I forgot to mention in my last email that I did get some KFC on my way into London that morning, and also discovered that Dr. Pepper (another craving shared by Aimee and I) was also available in England.
Anyhow, so it’s about 3:30 and we’ve arrived in Manchester. The drunk people are out in force, and we finally find a bus that can take us closer to Lianne’s. Interesting fact about Manchester…or at least I thought so…rather than have one common transportation system, there are 8 bus companies that compete within the city. Potentially good for prices, but far too complicated and inefficient in my opinion. Anyhow, we got home and got some sleep. Saturday would bring the trip downtown, where I planned on buying Doc Martens…the story with that; I’ve virtually destroyed the shoes I brought with me (this was somewhat intended; less to carry home) with all the walking I do, but I needed a good pair of shoes that would last and be comfortable. Having worn Doc’s through most of high school, these fit the bill, and I was really excited about buying them in their country of origin (where they are only slightly cheaper than in Mulhouse).
So…once again we took our time getting up and headed into town for some window shopping (and a little real shopping…first stop…the Doc Marten store). After Lianne found a pair that she liked, and I found a pair entirely unlike what I’d come for (I came for black matte, and ended up looking at yellowish suede, we set about trying to find the right size (why does Britain need their own size convention???). After trying on 3 pairs, we discovered that the right shoe on two of them were sewn entirely crooked (the part with the lace holes). Nonetheless, I took the third pair and some suede protector and we set on our merry way. I little more shopping and we headed home to relax…we were going out that night and we’d walked much of the day. Friends of Lianne’s were meeting other friends at a nightclub downtown and we were invited. I had to wear my new shoes (how horrible) because the bars in Manchester apparently do not allow running shoes, so I laced them up…and discovered that they too were crooked. I wore them anyway, figuring that it probably wasn’t that noticeable.
It was a nice place; couches and such on the main floor, and a dance floor on the lower floor. Unfortunately, the bar was crammed with people (hardly room to stand, much less sit), and the music was deafening. So you couldn’t move…or hear…we soon moved next door to the Fat Cat Cafe which was a bar much more to my liking (but still far from the British pub I had imagined we would be going to!). Nonetheless, it was a really nice place, and once we were all able to sit and chat, things were much more comfortable! There was some discussion about going to their favourite pub, but it was getting near closing time, so we headed to Lianne’s friends to hang out. It was there that I decided that these shoes (that are way too expensive to be flawed) were too flawed, and I wanted to take them back…problem: there was a spot on them, which I promptly made worse by trying to rub it off. Julie came to my rescue: FYI a nail brush can get stains out of suede.
After another night at Lianne’s, I had virtually gotten rid of my cold…by giving it to Lianne, who was getting really sick. We trekked into town anyway, in the hopes of taking back my shoes. Lucky for me, the same guy was working (that saw they other ones) and I was able to get all my money back without any trouble. We spent some more time downtown, discovering that everything in Manchester is open on Sundays (unlike Mulhouse, where not even convenience stores are THAT convenient). We headed home early , so that we would be able to get up early enough to catch my 6am coach.
Well, not all of it: due to exchange rates, having paid with a Canadian credit card, I actually lost $5 in the deal, but I didn’t find that out until later.
Inevitably, I couldn’t fall asleep, and continued to pester Lianne, who was desperately trying to sleep off her cold. When the alarm went off at 5, it felt like I’d barely slept, but I was excited about the trip home (this travelling alone thing is really growing on me!). So, I dragged poor, sick Lianne out of bed for the trek to the coach station. We caught the first bus of the morning, and got downtown in lots of time…especially since my bus left late…almost 6:30 instead of 6:15. No worries, it was scheduled to arrive at 11:30, giving my over an hour to check in for my 12:53 train from London. As the time passed, I started to get a little concerned. It was approaching 10:30 and I still hadn’t seen any signs for London. Finally we passed one…but it was at the bottom of the list of several other cities (a bad sign) and I didn’t see the whole number, but I knew it was over 100. The next sign finally came: 128. I figured the speed limit would be at least 90 though, so I wasn’t worried. I started timing the signs to see how fast we were going, and better gage our arrival time…we were going 60…yeah…that’s when my biggest fear became a reality: England doesn’t use metric. We were still over 100 MILES from London and it was almost 10:30. I decided that if we made it be 12:30, even though I was supposed to check in a half hour early for my train, I figured I could get from the coach station to the train station and check in in the 20 minutes I would have.
At 11:30, we pulled off the highway. This couldn’t be good. We pulled into a little bus station, and I immediately went downstairs (even some of the coach buses are double decker!) to find out if I would have a hope of making my train. The guy told me he’d come talk to me in a minute. Bad sign #2. He came up to announce that we would be taking a 15 minute break (bad sign #3) and that we should expect to get to London around 1:30…that’s right…2 hours late, and over half an hour after my train would be leaving. In fact, by the time we got to London, my train would almost be in France…obviously without me on board. The guy said to call the train company and see if they could do anything for me, and he would call the bus company to see what they could do. My cell phone doesn’t work in England though, and when I finally managed to get through on a pay phone (that’s the England-France charge on the calling card dad, in case you’re wondering…I didn’t have any British money left to feed the phone…sorry I completely forgot to tell you until I wrote this).
