Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 4 (The Exciting Conclusion!)

Or, There and Back Again, a General Course Student’s Tale

Or, Cheerio

Or, The Final Post

Or, For Pete’s Sake, Caleb! It’s Been Over a Month! Finish Your Blog! And Why Must You Have Such Drawn-out Titles for Your Posts, Anyway?
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The six bunks of our cabin were stacked on top of each other in two groups of three. The bunks of each stack were then strapped together with straps placed about eighteen inches from the head and foot of the bed. I remember observing the slackness of the straps--they were not taut as if they were holding the bunks up, which would have been the apparent purpose for them. If they were not supporting the structure of the bunks, I thought, what were they for?

Once settled into my bunk, I quickly figured it out. The straps were there not to keep the beds up, but to keep the passengers in as the train rocked to and fro throughout the night.

The complimentary pillow was something of an insult, and the blanket provided about as much warmth as a handkerchief. Fortunately, my towel and coat were able to provide some comfort, though like most of the other passengers, I achieved little actual sleep.

When it became sufficiently light out in the morning, I contorted myself out of the bunk in order to stretch my body and get some fresh air. After a few minutes of standing, though, I began to feel faint, so I ventured down to the snack bar at the front of the train. By the time I had paid for my orange juice and granola bar, I was beginning to black out--This must not have been visible to the man behind the bar who was more upset that I didn’t have exact change.

I found a table and sat down, which usually helps. Not thinking my undoubtedly ghost-white complexion unhealthy, one of the attendants politely informed me that I was not allowed to sit at the tables. One would think that on a train frequently used by American and British tourists, attendants would be taught the phrase, “Ma’am, I feel sick,” and how to respond to it. No such luck (To be fair, I was fully capable of saying Je suis malade, just too delirious to remember where I was). She insisted that I get up from that table and offered no assistance. Luckily, another member of staff took notice in the hallway and was able to get me to a place to sit down and rest. I was fine after that.

We arrived nearly two hours late at Bercy station. There I met up with the lovely Kaitlin, who escorted me to Gare du Nord, from where my train to London departed. With still plenty of time to spare, we grabbed a cafe at the station and waited for my platform to be posted. And waited.

Trains to the UK left from a special platform. By the time we figured this out and I rushed through security, my train was pulling away. This was the first time I panicked. I frantically explained my plight to one of the employees behind the desk. I expected something of a scolding--the lady at the platform had already snapped at me--but the staffer looked at my ticket, and then politely explained to me that this was common and I would be put on a waiting list for any open seats on later trains.

I figured I would be at the station all evening. Everyone was travelling by train due to the volcano, and the waiting list was already long because anyone traveling from Spain had likely missed their connection due to severe delays from industrial action. When the next train arrived, we all stood anxiously by the desk looking at the stack of tickets and hoping ours was near the top.

However, I noticed that my ticket was not even in the stack. I had printed my ticket out online, so it was on ordinary printer paper, while everyone else had proper train tickets. I began to grow worried. Once they had sorted out how many seats they had available, they began to call out names.

The man behind the desk picked up my ticket and a small stack of tickets beneath it. “Mr. [insert your favorite butchering of my last name with a French accent].” I was first. I had purchased a business class ticket because it was the only thing available. Not only was I given priority over everyone else in line, I was pampered the whole way back to London with decent food and even a hot face towel.

I think it was at my arrival at St. Pancras station late that afternoon that I fell in love with London. The city had already begun to grow on me as spring came after a dismal winter, but as I stepped off of the train after such a long journey, I felt the relief of finally being in a place familiar to me. It was something like coming home. The sun was shining, the weather was gorgeous, and the sight of Tower Bridge welcomed me back to the place where I lived. I slept well that night.

