My 18-Hour Journey from France to Edinburgh

Last week I was in the South of France. It was beautiful and might warrant its own blog post, but as I am notably lazy when it comes to posting, and as this is a more interesting story, I am now going to tell you about my return journey to Edinburgh.

The story starts the morning of our check-out from our accommodations. It was a Friday morning, and we had to be out by 10am. Check-out went off without a hitch, but our transfer to the airport wasn't due to arrive until noon. Thus begins the Purgatory of a day I had. Every aspect of my journey involved getting to a place and then waiting. And waiting. And waiting. As if I needed the prayers of the living to help me move up the mountain (I've been reading a lot of Dante lately).

So we wait two hours at a cafe until our airport transfer comes to get us and arrive at the Beziers airport at around 12:30pm. Our flight is scheduled to leave at 4:30. So more waiting in an airport cafe that is run by a woman who clearly hates her job. We finally get on the plane and land at the Manchester airport at around 5:50pm British Summer Time. It is important at this point to note that it is raining in Manchester when we land, but we make it safely to the ground, and head over to the train station for our 7pm train to Glasgow.

Yes, you read that right. We don't have train tickets to Edinburgh because there was not a direct train that evening. There was one that took 10 hours (with connections), but since the train from Manchester to Edinburgh should take ~3 1/2 hours, we decided to reject that 10-hour trip on principle. So instead, we have tickets for a 3-hour trip to Glasgow. Once in Glasgow, two of my friends planned to stay the night at a hostel, while another friend and I would take the 50-minute train ride home, which would put us in Edinburgh between 11 and midnight. It was a solid plan. It really was. Until British weather intervened.

Our train from Manchester arrives late to the station, due to the rain we experienced upon landing. When the train finally arrives, we board, settle in, and then begin to hear announcements that our train is delayed. After about fifteen minutes, they begin telling people bound for certain stations to get off and go to other trains. Finally, they announce that our train is cancelled due to flooding along the line and that everyone onboard should take the train from Platform 4 to Manchester Piccadilly, from whence we will be able to catch trains to other destinations.

Upon arrival at Manchester Piccadilly, I set out on a mission to find a ticket agent and figure out how to get to Glasgow. We find a nice man who informs us that we need to take a train to Warrington Bank Quay, then change trains for Preston, and then from Preston we will be able to get to Glasgow. He also assures us that the tickets we already have will allow us to complete this journey. This plan seems like a solid one, except that the train we need to take doesn't leave Manchester Piccadilly until 8:50pm, so after our various connections, we likely won't arrive in Glasgow until after the last train to Edinburgh leaves. This hiccup is not a major one; it just means that Cailey and I won't be getting home tonight and will, instead, be joining our compatriots in the Glaswegian hostel. That's fine. It's fine. I just want to get to Glasgow.

Hokay. So. By 9pm, we've left Manchester Piccadilly and are on our way to WBQ. We arrive around 9:30 and frantically look around for the train to Preston, not wanting to miss our connection. Well, no worries there: the train to Preston doesn't leave until 10:23pm. I remember this time specifically because from here on out, time becomes very important to me. We make our way to the platform, and Sabrina and Kyley decide to find the restroom, while Cailey and I wait with the bags. At this point I'm a bit nervous about our various connections, so I look at the train schedules online to see how long it takes to get to Preston. According to the internet, the 10:23pm train arrives in Preston at 10:53pm. Ok, not bad. Then I look at the trains going from Preston to Glasgow. It is now 9:38pm. The next part of this story is best told from the perspective of Cailey, in video form.

So the last train to Glasgow is no longer an option, and the next train scheduled to leave Preston for Glasgow doesn't do so until 6:30am. It has now been confirmed that not only will we not be getting home tonight, we will also not be sleeping in the hostel waiting for us in Glasgow. This would generally be the point at which my travel anxiety switches to panic mode, but I manage to keep my cool and, on Cailey's suggestion, look for trains from Preston to Edinburgh. I find a train that claims to leave Preston at 12:52am and arrive in Edinburgh at 6:24am. Despite the fact that the trip is way longer than it should be, we decide it's a better option than waiting all night in Preston and then going to Glasgow. This means we will have to buy new train tickets from Preston to Edinburgh, but we're willing to do it if it means we don't have to spend the night in some random city in England. Another great plan, I'd say, but the story does not end with a happy train ride from Preston to Edinburgh. Oh no.