By 1:30, we still were not in London, although we weren’t far. Several people had overheard my conversation, and we were discussing repercussions (ie the bus company paying whatever extra I would have to pay to get home). By this point, people were getting very upset. I was by no means the only person missing important schedules (although it seemed by their reactions that I was the only one that would still have 8+ hours of travel ahead of me when we actually reached London). We were soon in London, and they made the first stop letting several people off. We then headed to the coach station. 2 blocks from the station we got cornered into a small section of street that was blocked by police tape, but for no apparent reason. We were stuck there for almost 30 minutes, despite the bus drivers best efforts to back into a busy intersection (we were on Buckingham Palace Road…everything’s a busy intersection) to go around another way. Several more people got off the bus, but I was late enough that it wouldn’t change anything for me. Plus I wanted to know what the bus company was going to do for me. Finally the police removed the tape. We pulled into the station at 2:15. My train was almost in Paris. There were only a few people left on the bus, so I let them go first so I could talk to the driver. I asked what the company was going to do. He said he didn’t know, and that I should ask at the help desk. (Thanks buddy. You really pulled through for me on that one!)
I stood in line for nearly half an hour, while the guy at the help desk served only one couple, who (from a different bus) missed their connection, and couldn’t get home to Lille (France) if I eavesdropped correctly (What else was I going to do?). He still hadn’t sorted anything out for them, but he needed to wait for a call back from someone so he asked them to move aside while he helped others. He didn’t take long with me…when I said I’d missed my train, he said he could only help if I had missed a bus. I asked where to write to to complain and get a refund…he gave me the address (this must happen frequently) and I was merrily on my way. At this point I was surprisingly stress-free, and had been since about the time I realized that there was no hope that I would catch my train.
I made my way to the tube station, and then to the train station. It wasn’t too tough to find the Eurostar desks (for once something was well-signed) and I went to the sales desk to figure out what to do. David was extremely helpful. He was able to change my ticket for no charge, but unable to change my Paris-Mulhouse ticket. He said it should be okay if I just told them the problem as soon as I arrived, but on my ticket it said I could make changes to a reservation up to an hour after the departure of t he train (not bad, but there was no way I would be only an hour late). I asked him when the next Eurostar was leaving…he said, “actually, in less than 20 minutes, I’m just trying to get this done as fast as possible so you’ll make it.” He got things finished and directed me through the first class check-in. Being that I was not carrying any weapons of mass destruction [this remarks sounds incredibly insensitive to me know, but perhaps I've become too politically correct], I had no trouble, and got onto the platform with less than 10 minutes to spare…too bad I was next to car 1, and my ticket was for car 17. After a marathon run down the platform, I found my car and my seat, and a renewed sense of inner peace…okay so I exaggerate, but I was very excited just to cross the border. It was strange, I haven’t really felt homesick for Canada (other than missing people), but at that point I realized I was homesick for France. The realization was both frightening and refreshing: I knew that Mulhouse had felt like home from the moment I arrived, but it was then that I realized the extent.
Anyway, about 3 hours later I got to Paris: a little over an hour after my train for Mulhouse had left. I hurried from one train station to the other (there are several in Paris, all close, but not all connected) in the hopes of having the same good luck I’d had with Eurostar. When I arrived at the ticket desk I needed, the lineups were short. Inevitably though, mine moved the slowest. After nearly 45 minutes, I finally made it to the front and explained my problem. The girl said that she didn’t think she was “obliged” to change my ticket. I promptly complained about the time I’d been waiting in line (I would have almost made the 1 hour cutoff otherwise). The French don’t like people criticizing their work, and she didn’t take it well. Nonetheless, she asked the person next to her if she had to change it. The answer was still no. Then she clarified: I could use my ticket (despite that it reserved a certain seat on a certain train) on the next train…at 10:45. No problem: David at Eurostar had already told me that that would be the next train. I would be in Mulhouse for 4:15am. I sent Rachele a message to let Aimee know I would be home 5ish. She had my keys, and was supposed to meet me at 11pm so I could get in. Rachele never wrote me back, so I just hoped her phone was on.
I killed the next few hours and got on the train a half hour early (that’s as early as they tell you what track your train will be on, in Paris). About halfway through the trip, I stopped the ticket guy to double check that we were on time, and asked what time we would arrive in Mulhouse. He looked at me dumbfounded…”this train doesn’t stop in Mulhouse.” For a split second he had me going, then checked his book: 4:15. Okay…I knew the schedule, but thanks anyway. He then asked the inevitable…where are you from? I’ve given up hope that I’ll lose my anglo accent… I told him Canada and he looked relieved. He said it’s a good thing I wasn’t British, because England had beaten France in rugby. When I asked him the score, he said he didn’t want to talk about it. It was funny anyway.
As we pulled into Mulhouse, I felt great (despite having been up almost 24 hours, and have a half hour + walk ahead of me…I had assured David that arriving at that time would be no problem: by 4am on Tuesday morning, all the crazy people would be asleep…it was certainly better than staying the night in Paris). My walk home was uneventful, and the temperature was perfect for walking. On the way, I wondered whether Aimee would remember that I couldn’t even get into the building…of course Batiment A doesn’t have a buzzboard like the nicer buildings do. She wasn’t there, so I walked around to check my window…no light from the lamp or the TV. It was still before 5:00 though, so I thought perhaps she had set my alarm and would be down, but I was a little worried…Aimee sleeps like a rock. I tried calling Rachele, but her phone was off…I once again hoped it had been on when I’d messaged her hours earlier (you never know if/when a message is received) [I don't know if I couldn't get read receipts on that phone, or if I just didn't know how, but I have discovered that since.]. I looked through my phone book to see who wouldn’t mind being woken up at 5am to let me in. The only one I could think of lived in Aimee’s building up the hill. I walked around the back of the building again, and noticed that my window was open. Going out on a limb, I called Aimee’s name, trying not to be so loud that I would bother anyone. I was shocked when she promptly appeared in the window, looking confused. She came down and let me in, and we spent the next three hours discussing our respective weekends.
Long story short (hehehe) it was quite a trip.
