I have never had a clean and easy exit from England. Never. I've joked with Jon and said it either means I'm not supposed to come or I'm not supposed to go.
In March, twice, Megan and I ended up sprinting through train stations to make it to ours before it departed. After Thanksgiving in November, Jon and I ended up on the wrong train headed the wrong direction when we had to exit at the next stop that had us, literally, stranded in the middle of a stormy English field. In December, we hit a new highest record for stressful exits from the United Kingdom.
It's December 26. The day after Christmas. Also it's Boxing Day. We were in England, which happens to be one of the only countries in the world that actually observes Boxing Day. We were planning to take an overnight coach ride from Victoria Station in London to Paris. However, unbeknownst to us, all of the trains in the entire country were closed. We spent that afternoon googling and making phone calls, trying to figure out how we would get from Cambridge to the coach station in London learning that in addition to the trains being closed in observance of Boxing Day, all of the public transportation workers were on strike in London, meaning that all of the tube lines were shut down. Jon ends up booking us a coach ticket from Cambridge to the airport where we will wait for 45 minutes then catch a connecting coach from the airport to Victoria Station. We should arrive 45 minutes before our bus departs, giving us time to check in and get settled.
Everything's a go. We hurridly pack up our things, finish making home-made sausage balls, and set off for the coach stop in Cambridge. We wait patiently, noting that more and more people start to flood the tiny hut/coach stop. As the bus pulls up a plump English man with a round face and rosy cheeks steps off. As he checks our tickets and loads our luggage underneath the coach, a mob starts to form. With people attempting to force their way through the line and onto the bus. Jon and I are already seated on the coach when we start to notice this and our rosy-cheeked bus driver starts yelling at people to calm down and step back from the coach. Our coach fills up but there are still crowds collected around the doors trying to force their way on. The driver shouts that there is no more room, jumps onto the bus and sets off in the direction of London.
Only a short bus ride later, Jon and I step off the bus at Stansted Airport outside of London. We are to wait here for 45 minutes before loading onto our connecting coach to Victoria. There are mobs of people here, in half-formed lines jutting out each and every way. Buses are crowding into the marked spaces in the parking lot, filling up and heading out but even as buses file through, the crowds never seem to shrink. Jon and I stand, time-stamped tickets in hand, in line for our bus to Victoria. The line starts shrinking as passengers board the bus and then suddenly the line stops moving forward, the bus doors shut, and the bus drives off into the night headed to Victoria.
Problem.
That was our bus. Where was it going? Why weren't we sitting on it? We start to panic (correction, I start to panic) Jon asks a bus-company worker standing next to the que why the bus left when we, along with many others around us, had stamped tickets for that bus. The worker brushed him off and said another bus would be coming in 20 minutes. 20 minutes. OK, we can still make our check in for the coach to Paris.
That 20 minutes turns into 1 hour that Jon and I finally board the bus that is to take us to London Victoria. The bus driver tells us that the company must have over-booked tickets for his route and comments on the craziness surrounding the airport. There are hundreds of travelers stranded there because of a ridiculously scheduled train holiday (the day after Christmas, people! One of the busiest travel days of the year!) Jon asks the driver if we are going to miss our bus to Paris, and the Englishman doesn't answer in the negative.
We arrive at Victoria Station at 9pm, at the exact hour that the bus we were to be on to drive to Paris left the parking lot. We ran inside, frantically searching for anybody who could help us to wave down the bus or to get us on the next bus, to no avail. We stood in a long line of people who were having troubles with coaches and Jon boldy and graciously stated that our missing the bus was not our fault, it was in fact, coach company we were taking to Victoria station was to blame for overbooking our bus. After over an hour of persistance- standing in lines, waiting on managers, calling managers, stepping into back offices, Jon had gotten us into the office of the bus station manager who booked a ticket for us on a later coach to Paris.
We waiting on the coach, in a load and crowded waiting room. There were people sitting everywhere, sleeping on the floor, babies crying and a general atmosphere of chaos as people clamored into crowds to walk out onto the loading zone for the coaches to take them near and far from London. I took this moment to tell Jon that THIS, this craziness and chaos and smelliness and unrest is what Paris feels like most of the time. I dont't think he believed me at that point.
We eventually loaded onto our bus where we undertook a 9 hour journey to Paris. We were cramped up on a full bus where we slept intermittently, were prodded like cattle through a customs point in Dover and then loaded onto a ferry that would take us from Dover, UK to Callais, France. We slept sprawled out over coaches and chairs on the ferry for 2 hours with hundreds of others migrating to the European Continent until we reached land and loaded back onto the bus. Instead of attempting to fall asleep in our cramped seats we watched a movie and several hours later pulled into Paris.
As triumphant as it felt, navigating many many road blocks and finally reaching l'Île-de-France, I still can't shake a bit of nervousness I feel when I think about what's to come the next time I attempt to travel from Cambridge to Paris...