When we get to Preston, we head to the ticket counter, which is closed. But the self-service kiosk is open, so we look for tickets to Edinburgh. We start to buy a one-way off-peak ticket for £34, but at the last moment we realize that the ticket is only valid on weekdays, and as our train leaves after midnight on Saturday, we're not sure if that will work. So then we look at peak-time tickets, but they're around £60, which seems excessive. Since we still have over an hour to kill in Preston, we decide to wait until after midnight to buy our tickets, in the hopes that the prices change or we find an employee of the railroad to help us. It is then that I start looking at the train schedules posted around the station and realize that the 12:52am train to Edinburgh is actually a 12:52am train to Stirling, followed by a second train (with a separate ticket) to Edinburgh. So now we realize that we don't need to buy a ticket from Preston to Edinburgh at all, and we head back to the kiosk to purchase our tickets to Stirling.

On the way there we finally spot someone who looks official, so we walk up to her and say, "We're trying to get to Edinburgh. Can you help us?"

She replies, "Where are you coming from?"

I take a deep breath and then say, "Well. We started at the Manchester Airport."

She interrupts. "That's all I need to know." She then writes "Manchester" on a piece of paper that carries a list of cities. Seeing all these cities written down, I finally look around the lobby of this train station and realize that everyone in it is waiting around, occasionally glancing at this woman.

Apparently, we are all refugees from these floods that have cancelled our trains, and every one of us has been rerouted to Preston. The woman tells us that there are trains stranded in the middle of nowhere and that she is working on getting us to Edinburgh; we just have to wait. Grateful that we are not stranded on a train somewhere (and that she didn't ask to see our tickets, which clearly say we have paid to go to Glasgow), we sit down in the train station lobby to wait. After some time, she returns to tell us that a man will soon be calling us, so "get ready." Calling us to do what, you ask? Yeah, we're asking ourselves the same question. I think maybe we're going to take a bus to another train station. We head outside and the aforementioned man calls out "Edinburgh!" We rush forward, at which point this stranger points us toward a cab, which we enter, having zero idea what is going on. It becomes quickly apparent that we are now being driven ~180 miles from Preston to Edinburgh, which is great, except that we're not sure if we're expected to pay for it, and we're all too scared to ask the man who literally has our lives in his hands behind the wheel of this taxi.

About half an hour into the 3 1/2-hour drive, Kyley manages to start a conversation with him that results in him explaining that whenever there is an accident or major cancellation on the line, all the trains get routed to Preston, and then Preston's giant taxi corps, which has a contract with the railroad, is mobilized to get people wherever in the UK they need to go. So the £60 train ride we were all prepared to take that evening is now a free cab ride, which will get us home at 3:30am, as opposed to 6:24. And even better, since the taxi driver doesn't know the postcode for Edinburgh Waverley train station (and neither do we), he just decides he'll drive us home, thereby saving us a 30-minute walk from the station.

We spend the next three hours with this guy, who is a delightful conversationalist and sings earnestly along to "Endless Love" and decide (over text message) that we will each pitch in £10 to tip him. Not just because he saved us lots of time and money but also because, after he drops us off at 3am, he has to turn right around and go back to Preston.

When we get home, I hand him the tip, to which he says, most endearingly, "Are you sure?" We are sure, taxi driver. We are sure. Please don't fall asleep on the way home.

And that is how it took 18 hours to get from the South of France to Edinburgh.

Childhood Nostalgia

I imagine some of my readers have seen this video already, given that it has nearly 4,000,000 views on YouTube, but for those who haven't (and those who would like to see it again), I present this video of Mister Rogers Remixed. This is a PBS-sanctioned remixing of clips from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood into a great (and extremely nostalgia-inducing) song called "Garden of Your Mind." I had forgotten how fantastic that show was. Enjoy the walk down memory lane!

Backup Career #2, Or Attempts at Podcasting

Hi there, friends. Happy June! Last week, my friend Cailey and I had an idea to start a podcast. We went home, recorded an episode on my computer (hence the quality), did some editing, and then could not for the life of us figure out how to submit it to iTunes as a podcast, so I'm posting it here. If you like it, please feel free to tell your friends. Maybe it'll take off. Or maybe it's just the idle ranting of two megalomaniacs who love to hear themselves talk. Either way, for your listening pleasure, I now present the first episode of "Backup Career #2."

