The Final Countdown

Little by little my fellow exchange students are leaving the country, whether or not they will return after Christmas. I just said goodbye to my good friend Coconut/Stephanie. I've sent a box of books home and am preparing to send another to make room for Christmas presents in my suitcases. I'm about to buy the ticket for my train to the airport, and am trying to figure out how I'm going to drag my suitcases all the way down to the gare (I throw French words into my English now. I've forgotten how to pronounce train station). As the end of my stay here draws to a close, I have to ask myself "Did I accomplish what I intended?"

No, honestly. I wanted to see Europe, the entire country of France, and get and Educational Psychology credit for my major. I wanted to slake my thirst for travel and return to little Westminster refreshed and ready for the coming semester. I wanted to figure out whether a return to camp this summer is feasible. I wanted to focus on improving my piano skills.

But I can't ignore what I've gained: a semester in a country as wonderfully mixed up as my own, a deep appreciation for American television, new information on three important periods in music history, a taste for good cheese, fresh bread—never again will I be content with sliced—and a good kebab, a working knowledge of Paris and its subway system, and a second sight that allowes me to walk home at night and never step in the many piles of dog poo nor run into anyone while eating a kebab and watching a new episode of 30 Rock on my iPod. I also walk faster, have revised my definition of a long walk. I now feel confident that I could live on my own (heck, I bought my own insurance. I'm grown), I've remembered what it is like to live without constant internet and television access, which means I journaled a lot. I've come to accept the skinny jean as a part of this year's fashion trends (though I hope to high heaven it's not as big in the midwest as it is here) and no longer raise my eyebrows when I see a non-black person with dreadlocks. My hatred for dubbing has increased despite my willingness to, on occasion, watch two consecutive episodes of CSI, called Les Experts. I didn't even like CSI when I came here, and am still not sure how I feel about it.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll get smacked a lot over the next year as I consistenly compare everything to the way the French do things, etc. I'm already wondering how long I could go without a job if I decided to save my money and travel after university, or how well I would survive if I decided to get a job in France. I am filled with a wanderlust that consumes my waking thoughts and my dreams while I slumber. The sweet agony!

My hands are cold—the student union is not climate controlled (which is why all their pianos are out of tune)—so I'm going to stop before they freeze completely. Out.

I Was Not Meant for England

After two trips to this accursed island, I have decided that only if accompanied by a notoriously blessed voyager will I ever cross the waters to rainy Angleterre. Friday, December 8 was my good friend Herschel's birthday, and on my last Paris trip Nina had asked me to visit that weekend and surprise him. Sure, I said. Nothing major was happening that weekend, and I had been wanting to visit for a while. Then I learned the week beforehand that I was going to have one of my last Classical Music History classes, and I had yet to figure out what I was supposed to be doing for a final in that class. I mentioned this to my parents, and after a few unsubtle remarks about how they knew I would "make the right decision considering your studies" I was completely convinced that I shouldn't go. At least, I was until I found out that the class had been cancelled. Sign me up for a trip to England, please!

Thursday morning I got ready to head across Ye Olde English Channel by plane. I got about halfway to the train station when I realized I had forgotten my passport. So I ran back to the apartment, grabbed the passport, and ran to the train station. I also remembered why I quit cross-country. I was too late to hop on my original train, so I bought a ticket for the next one to Nantes, which would have given me a six-minute window of time to get on the shuttle to the airport. However, the train decided to be 15 minutes slow. By all that's holy. French trains are almost never cancelled, and are rarely late. Why me?

I missed my flight. Again. I was tempted to just give up and resign myself to a long weekend in my room, but Nina was counting on me. Herschel was counting on me, even if he didn't know it. I bought a ticket for the next plane to England, which happened to be to an airport equidistant from Norwich. That was a good sign, right? The flight went smoothly, I got into the Stansted airport without any troubles, and when I bought a train ticket for Norwich the lady said I could catch the next one if I ran.

