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?
__
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.
__
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.
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?
__
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.
__
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.