And that, my friends, is the epic tale of my treacherous journey to Rome and back to London. I sleep easier these days, knowing I’ll have an interesting story about my young adult life to tell my grandchildren. Now if only I knew how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull.
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Most of the rest of my time in London was spent revising for exams. There is not much I have to say about the revision/exam period except that I drank a lot of coffee and tea and cemented my hatred for ice cream trucks and car alarms, both of which were quite fond of interrupting my studies.

These irks (and the general drudgery of navigating the LSE academic system) aside, spending time in London was one of the best experiences of my admittedly short and hopefully far from complete life. I am grateful to have been able to explore new places and learn about living on my own in such an exciting city. I met some wonderful people at the school and at Crossway Church, and I got to spend time there with many of the friends I already know and love.

And with that, this blog with its handful of posts, has lived out its purpose. Anything else I have to say about my experiences abroad will have to be confined to those casual “When I was abroad...” and “In London...” comments that all ex-study abroad students inevitably make to impress their peers. Until then, thanks for reading.

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 3

Some mornings there just isn't enough coffee. I sipped the last of my Lavazza and inquired my way to the information desk.

A small line had formed at the desk by this point, and everyone in it had the same story: I need to get back home. How do I do that? The response by the professional but friendly attendant was also the same: Not by EasyJet.

The previous night I had formulated a rough plan in my mind. If I can get to Paris, I thought, I can get to London. I hopped the train from Fiumicino airport to Termini, Rome's central train station. During the train ride there, my efforts to uncover a previously mentioned "very important phone number" paid off. Marinetta, my Italian chaplain at AU, returned my phone call from the night before.

I filled her in on the situation, and she assured me she would do what she could to make sure I had a safe place to stay should I need one. Her reassurances became especially comforting as I walked into Termini and observed just how many people were stranded.

The queue spiraled around and around and spilled beyond the barriers designed to control the flow of traffic. I grabbed lunch, got in line, and ate while I waited. After I finished eating, there was still plenty of waiting left to do.

I got to the front of the line at around 4:00 PM, and by then the soonest available train to Paris was on Monday night; I was on my own finding a ticket to London. I deposited my arm and leg, and they printed my golden ticket. I called Marinetta and let her know I'd be taking her up on that offer for housing.

Fortunately, her family lives in an apartment in Rome. I was able to get on the Metro and travel to where I was to be picked up by Marinetta's niece Laura, whom she described to me as young, Mediterranean, and very beautiful. While she did live up to that description (but was already spoken for), it was she that found me by using the description of myself I had given Marinetta: tired, disheveled, and carrying a blue suitcase.

Marinetta's family extended extremely generous hospitality to me, even though they barely understood a word I said. The children spoke slightly more English than the father, but communication was mainly facilitated through "Si or No" questions, broken English, hand gestures, and the odd bit of French. We got by.

I should also mention that they fed me well. Dinners were served in courses, which typically began with pasta, followed by meat, cheese and bread, then salad, and finally a dessert. For someone who typically subsists on sandwiches with no crisps or some small soup or pasta dish, I had trouble keeping up, both in quantity and in speed. What I did manage to put down, however, lived up to the reputation of home-cooked Italian food.

On Sunday, the father asked me if I wanted to go to church with him. Wanting to get some fresh air and see how other cultures worship, even if I didn't speak the language, I took him up on the offer.

What he neglected to tell me is that there would be a two-hour church meeting prior to the service. Fortunately, there were a few King James copies of the Bible tucked away on the bookshelf at the back of the small Evangelical Baptist Church. I flipped through the pages of Joshua while they went on, but there's only so much KJV you can take before you start yawning. Noticing my plight, one of the women watching the kids while this was going on asked if I would like to join them as they took the kids to the park nearby. I gladly agreed.

The two women played with the younger kids, while I watched an older boy join in a game of soccer--ahem--football that was already in progress among some of the neighborhood kids. I had already heard that soc--football was something of a unifying institution in European countries. Laura's boyfriend had shown me a popular sports newspaper while we drank espresso one afternoon. It was divided into two sections: football, and then two or three pages of "everything else."