So I ran and hopped on the train, happy to finally be on my way to Norwich. About two and a half hours later Nina and I had both begun to panick, since the train had not yet stopped an Norwich. I asked the ticket-puncher guy and he directed me to a map of our train line. WE WERE GOING THE WRONG WAY. The lady who sold me my ticket neglected to tell me I had to switch trains in Peterborough (which we had passed about an hour and a half ago), so I was on my way to Birmingham, which is four hours in the opposite direction from Norwich. Oh, for the love of chocolate chips, I thought. My stomach was in knots for the next hour as the train made its way to Birmingham, wondering how I was going to get to where I was supposed to be.

At about 9:30 pm (an hour after I should have been in Norwich) I hopped off the train in Birmingham and raced to the ticket counter. The ticket vendor asked how he could help me.

"I need to get to Norwich," I said.

He snorted a bit. "No chance tonight. The last train left at eight."

I wanted to knash my teeth and wail "Why, God?" and fall to my knees in the middle of the station, but instead I called Nina. I was on the verge of tears; this was supposed to be easy! These people spoke my language, for goodness' sake! Of course, the whole time I was thinking about how Mom and Dad told me not to come, then the song "Mama Told Me Not To Come," then how this kind of mess always seemed to happen to me. Oh, had I known what was to come.

Nina suggested I find a cheap hotel and she would text me with train times for the next day. Alright, big girl, I thought, you can do this. I grabbed a taxi and asked the Indian man driving to take me to the nearest inexpensive hotel. "Oh, I know just the place," he told me. "It's only a fifteen-minute walk from the station, and very cheap." I didn't care if I was sleeping with roaches as long as I could just end the day. I was hungry, tired, my head ached, and all that stress had worn me thin. The cabbie drove and drove as I called Nina to update her on my progress, then answered the cabbie's questions about why I was so desperate for a hotel. I did think we were going for a little longer than I had expected a fifteen-minute walk would take, but what did I know, this wasn't my city.

We went down a residential street and the cabbie stopped. I looked out the window to see a townhouse with the word Hotel on the side, but it didn't look like any hotel I'd ever been to. "Is this is?" I asked, a bit incredulous.

"Thees ees it," he said. "I give you my number so if you want cab tomorrow morning, you call me. I live on this street, too."

"Thanks," I said, paying him and taking his number. I had no intention of using it; the train station was supposed to be 15 minutes down the street.

"If they have no room, I do not mind if you come stay with my family," the cabbie offered.

That threw me off a wee bit. "Oh, er, thanks very much, but I'll try the hotel first," I smiled.

I walked up to the front door and the cabbie pulled away. I peered through one of the doors and was disappointed not to see anything resembling an office or front desk, but I knocked anyway. The cabbie had already left, I had no idea where I was, and I was tired. A little bit later a bleary-eyed, disheveled looking man (did he realize his pants were unzipped?) came and opened the door.

"Is this a hotel?" I asked. He stared at me. "My cabbie dropped me off here and told me this was a hotel."

The man invited me into the kitchen (the place didn't look like a hotel) and told me that he only lived there, he was not in charge, he and several other immigrants lived there, would I like something to eat? Wonderful. I had been dropped on the doorstep of an immigrant hostel, and the proprietor was nowhere to be found. I briefly explained my situation to the man who let me in, and asked if he knew of a nearby hotel.

Over the next hour I learned quite a bit about this man despite his broken English. His name was Sabah Kadir, the word "sabah" in his language meant morning, he also spoke Khudanese, Farsi, Arabic, a little French and German, had lived in Birmingham for eight years, had never had a girlfriend and was afraid it was getting to late in life for him to start a family, that of course he knew where hotels were, and that he was having troubles getting his citizenship in England. He was also drunk. He forgot much of what I said not ten minutes after the fact, and told me that instead of spending money on a hotel I should sleep in his room and he would go sleep in his friend's room. Not like that, not like, stupid, you know, he has a lot of sisters. No thanks, I told him. I really need to use the internet to get a hold of my friend. At 11 pm I stood up and put on my backpack.