Twenty-somethings Cailey and Kimber have yet to decide on long-term careers and, as humanities majors, have few marketable skills. Therefore, each episode they will choose and discuss the relative merits of a “backup career” in the hopes of discovering a plausible fall-back. This week, they take a look at "Barista."

Back to Work

Hello dear readers. I'm sorry for the recent lapse in posting. I have effectively been on vacation for the past month, but now it's time to get back to work, and by that I mean, get back to procrastinating by writing blog posts.

I have a 15,000-word dissertation due in about three months, so expect many a post between now and then. To kick off my return, I would like to link you to something I think you should know about.

If you've never heard of Ze Frank, he is many things, but I will use the title Wikipedia assigns him, which is "American online performance artist." He is all about using the internet to bring communities together through projects and songs and thoughtful meditations. I'm not really explaining him very well, but what you really need to know is that he's inspirational and funny and sometimes, very strange. But in a good way.

From March 2006 to March 2007, he had a daily web program called the show, of which several of my friends were huge fans. He ended the show after that year, but now he is doing a new show, aptly titled a show, and I think it's great. Each episode of both the show and a show is short (between 3 and 5 minutes) and very fast-paced. Here is the first episode of a show. It is "an invocation for beginning," which is great if you've ever had trouble getting started with something.



If you're not used to Ze Frank's style, he may take some getting used to, but I love him and his internet projects. He also has a website called Star.Me, where members respond to daily missions and then give each other stars for a job well done. Again, it encourages creativity and community interaction.

Finally, here is a video of Ze talking at the TED conference. He explains what it is he does a lot better than I can by giving examples of some of the interactive projects he has encouraged people to get involved with. It's pretty neat. Enjoy!

A debilitating fear of mine

Sorry for yet another epic lapse in posting, dear readers. I've been on vacation and, thus, doing no work. I find I write my best posts when I'm procrastinating. I will get back to my Dublin posts soon, but I thought I'd take a moment to share a bit about myself.

I hate roaches.

I'm fairly certain that nobody really likes roaches (except maybe this one guy at the Edinburgh Zoo or the weird kid everyone went to middle school with [apologies if you were that kid]), but I have to admit that I am utterly terrified of them. It's probably not wise to reveal my weaknesses on the Internet. It's like if Superman had a blog and wrote a post about how much he hated kryptonite. But something happened to me the other night, and it was too good a story not to relate.

I was in the shower, about to get out, when I notice movement on the right-most edge of my shower door. Take a moment to enjoy, below, an exclusive video of the inside of my shower so that you can understand the spacial arrangement of my story. I look closer and notice, to my horror, a roach crawling around on the glass. At this point, I'm safe because the exit from my shower is on the left, and the horrible creature is outside the glass. I decide to make a break for it, at the same moment that he decides to start crawling over to the left side of the glass.

I freeze, hoping he will stop and allow me to hurry out, but no such luck. The cockroach crawls all the way over to the left-most edge, effectively trapping me inside my shower. I can get out the other side, but he's also right by the door, so I will have to pass him to escape. I'm contemplating all this when the unthinkable happens: I look, and I can't see the cockroach. He's disappeared, either above me, where he could fall down on my head, or out of my shower area into the bathroom proper, where he could be lying in wait.

And it was at this moment that I realized, perhaps for the first time in my life, how utterly, completely, irrationally afraid of cockroaches I am. I am frozen in fear at having to open my bathroom door and possibly encounter a bug.

Luckily, I brought my phone into the shower room that night so I could listen to some sweet jams whilst I bathed. So I did what any normal person would do: I called my dad, who was in the living room, to come in and deal with the roach. And good thing, too! My dad arrived just in time to find the roach escaping my bathroom and entering MY BEDROOM. Still cowering in my shower, I hear sounds of roach spray and then my dad's called assurances that he got it. Much relieved, I emerged at last from my glass prison.

Only later did I stop to analyze the source of this totally irrational fear, and I came up with two pretty decent reasons why I'm afraid of cockroaches.

The first is a game my mother and I used to play when I was little. I say "game," but it was more like a battle. She would pretend that her hand was a bug crawling up my arm. I would then smack it to determine if the "bug" was a spider or a roach. I always prayed it would be a spider. Because a "spider" would immediately flop on its back and curl up, dead. Smacking a "roach," on the other hand, resulted in the hand-bug scurrying all over me and then hiding in my armpit. I would have to smack a roach several more times before it "died." It was essentially tickling with an added element of play-fighting. It was meant to be fun (and it was, mostly), and my mom hoped to teach me about different bugs. What it taught me was that roaches don't die; they scurry all over your body and then hide in your armpit. Horrifying.

