The bus driver shouts the name of
my stop and I stumble off the bus bewildered, having just woken up from a short
nap. It’s nearly one in the morning in London and I’m exhausted from six hours
of traveling. Although theoretically it’s only a quick hop from the continent
to the Queen’s land by plane, it involves so much waiting, sitting and standing
for hours in a succession of blank rooms with cardboard walls and florescent
snack machines; it’s exhausting. But, I have finally made it to my destination
and I will soon be reunited with my good friend in her warm and cozy flat – or
so I hope.
“This bag weighs about two tons,”
the bus driver informs me darkly. I laugh nervously and take it from her. “Thanks,
have a great night.” I wait for the bus to pull away before heaving my giant
backpack onto my shoulders, wobbling slightly as I try to steady myself. Once
I’ve gained my balance, I take in my surroundings. The street is lit up with
neon signs as far as the eye can see; that’s a good sign. Unfortunately, there
isn’t a single person out. I see a map at the bus stop so I amble over to check
it out. Peering at the map, I try to make sense of where I am and search
desperately for my friend’s street name. My heart sinks a little; I don’t
recognize a single street name or underground station in the area.
I spot a few men doing road work
on the other side of the street so I cross over, nearly getting run over by an
oncoming car driving speedily on the right side of the road. “Right, London,” I
think to myself, making a mental note to be more careful about street
crossings. I tell the construction worker where I’m trying to go and he takes a
moment to think, scratching his chin unreassuringly. He looks up and down the
street, a bit befuddled. “Well, the tube stopped running a few minutes ago… How
long can you walk with that thing?” he asks me in a thick British accent,
pointing at my bag towering an extra foot over my head.
My heart sinks a bit further. “I
think I’m just going to give my friend a call. But thanks for your help.” I
start off down the road in search of a pay phone. I spot one on a side street
and jostle into the tiny glass box, my enormous backpack sticking out into the
street. I slide in my credit card and follow the directions. “This is a credit
card call,” the woman’s voice on the line informs me. “The cost is three pounds
per minute. Press one if you accept the charges.” I nearly choke when I hear
the price rate. Six dollars a minute!? That is insanity. But, I’m in a new
city, I have no idea where I am, and it’s the middle of the night. I hesitate
for a minute before pressing number one with defeat.
Jackie picks up cheerily. I don’t
let her get a word in and immediately begin talking at her very fast,
explaining my situation. She springs into action to find me directions on her
computer. “Hmmm… That looks like a bit of a hike,” she informs me, much to my
dismay. Of course, the telephone doesn’t have a chronometer so I have no idea
how much time (and therefore, money) is being spent. I give her the number
stamped in the pay phone and she promises to call back in a minute. I hang up
with relief, hoping not to have done too much damage to my bank account. With
conversion fees and hidden credit card charges, you never know.
I keep my hand on the receiver
expectantly, but a minute turns into two and the phone still hasn’t rung. I
begin to worry. Thankfully, I see a couple walking across the street so I pop
outside the box, being sure to keep the door open in case the phone rings. “Hey,
which way is Kilburn?” I shout into the night.
“The tube stop?” the woman replies.
“Yeah, I’m trying to get there but the underground stopped running.” I explain.
“Whoa, that’ll take forever,” her boyfriend says matter-of-factly, adding to my
mounting panic.“No, it’s not so bad,” the
girlfriend tries to reassure me. “It’s that way, maybe ten minutes walking,”
she points down a dark road that twists out of sight. “Thanks,” I mutter
half-heartedly.
They hurry home and I turn my attention back to the phone,
willing for it to ring. My efforts are unrewarded and I resign myself to the
reality of the situation. It looks like I have no choice. I begin to walk
hesitantly down the street in the direction she pointed. There’s not a soul in
sight. I see a movement to my left and jerk my head to check it out. Skulking
in the shadows across the street, a reedy golden fox makes its way shiftily down
the sidewalk, ignoring my presence. A fox in the middle of the city? I don’t
think I’ve ever seen one in the woods! I gape at it in shock for a moment
before continuing on my journey; we both have places to go.