I saw this first hand at the park. The kids were playing it together, and when the ball went out of bounds, the adults were able to kick it back in with surprising accuracy. No matter the age, and no matter boy or girl, everyone knew the rules and how to handle the ball. What made this football game a uniquely Italian experience was watching the older kids in the game talk on their mobiles and share a cigarette while still playing the game.

The next day, I packed my things and the father drove me to Termini. I thanked him for the generosity he and his family had shown, and he sent me off with some bread and prosciutto for the train ride to Paris.

One of the things that the volcanic eruption highlighted in the EU was just how out-of-date Europe's train system is. Europe is renowned for its vast rail network which connects virtually all large and medium-sized European cities. In normal times, though, aside from major lines such as France's prestigious TGV, many smaller places are simply making due. When there is pressure on the system, however, the weaknesses really begin to show.

A member of the European Parliament noted that there is still "no civilized way" to travel between northern and southern Europe. I am thoroughly convinced that this MP had recently taken an overnight train from Rome to Paris. My train departed at 6:20 in the evening and was scheduled to arrive in Paris at 9:16 the next morning (It actually arrived at around 10:30 the next morning).

Coach passengers (myself included) rode in cramped cabins shared by six people. When everyone in the cabin agreed it was time to turn out the lights, the seats could be converted into six bunks just long enough to fit the average person and with enough space between each bed to slide in and out as needed. Sitting up was out of the question. In theory, there was running water and functioning toilets. That, or the non-functioning water closets at the ends of each car were put there to maliciously taunt passengers.

At first it seemed I would be lucky enough to only have to ride with three others--two French Canadian girls and a guy from near Sicily. The train stopped in Florence, however, and we were joined by an older man from near Brighton and another Italian. We managed some conversation, but it wasn't long before we unfolded the bunks and settled in to attempt sleep.

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 2

"Did you hear about that volcano in Iceland that erupted," Kelsey asked casually from across the table during what was supposed to be our last dinner in Italy. "Apparently a lot of flights in northern Europe are getting cancelled because of it. I hope your flights aren't affected."

I raised my eyebrow and said something to the effect of, "Weird. I hope not either," and the conversation moved on. This is 2010, I thought to myself. Volcanoes in Iceland do not cause flight cancellations in Italy.

In retrospect, I should not have been so skeptical, as I had learned just that day that the ash cloud from Mount Vesuvius had cast a shadow over the Mediterranean and settled over the skies of Egypt. In my defense, I had not yet learned that volcanic ash is a highly abrasive substance that can damage engines and interfere with radio communication. I'm sure our tour guide would have mentioned that had they had airplanes in Pompeii in 79 AD.

When we returned to the hostel, Ashley checked the news on the public computers just to be on the safe side. The report she gave wasn't promising, but it turned out to be accurate. I called home and dredged through my Gmail inbox in search of a very important phone number. At that point, that was all I could do, so I called it a night and slept uneasily, wondering what news we would learn at the airport the next day.

Looking back over my few years of travel experience, I am beginning to realize that getting to an airport by means of public transportation is often an adventure in itself. Suffice it to say that Italian trains are crowded, difficult to navigate, seldom on time, and well, if there had been a clearly designated way to pay for the ride, I gladly would have done so.

Once at the airport, the first thing we naturally did was check the departures screen. Kelsey and Ashley were not London-bound. They were off to Cairo for even more adventure, so their southbound flight turned out to be unaffected. My flight was later in the afternoon, and had not been posted, but it was easy to extrapolate from the trend among northbound flights: cancelled. I exchanged nervous glances with my friends, who now had a plane to Cairo to catch. I thought I read a hint of guilt in their eyes as they wished me luck and then scurried of to their terminal. They wanted to help, but even if they had stayed, there is not much they could have done.