In March, twice, Megan and I ended up sprinting through train stations to make it to ours before it departed. After Thanksgiving in November, Jon and I ended up on the wrong train headed the wrong direction when we had to exit at the next stop that had us, literally, stranded in the middle of a stormy English field. In December, we hit a new highest record for stressful exits from the United Kingdom.
It's December 26. The day after Christmas. Also it's Boxing Day. We were in England, which happens to be one of the only countries in the world that actually observes Boxing Day. We were planning to take an overnight coach ride from Victoria Station in London to Paris. However, unbeknownst to us, all of the trains in the entire country were closed. We spent that afternoon googling and making phone calls, trying to figure out how we would get from Cambridge to the coach station in London learning that in addition to the trains being closed in observance of Boxing Day, all of the public transportation workers were on strike in London, meaning that all of the tube lines were shut down. Jon ends up booking us a coach ticket from Cambridge to the airport where we will wait for 45 minutes then catch a connecting coach from the airport to Victoria Station. We should arrive 45 minutes before our bus departs, giving us time to check in and get settled.
Everything's a go. We hurridly pack up our things, finish making home-made sausage balls, and set off for the coach stop in Cambridge. We wait patiently, noting that more and more people start to flood the tiny hut/coach stop. As the bus pulls up a plump English man with a round face and rosy cheeks steps off. As he checks our tickets and loads our luggage underneath the coach, a mob starts to form. With people attempting to force their way through the line and onto the bus. Jon and I are already seated on the coach when we start to notice this and our rosy-cheeked bus driver starts yelling at people to calm down and step back from the coach. Our coach fills up but there are still crowds collected around the doors trying to force their way on. The driver shouts that there is no more room, jumps onto the bus and sets off in the direction of London.
Only a short bus ride later, Jon and I step off the bus at Stansted Airport outside of London. We are to wait here for 45 minutes before loading onto our connecting coach to Victoria. There are mobs of people here, in half-formed lines jutting out each and every way. Buses are crowding into the marked spaces in the parking lot, filling up and heading out but even as buses file through, the crowds never seem to shrink. Jon and I stand, time-stamped tickets in hand, in line for our bus to Victoria. The line starts shrinking as passengers board the bus and then suddenly the line stops moving forward, the bus doors shut, and the bus drives off into the night headed to Victoria.
Problem.
That was our bus. Where was it going? Why weren't we sitting on it? We start to panic (correction, I start to panic) Jon asks a bus-company worker standing next to the que why the bus left when we, along with many others around us, had stamped tickets for that bus. The worker brushed him off and said another bus would be coming in 20 minutes. 20 minutes. OK, we can still make our check in for the coach to Paris.
That 20 minutes turns into 1 hour that Jon and I finally board the bus that is to take us to London Victoria. The bus driver tells us that the company must have over-booked tickets for his route and comments on the craziness surrounding the airport. There are hundreds of travelers stranded there because of a ridiculously scheduled train holiday (the day after Christmas, people! One of the busiest travel days of the year!) Jon asks the driver if we are going to miss our bus to Paris, and the Englishman doesn't answer in the negative.
We arrive at Victoria Station at 9pm, at the exact hour that the bus we were to be on to drive to Paris left the parking lot. We ran inside, frantically searching for anybody who could help us to wave down the bus or to get us on the next bus, to no avail. We stood in a long line of people who were having troubles with coaches and Jon boldy and graciously stated that our missing the bus was not our fault, it was in fact, coach company we were taking to Victoria station was to blame for overbooking our bus. After over an hour of persistance- standing in lines, waiting on managers, calling managers, stepping into back offices, Jon had gotten us into the office of the bus station manager who booked a ticket for us on a later coach to Paris.
We waiting on the coach, in a load and crowded waiting room. There were people sitting everywhere, sleeping on the floor, babies crying and a general atmosphere of chaos as people clamored into crowds to walk out onto the loading zone for the coaches to take them near and far from London. I took this moment to tell Jon that THIS, this craziness and chaos and smelliness and unrest is what Paris feels like most of the time. I dont't think he believed me at that point.
We eventually loaded onto our bus where we undertook a 9 hour journey to Paris. We were cramped up on a full bus where we slept intermittently, were prodded like cattle through a customs point in Dover and then loaded onto a ferry that would take us from Dover, UK to Callais, France. We slept sprawled out over coaches and chairs on the ferry for 2 hours with hundreds of others migrating to the European Continent until we reached land and loaded back onto the bus. Instead of attempting to fall asleep in our cramped seats we watched a movie and several hours later pulled into Paris.
As triumphant as it felt, navigating many many road blocks and finally reaching l'Île-de-France, I still can't shake a bit of nervousness I feel when I think about what's to come the next time I attempt to travel from Cambridge to Paris...
Outside on the ferry as we pulled into Callais, France.
Poor iPhone pixel quality disguises the true amount of under-eye circles that I had.
Struggling opening a bag of flips.
The moon over Callais.
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