Culture Warp & Timed Travel--or--How I Got to London

I’m currently at the train station in Liege, Belgium, waiting to catch a train to Brussels to visit my friend Tom in London for my three days off.

I just ate breakfast: coffee and a chocolate croissant in a café.

The lady asked me some question, in French, after I ordered my cappuccino. I didn’t know what she was asking, but was able to deduce that it was some sort of “Would you like it with ____ or _____?” Not wanting to be that difficult customer who doesn’t speak French, I just repeated whatever that first word was.

Then my cappuccino was given to me…extravagantly:

Suffice it to say that I’ve never quite seen a cappuccino like that before…I guess I chose the fancier option? Imagine, if you will, the faces of the other customers in line as they think that I’ve purposely ordered this dessert-like beverage for breakfast…

And then, in a moment of twisted irony, I saw and heard Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” on the TV in the café. I say irony because this is the first time I’ve heard the full song (ever), even though it was a hit a few months ago in the US (I also say “full song” because the first time I heard the chorus was in a podcast I listened to a few days ago).

Talk about a culture warp: hearing Miley sing for the first time about partying in the USA, while drinking the language-barrier special in a train station café in Belgium.

Life is funny.

Thirty minutes until my train to Brussels…I should probably order another chocolate croissant.

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On the happenings of the past two hours:

9:40 AM - After enjoying the luxury of not one, but two (!), chocolate croissants, I slowly come to realize that the train ticket I have purchased in Liege will not allow me on the high-speed train to Brussels I was meaning to catch in 6 minutes—rather, it only allowed me to travel to Brussels via regular-speed, local trains.

9:45 AM – My train’s departure has been pushed back 8 minutes, allowing me a pinch of time in which to fix my language-inhibited ticket purchase. At this point, I’m waiting in the correct line to buy the correct ticket for the correct train, which leaves in 9 minutes. [For the record, it’s at this point that I also realize I really need to find a bathroom.]

9:48 AM – I tell the man at the counter I need to be on the train to Brussels that was supposed to leave 2 minutes ago. He hands me a voucher and tells me that I can pay for my ticket once boarding with this special, “exclusionary” voucher.

9:54 AM – The high-speed train, though late, arrives at platform two. The train attendant steps off, blows his whistle at some other passengers waiting outside a not-yet-opened door, and refuses to let anyone board the train...just to make sure you caught that: he refuses to let anyone board the train. WHAT?! The high-speed train leaves.

9:55 AM – A local train on the other side of the platform, whose sign indicates that it is going to Brussels, starts to board. I run to the train schedule, try to quickly decipher where in Brussels the train is headed, and decide—for better or worse—to board this train.

9:57 AM – I take a seat on this train bound for some station in Brussels, though I’m still not sure which station.

10:00 AM – I realize that the ticket I mistakenly purchased an hour prior turns out to be the exact ticket I need to be on this train. Fortuity strikes again! I calculate that the high-speed train I wanted was going to put me in Brussels about 55 minutes after departure. This train, though regular-speed, shouldn’t take too much longer. [Because I don’t know where and when exactly this train will be stopping, I decide not to use the on-board bathroom to ensure I don’t miss getting off at an opportune time.]

10:30 AM – The train arrives at Leuven, some station en route to Brussels. The electronic marquee in the train, though scrolling in Flemish, seems to indicate that my train is headed to Brussels-Nord, Brussels-Centraal, and Brussels-Zuid; my language abilities and travel experience allow me to conclude that these are North, Central, and South, respectively. My train to London leaves from Brussels-Midi in an hour. The question becomes: do I get off at Brussels-Nord and hope to catch a connection to Midi, or do I wait until Centraal? I deduce that Midi, being the terminal which has trains to London, Paris, etc., is probably closest to the Centraal station, because that, to me, is logical.

10:45 AM – We arrive at Brussels-Nord and an internal debate commences: maybe I should get off at Brussels-Nord. What if Midi is actually closer to Nord? No, my gut tells me, stay on and wait until Centraal.

11:00 AM – We arrive at Brussels-Centraal and I hop off onto platform 6. I have just 29 minutes until my train from Midi leaves for London. I run upstairs, check the schedule and find that a train for Brussels-Midi leaves from platform 6 in seven minutes, at 11:07. Perfect! I head back down to the platform.

11:07 AM – The train is not in sight. I look down the platform and realize, much to my chagrin, that the train is indeed in sight and very much boarding...at the other end of the platform. At this point I do the Home Alone dash: I grab my backpack, my jacket, my violin case, and my large, awkward, and unexpectedly heavy duffle bag, and proceed to run as fast as I can with this ridiculous amount of baggage to the opposite end of the platform. I say “Brussels-Midi?” to the attendant, who confirms my inquiry, and I hop on board.

11:09 AM – The train pulls into Brussels-Midi. Only 20 minutes until my Eurostar train for London departs! At this point, I’m thinking, Success! I’m golden! I start walking in the direction of platform 1 for my train to London. I go through a special set of Eurostar doors, and walk up to a set of turn-styles. I hand my e-ticket confirmation to the attendant, who then says, “Yes, but where is your ticket?” Ticket?, I think, this confirmation was all I received in my e-mail… “I can’t let you through without a ticket. You can try entering this confirmation code into that kiosk over that and see if it will print you a ticket. You’ll need a ticket to get through, though.”