This early training to fear roaches was reinforced when I was ten or eleven and a friend and I were swimming at my grandparents' house. My grandparents had an indoor pool with a rec-room right off it. Generally, after a swim, I would bathe in the guest room shower, but this particular day, I thought it would be fun to use the rec-room shower, which I had never used. (I loved novelty as a child, often choosing to spend several night in a row sleeping on the couch, simply for a change of pace.) Still clad in our bathing suits, my friend and I hopped in the shower to rinse off. Everything was going fine until I felt something on my leg. I looked down to see no less than a dozen huge roaches coming out of the drain and up our legs. The shower had been out of use for so long that they had clearly nested down there, and the hot water brought them out. Needless to say, I was mortified, and I guess I've never really recovered.

So there you have it, dear reader. Perhaps my greatest fear. Please don't try to use it against me.

Dublin: Part 1: Housing Adventure

My friend Sabrina and I decided to book our trip to Dublin in November of last year. Four of our friends had already booked two months prior and obtained a private four-person room in a hostel. By the time Sabrina and I booked, however, there were either no hostels available for Saturday night (March 17) or they were available for an exorbitant price. Because I have a blog devoted to adventure (and because I'm cheap), Sabrina and I decided not to book a room for that night and have the "adventure" of being homeless in Dublin. Sounds like a great plan, right?

Well, as our trip got closer, the plan began to seem less and less great. Because, the truth, dear reader, is that despite my love of adventure, I don't love putting my life at risk. It's is a fine line! The more I thought about it, the more nervous I got. In order to combat my anxiety, I made extensive plans regarding where we could spend our evening (i.e. clubs, all-night diners, Wal-marts?), and I packed in such a way that I could travel around the city all night, unencumbered by my luggage. Despite these precautions, on March 16, the Friday of our departure, I suddenly realized that being murdered in Dublin might be a very real possibility if I didn't find a place to sleep. And on a simply pragmatic level, it occurred to me that staying up all night on St. Patrick's Day would not be conducive to productive site-seeing on Sunday.

And so it was that I begged Sabrina to let me book us a room. Being a good friend, she authorized me to book whatever I could find, regardless of the price, so I bit the bullet and found a hostel with two beds at £60 per person for the night. I pulled out my credit card and was keying in my card number when... my phone rang! I halted my typing because my caller ID showed the name of one of my friends who was already in Dublin. What could this be? I thought. Here is the conversation that followed:

Me: Hello?
Friend: Hey, how would you like a place to sleep tomorrow night?
Me: Uhhhh, I would LOVE a place to sleep tomorrow night! Whatcha got?
Friend: So, it turns out, the private 4-person room we booked is actually a 6-person room. Thanks to a mix-up at the hostel, those 2 extra beds aren't booked for tomorrow night, and the hostel said you guys can have them for £25 each.
Me: AHHHHH!!! (drops phone, passes out from joy)

Ok, that last bit might have happened internally, but I'm sure you can imagine. I was overjoyed and immediately took him up on the offer. So we got to Dublin and had a great stay in a lovely hostel.

But that's not quite the whole story. The morning of the 17th, I went to check with the front desk to make sure there was no problem with us moving into the room and to check in. The woman working at the desk said it was fine and that we could go ahead and move our stuff in (since the other people in there were our friends) but that we couldn't technically check in until after 2. Then she thought for a moment, turned to her co-worker, explained to him the situation, and then said, "Do they have to pay?" The man paused, thought, and said, "Nah, it's Paddy's Day!"

It was a St. Patrick's Day miracle! So there you go, dear reader. If you don't plan ahead by booking a hostel for St. Patrick's Day in Dublin, everything will work out and you'll get a free room. On second thought, that may not be the lesson to take away from this. Let's just say the lesson is stick with me because I'm super lucky. Ooh! Maybe it's... the Luck of the Hapless American. That's a thing, right?

Dublin: Preface

I spent the weekend in Dublin for that most Irish of American holidays, St. Patrick's Day. There is so much to say about that amazing city and my long weekend, so I have decided that I will split it into a series of posts, each with a different theme. But it will take time and energy, both things I don't have today. So for now, I will leave you with this picture of me in the one tourist-y souvenir I allowed myself.