickens. Precious treasures hidden beneath reams of trash. We’ve not turned. Not right. Not left. But the street sign has changed. Tottenham Court Road. We’re close! We’re close! We’re close! The hotel is here somewhere. I’ve not made the arrangements, but I’ve paid enough attention to remember our hotel – a Radission – is on Tottenham Court Road. I crane my neck to look for a sign. The taxi comes to a stop before I can make out the hotel. It blends right in. The dread of heavy lifting returns. We now need to transport our lives from the back of the taxi to one of the hotel rooms above. At least My Man’s pockets are now full of change.*
My Man doesn't read my blog. I suspected as much; now I have proof.
The Eurostar didn't exactly chug into Waterloo station. I suppose it swooshed. A distinction that got lost somewhere in the excitement brought on by arriving.
Can you believe it: I didn't used to like London?*
I've been put through the ringer, or stretched on the rack, or spiked like the Maiden of Nuremburg. That's what it has felt like anyway: the long trek home and the laying on the sofa and struggling to keep the post-holiday, jet-lagged eyes open.