"I'll just go find a nearby hotel," I said when Sabah protested. "I really need the internet."

Sabah looked disappointed. "To bad I don't have the internet. I could take you to the library in the morning, and you could use the internet there."

"Yeah, too bad I need to leave before the library opens."

Sabah offered to escort me to the street with all the hotels. I acquiesced, remembering that I was also still lost. I accepted his address in case I ended up needing to stay in the hostel (I'd sleep in a box first), he put on his shoes and finally zipped up his pants, and we were off.

Suddenly he was full of questions. What did my parents do for a living? Are they rich? How long will I be in England? Do I like Birmingham? Am I married? Do I have a boyfriend? Aha , I thought. All of a sudden I did indeed have a boyfriend, though I immediatly regretted telling Sabah that my man was in the States and not who I was visiting in Norwich. How old was I? I answered truthfully, figuring our age difference might put him off. But no, Sabah decided he was twenty-eight. Liar. He was at least in his mid-thirties, especially with all those lines about thinking it was too late to start a family.

"I'm sorry I have so many questions," he apologized. "It is just that our time is so short now, and I imagine that you, lost in England, and me from Khudar (is that even a country? I couldn't find it on Google), maybe we have something together." Yikes. My response was something like, "Oh. Okay." I walked faster.

As we approached the first hotel Sabah suggested I simply go in and use the internet, then come sleep in his room while he gave me the key and slept in his friend's bedroom. "Sure," I said. Not on your life, I thought. We both walked in and I asked for a room. The concierges at the desk told me sorry, they were all booked and thought it unlikely that I would find a room at any of the other hotels on the street, though I should try the B&B next door. I thanked them and started toward the door, while Sabah took it upon himself to explain the entire situation to the two men. I tried to ditch him there, but he was too quick for me. Guess that cold air sobered him up a bit. My heart was in my shoes. I was incredibly frightened that I was not going to find anywhere to sleep and would have to snuggle with Sabah for the night. Sabah redoubled his efforts to make me come home with him, reasoning that I wasn't going to find a room anyway. Please, God. Let there be room in the Quality Inn.

Sabah stayed outside to smoke as I went in to "use the internet." I saw the man at the desk and dashed up to him. "Excuse me but I'm stuck here for the night because I was supposed to be in Norwich but the lady at the train station didn't tell me I had to change trains in Peterborogh and now I'm stuck here and the cabbie told me he was taking me to a hotel and took me to an immigrant hostel instead and I don't know maybe my accent threw him off but now this guy won't leave me alone and the man at the other hotel told me there was little chance I would find a room for tonight since I have to leave as soon as possible in the morning but I really need a room otherwise I'll be stuck with this guy so is there any chance that you have a single room?"

The concierge said "Yeah, sure," then took a ridiculous amount of money from me for a single room. I ducked outside to get rid of Sabah, who wanted a hug and a kiss. I let him have a hug, and managed to turn my head to the side before his lips connected, and he told me to write him. Sure, Sabah. I ran inside and up to my room, scarfing down the junk food I had bought at the train station and texting Nina. She gave me a couple of train times and I went to sleep.

I wanted to be in Norwich before one, so I woke up early, showered, and left the hotel at about 7:45 to catch the 8:15 train. I followed the map the concierge had given me without getting lost once, yet it still took me an hour to reach the train station. I wanted to choke that cabbie. Cheap hotel, sure. Fifteen-minute walk, sure. I got on the 9:40 train and was tensely vigilant at every stop we made, leaping off at Peterborough then stationing myself at the platform where the next train was supposed to come in. That afternoon I was in Norwich!

As far as the weekend is concerned, it was a definite success. Herschel was shocked when he walked into the kitchen and saw me peeling potatos for dinner, the festivities went smoothly, and everyone to whom I was introduced was very welcoming and friendly. I was exhausted when I got back to Angers on Sunday (with no further travel snafoos), but I consided the entire experience worth the memories made. Like Jack Handey's pirates.