The next step for me was to go to my terminal to get help. Except for EasyJet employees and a handful of unhappy tourists, the place was abandoned. In what some may consider an act of questionable judgment, I took a little detour from my task: I stopped for breakfast. If my flight was cancelled now, I thought, it's just as cancelled twenty minutes from now, and I haven't eaten yet today. Besides, who could turn down Lavazza in the middle of a rough morning?

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 1

Or, The Could-Have-Been Hitch Hiker's Guide to Europe

No travel blog would be complete without long delays in posts followed by profuse apologies for not updating more often. In order to safeguard the quality of your travel blog experience, I must offer these now. To further ensure you get the full experience, I must follow these apologies with promises to post more often and then proceed to post less often. I’m looking out for you.

On the bright side, you should be glad when posts are few because it means that I am either availing myself of the many adventures that living abroad for a year offers, or I am immersing myself in a sea of economic and financial theory. Currently, I am in the position of transitioning from the former to the latter as spring break comes to an end and exams approach.

Most of you know that I recently took a trip to Rome which was unexpectedly extended due to geothermal activity. Pictures from the trip will come soon, but in the meantime, I thought I would chronicle at least some of the happenings of my prolonged vacation.

The getting there was supposed to be the most difficult part of the journey. Our departure time was 6:50 a.m. from Gatwick airport, some distance from London proper. Getting to the airport involved catching (after finding) a night bus to Victoria station, and then riding the train to the airport. I turned up at Ashley’s place at midnight, wherefrom we set out at around 2 a.m. (if I remember correctly), discovered that our bus stop was closed due to road work, and then waited in the cold and sketchy London night for some 20 minutes at another stop before our bus arrived. I should also mention that Victoria station, like many train stations in Europe, is not completely enclosed and is quite chilly at night.

True to what my father has taught me, we arrived at the airport obnoxiously early. During this downtime we found our respective sources of nutrition and much-needed caffeine. For Ashley it was Costa, an English Starbucks competitor. Me, I was a bit less cultured and went with the Golden Arches. To pass the remaining time, I proceeded to analytically decompose the messages McDonald’s tries to convey through the design of its coffee cups, much to Ashley’s dismay. There’s not much to do at Gatwick airport at 5 in the morning.

Thankfully, the flight itself was smooth and on time. If anything interesting happened during the flight, I missed it: I was asleep.

We found a shuttle from the airport to the hostel at which we were staying. The Happy Days Hostel (Yes, you read that correctly) was, well, a hostel. It was entirely adequate as short term shelter for college students on a budget, but not the kind of place you would tell your parents you stayed at (until, of course, they read about it on your blog). You had a choice of four bathrooms: the one with the working toilet, the one with the working sink, the one with the working shower, and the one with persistent but unexplainable water on the floor. I’m just hoping none of the occupants got creative and tried to multitask.

Fortunately, we did not go to Rome to see hostels. We went to see Kelsey (and Rome), and Kelsey did not disappoint. She was as cheerful as ever and an excellent hostess. Not only did she show us around some of her favorite sites and patiently photograph us as we played tourists, she treated us to gelato, an Italian ice cream-like wonder-substance. The Nutella and banana flavors make an excellent combination, if you ever get the chance.

All in all, the scheduled days of our visit in Rome were quite nice. During the days Ashley and I hit up the tourist sites and museums: the Sistine Chapel (underwhelming), St. Peter’s Basilica (overwhelming), the Coliseum and other nearby Roman sites (pretty nifty), among others. Our nights were spent with Kelsey, who was able to show us to some of her favorite restaurants, all of them top notch. We’re fairly sure the owner of the last restaurant we visited was just joking about his Mafia connections, but one can never be entirely certain. Either way, the risotto with salmon was delicious.

On what was supposed to day before we left Italy, Ashley and I took a train out to Pompeii, where we learned about ancient Roman life and volcanoes. Later that night I would discover just how ironic that was.

Je pense donc je suis...

à Paris!

Bonjour mes amis! I thought you all might want to see how I am spending my last week for winter break. For those of you studying in France this coming semester, you are very lucky indeed!