Yesterday morning: found myself awake in the early hours, body keyed up for a day to be spent traveling. Had to be at Barajas Airport to catch an 8:45 plane to London, which meant, of course, arriving much earlier than takeoff time. Much, much earlier. Or at least that's what I thought, me still working on the stateside concept of pre-flight arrival time. (3 hours before takeoff.) Figured I'd need to be awake by five and out before six. That, to my bod, meant waking up at 3 from anticipation, keyed up and ready to go.
I got the hint, didn't even try to fight it. Got out of bed, cranked up laptop, stumbled around doing a surprisingly decent imitation of a conscious human adult. Was out the door around 5:30, found a taxi almost immediately, made it to the airport in no time flat. Wandered quiet hallways past sad slumped figures covered with coats (attempting to get shuteye before the next leg of their journey). Slowly realized I was there long before any airline employees were, realized the silliness of using the stateside expectation of when airline employees would get things up and running. (This is Spain, after all. The gym I use opens at 8:30 a.m. -- wWhen I mention to Spaniards that gyms stateside open at 5 or 6 a.m., they just start laughing.) Found myself enjoying the quiet, the lack of frenzied travelers, the big open spaces free of noise, motion, commerce.
Found myself in a big metal tube filled with other humans just as the morning sun pulled itself into view, plane lifting off soon after, brown Spanish countryside spreading out below as . Was easy to tell when we approached England: clouds filled the sky, sunlight dimmed. The plane flew between two layers of them, one below looking for all the world like barren, snowy landscape, the one above looking like, er, wintry clouds, sun fading in and out.
Landed at Heathrow, wandered through empty hallways, found myself the only traveler at the non-E.U. immigration point. The young official who stamped my passport lay a couple of perfunctory questions on me, waved me politely through -- the fastest, easiest entry into the U.K. I've ever experienced. Found my baggage already waiting for me at luggage reclaim (a shocking happening for one accustomed to the more leisurely work of Spanish luggage personnel), wandered through empty customs passages, made my way in no time flat to the Underground, virtually the only person in view most of the time. Began wondering if I'd somehow wandered into an alternate reality, one where the great London area had emptied out, leaving behind a quiet world, deserted and strangely tranquil.
That fantasy vanished as the train approached London, ambient noise gradually increasing with each new group of passengers at each successive stop. One 20-something had headphones on with speed metal cranked, volume so high I could hear it clearly from ten feet away. I wondered how he could function, then noticed the glassy glaze of his eyes, the slack expression of someone completely trashed. Other folks talked on cellphones, life slowly accelerated. By the time I changed trains at Leicester Square, the local world had grown fast and loud.
A short time later, I was in Euston Station, part of a crowd watching the big board. A nervous crowd, I realized, dealing with notices warning of possible delays and cancellations due to line damage north of London, the result of intense weather. A big screen showed clips of bridges collapsing in Cumbria, where relentless rain had caused flooding and mayhem. A train to Manchester -- the line I'd be taking -- got canceled. Then a second train, along that same corridor. I heard phone conversations around me, dismayed voices notifying friends, family of changed travel plans.
I left my big wheeled duffel at left-luggage, went out for food.
When planning this trip a few weeks back, on an impulse I made first-class reservations for the train ride to Stoke-on-Trent and back. Done in advance, the price was not much more expensive than coach and the difference in the experience is massive. One advantage to this that I discovered up returning from trawling for chow: Virgin Trains has a first-class lounge at Euston, where one can relax and where a wonderful woman covers phones, provides information, solves problems. She advised I keep an eye on the train status screen, seemed to think there might be more cancellations. She was right -- five minutes later, my train got canceled. I went right back out to talk with her, a line formed behind me, more agitated people appearing as more cancellations happened. She got working on the phones, within five to ten minutes, it looked like one train might a possibility, a train leaving in a matter of minutes. She advised me to get down there and speak to on-board personnel, I flew immediately out the door.
Down on the station's main floor, the crowd in front of the big board had swelled to twice its earlier size, visible panic sweeping through the assembled travelers as a rash of cancellations appeared, one after another. I passed rapidly through, heading to left luggage, the roar from the crowd increasing in volume and intensity. When I'd checked my bag in, there had been a line, it had taken a little while. The place was empty when I ran in to reclaim that bag, I was in and out in no time. I made it to the ramp leading down to the boarding platforms just as a general announcement was made about the train I was aiming for, letting all the stranded travelers know that one train would be heading north in a matter of minutes. A tremendous roar went up, a river of people swept into view. I found myself surrounded by running, shouting humans, a flood of frantic individuals pouring by, streaming toward their chance of getting the hell out of there.
I veered off from all that, spoke to a conductor who stood talking with other train personnel, told him of my status, that I'd been informed I might find a seat on this train. He quietly opened the door of the nearest car, gestured me inside. I found myself in an empty first-class car, took the perfect seat, was stowing my luggage just as the car doors flew open and agitated people rushed in, throwing themselves into seats, the noise and energy levels going from zero to overload. Outside, people ran by the windows, the scene chaotic and wild.
Things slowly settled down, the onboard crew -- intially taken by surprise by the flood of desperate travelers -- slowly took control, the train finally pulled out. The station disappeared behind, urban London gave way to greener, less populated climes. The crew slowly began making their way through the car, patiently weeding out travelers with tickets from those without, kindly dealing with those who had tickets for coach, me watching it all and marveling at the strange impulse that had me make first-class reservations instead of coach, saving me a whole lot of aggravation and heartache.
Outside, the sky darkened as we headed north, driving rain came and went. For the first time ever, I used wifi on a moving train, thinking that 21st century life had its positive points. I let friends know about the wild scene I'd just lived, train personnel plied me with food and liquids. Green English landscape slipped by outside. The train pulled into the my destination a few minutes before my canceled ride would have gotten there. I dragged my bags out, found my way through the station to the street, breathed cool, moist air, listening to the music of the local accent as people passed in and out of the station's entryway.
My friend D. showed up a few minutes later, headlights blinking at me as he pulled to the curb. A minute later, I was inside, my bags in the rear, the streets of Stoke moving by.
Welcome to the Midlands.
España, te amo
rws 12:39 PM [+]