11:10 AM – Success at the ticket kiosk. [I’ve still yet to visit the bathroom.]

11:11 AM – Eighteen minutes. I go through the turn-style and look down the hallway. In my delirious time crunch I failed to remember what was required for me to leave Brussels and get to London: customs.

11:13 AM – “All passports this way.” First passport stop: as fast and easy as it could be. Wonderful.

11:15 AM – Security. I whip off my belt, take off my watch, my giant jacket, and put these items into a bin with my cell phone and coins. Thank goodness I don’t have to take off my laced tennis shoes! Curse you, Shoe Bomber! I walk through the metal scanner and proceed to the next stop. I forego putting on my belt and watch to keep moving ahead, so instead I just hold them in my hands…with my passport, travel documents, jacket, violin case, and duffle bag.

11:18 AM – Eleven minutes. I get to UK customs and read a sign that says, “All non-UK passport holders must have a completed entry form.” Crap! I find the form and proceed to fill it out.

11:19 AM – Ten minutes. Stuck in line.

11:21 AM – Eight minutes. I move up to the desk and realize I chose my line poorly. This British customs woman is not wearing a jolly face that politely says, “Welcome to England! Cheerio!”; rather, her defined cheek bones and tightly pursed lips seem to broadcast her offensive: “I’ll throw you in a holding cell faster than you can say ‘fish and chips.’”

[For accuracy, here is a quick recap of my appearance and mental state. I’m carrying in my arms my violin, my duffle bag, my jacket and my travel documents. I’m also still carrying my watch and belt. I’m stressed, anxious, and worried about catching my train. And because I had just run down a platform and have been rushing through customs, all while wearing a wool sweater, I’m a disgusting, sweaty mess.]

I hand the woman my passport, and set down my stuff. I seize the time she uses to flip through my passport to quickly put on my belt and watch.

Customs woman: How long are you going to be in England?
Me: Till Wednesday.
CW: You didn’t fill out where you’re staying on this form.
Me: I’m staying with a friend in London, but I never got his address. He’s meeting me at St. Pancras station in London and picking me up there.
CW: So you’re staying with this friend?
Me: Yes.
CW: What is your friend doing in London?
Me: He’s a student at the Royal College of Music in London.
CW: How long has he been in London?
Me: A year and a half.
CW: Well, write his name and college on the form. Next time make sure to get the address.
[I write Tom’s name and school on the form.]
CW: Are you coming from the States?
Me: No, I’ve been in the Netherlands.
CW: So you’re going back to the States on Wednesday?
Me: No, I’m coming back to the Netherlands.
CW: When do you go back to the States?
Me: February 4th.
CW: Why are you in the Netherlands?
Me: I’m a musician. The band I’m in is currently on tour in the Netherlands.
CW: What do you mean by “the band I’m in is currently on tour in the Netherlands”?
…really?! Are you kidding me?! Unless I’m mistaken, that’s pretty straight-forward.
Me: Well…I play in a band. Right now we’re on tour in the Netherlands. I have a three day break from the tour so I’m visiting my friend in London.
CW: How long have you been in the Netherlands?
Me: Since January 1st.
CW: So you have the proper forms for playing in the Netherlands?
Me: I don’t have them, no.
CW: …you don’t have them?
Me: No, I wasn’t given them. My managers have them.
[CW eyes me. Apparently being polite and wearing a cardigan makes you suspicious? Or maybe she was just taking time to notice the prism of colors that was beginning to radiate in the immediate humidity of my sweaty aura. Looking back, I guess I, too, would be reticent about letting that guy into my country.]
CW: Go ahead.
[CW stamps my passport and ushers me through.]

11:25:00 AM – Having miraculously survived customs, I begin to run, yet again, to my train. I arrive at the platform and to find that my train coach, number 2, is, of course, at the end of the platform.

11:25:10 AM – I schlep my sweaty, baggage-laden, bathroom-needing, disheveled mess-of-a-self down the platform as train attendants from coaches 14 through 3 look at me with poorly-stifled repulsion.

11:26 AM – I, after an hour and half of traveler’s misery, finally board Eurostar 9181 to London. I put my duffle and violin case onto the luggage shelf and take my seat.

Dear Girl in Seat 75 (Coach 2),

I would like to apologize, formally, for my appearance, as well as any odors my body may or may not have been omitting without my knowledge when I got on the train. I’m sure that as I walked down the aisle you were hoping, “Please don’t let that thing be seated in seat 76.” Well, this thing was, for better or worse, assigned to seat 76. When I peeled off my sweater, you probably noticed my drenched armpits, back, and that awkwardly unpleasant spot in the center of one’s chest that happens to get moist. Sorry about that.

I’m sorry, too, that when I started typing this letter to you on the train, you happened to look up from your book, surreptitiously glance at my laptop screen, and see me typing this letter to you…because that detail—officially—makes the whole debacle more awkward than it ever was to begin with.

Less sweaty now than I was before,
Taylor