As I walk down the deserted
street, I crane my neck to see if I can make out any sign of life in the
distance. The night is still. An almost full moon peers down at me eerily from
behind a streak of gossamer clouds. A cold wind rustles the trees furiously;
streetlight shadows dance all around me. I shudder as fear creeps up on me from
behind. I shake it off resolutely and march forward, pushing away all thoughts
of scary movies to the farthest reaches of my mind.
After a few minutes of walking in
silence, I see movement up ahead, car beams crossing the street; my heart perks
up. “I must be getting to a major road,” I think to myself happily. Finally, I
make it to the cross street to find it’s not a major intersection at all, just
a one-way lane with the occasional car streaking by in the night. Another bus
stop map informs me that I am nearing my destination, but I still have a while
to go. I leave the comfort of the well-lit road and plunge into the darkness
once again. As I take in the neat facades on both sides of the street, I think
about the families behind the brick walls; most of them are probably asleep for
the night, and I am envious. It’s strange to be surrounded by such a sleepy
neighborhood when I myself feel completely on edge, my body buzzing with
nervous energy.
At last, I make it to a proper
intersection. Cars rush by in a blur and blinking lights colorfully advertise
kebabs and haircuts. The sign on the street reads “Kilburn High Road” and I
rejoice. The tube stop is somewhere on this street, I’m sure of that- but which
direction? My intuition says right, but I have no idea why. I cross the street
and ask a hoodied chap standing in line for a sandwich. He points me to the left
and away I go. My fear dissipates and is replaced with a wave of joy; I feel
light on my feet even with my mammoth backpack pulling down on my shoulders.
I see a red circle in the
distance and assume it’s the tube stop. Another wave of happiness. As I approach,
though, I realize that it’s just a sign designating a one-way street. Hmm, it’s
probably on the next block, I try to convince myself. A bus stop map doesn’t
prove to be helpful in my pursuit. In fact, it only confuses me further; it
seems as if there are multiple Kilburn stations in the area. Oh no. I begin to
panic.
I accost a white-haired woman
coming off a bus. “Kilburn station? I’m looking for the Kilburn tube station,”
I ask her urgently. “Well, up ahead is the Kilburn Park station,” she responds cautiously. Heart starts sinking fast.
“I need Kilburn, just Kilburn.” She points down the street behind me from where
I came. My heart is in my shoes. I knew I should have followed my intuition.
“Anyway, the tube won’t be running this late, dear,” she says kindly, obviously
a bit concerned for this confused traveler. “I know… My friend lives right next
to it, though,” I explain dejectedly as I fall into step with her. “Well, tell
your friend to come here and get you!”, she says with a laugh. I mumble
something about pay phones costing a fortune in this country and we part ways.
She wishes me good luck as she turns down a side street and I start the arduous
task of retracing my steps. (This seems to be a theme in my travel stories!)
My joy has vanished. Instead, I
dream up scenarios where I see the stupid guy who sent me in the wrong direction
and tell him off. I have no idea what time it is and I’m sure that Jackie is
worried sick about me. I quicken my pace and send her telepathic messages,
hoping she receives them soon. I pass by the sandwich shop where I first asked for
directions; my hoodied friend isn’t there. My body aches all over, and I wish
so badly that I could take a break and drop my bag, but I press on.
Finally, finally, finally, I make
it to the Kilburn underground station glowing warmly in the cold night. I’m too
exhausted to react; no more joy or anger, nothing. The following street is
Jackie’s; I turn down it and search for her house number. The upstairs light in
her building is on. “Jackie!”, I call out quietly into the night, looking for
her buzzer in the darkened doorway. She sticks her curly head out the window.
“Carmella! Thank God! Stay there, I’m coming down!” I allow myself a small smile
of satisfaction; I made it. She throws open the door and squeezes me in a hug.
The exasperation of the last few hours fades away as I follow my friend up the
stairs and into her warm, cozy room. The tea kettle wails on the stovetop and I
collapse on the bed. Another day in the life of a vagabond.
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