Angry the German

It has been quite some time since i have posted anything but in my defense there has been a lack of internet over the past two weeks. This will be he first in a short series of installments.

Leaving Amsterdam seemed straightforward enough on paper, I catch an over night train to Copenhagen that would take the best part of 14 hours and deposit me in the heart of Copenhagen. I left my companions for this intrepid solo leg of the journey an hour earlier than required, just to make sure i got off on the right foot and thank god for that because this is where the fun started. I get to the station and cast around for the nearest ticket information desk to present myself to and find one without any trouble. When I finally get to the head off the cue I am told that my booking number is not sufficient and that I have to print everything off. Now at this point I can only assume that the gentleman behind the counter with the thick German accent, was having a very bad day indeed because when I inquired as the where I can print off my email he fired back an angry "how should i know". A bit disillusioned with my transport company I look around the station a little bit desperately for an internet cafe with printing facilities. I don't find a cafe but what i do happen to find is an ice cream shop with printing and over 36 flavours. The nice young girl behind the counter with the happy dutch accent says I need to sample the wares in order to be able to use the net and print and so I proceed to gleefully tuck into my 'Chunky Monkey' while scouring my inbox.

I return to Angry the German and present him the requested paperwork and a grin. Neither work it seemed because he then tells me in his own delightful fashion "this train does not exist." Restraining a number of tart replies I press the matter to find out how it is possible to purchase a ticket for a train that doesn't exist and his only response is to try and sell me a ticket for a train that is leaving at the exact same time to the same destination. This time, I do not restrain the sarcasm and we are sliding towards an altercation when his superior intercedes. As it turns out, it is my train, I do own a ticket, I didn't need to print it and Angry the German is in fact a twat. Medical fact. I leave the transit lounge looking like a cat thats been into the cream, followed by the sound of Angry coping a Dutch lashing.

I go back to the ice cream shop for some 'Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz'...because I deserve it.

once upon a midnight dreary

It is five to ten by the time we pull into Galway station. The night is damp and haunted by a chilling wind that only the Atlantic knows how to produce. The mercury can't be above six. Stepping off the train into the insipid light of the platform, we are greeted by a bleak and uninviting car park, crowded with taxis clamoring for our business. Trying to get our bearings we strike out into the night, moving between islands of light. At the first cross road we chance upon Eyre Square, the first recognisable point of reference and seek shelter while we orientate ourselves. After a false start (curse the lack of street signage) we spy a landmark name that jogs the memory. We drift toward it like moths to a lamp, only to be disheartened by the yet another featureless street. Spurred on by the rains steady but insistent tattoo we are pressed to continue. Through the haze we make out a word in Celtic script, and approach a battered orange door scarred by years of weary travelers pounding its boards seeking refuge. Finally we know relief. Claddagh. Home for now.

"How are the buses upstairs?!"

Yesterday morning Dave and I needed to catch a bus from London to York. In our defence it should be mentioned that the night before was a big one for some and a long one for others. This is the tale of our misadventure.

The morning started at 6:55 with Dave slapping me awake after noting that my phone's alarm was rousing everyone in the room but me, as I curled protectively around it. After stumbling out of my bed and into some pants I start to pack, with Dave 5 steps ahead of me, knowing that time is of the essence. This is completed quickly enough and we head for the kitchen.

The night before when we got home around 1am, we had started a roast in preparation for this days lunch. Don't ask. It seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. We bundled our drumsticks, spuds and carrots into snap locks then stuffed them in our days packs. By now we are possibly just a touch behind schedule but not noticeably. As Dave finishes filling his water bottle and heads for the door he spies me, gleefully toasting en mass and buttering my booty. A look of confusion is chased from his face by chagrin.

We are now officially running late, not irreparably however.

We set off at a brisk walk to Gloucester Road station, about a 12 min journey. 3 bits of toast fall by the wayside but we make it without losing any more time. However, due to my travel card being short on funds I am forced to attempt to top it up. The two pound coin I produced however wasn't good enough for the machine it seemed and I was forced to surrender a fiver. This minor debacle in turn caused us to miss the immediate train, fear not however. This is London, we got one not 3 minutes later.

If we had been aware of what was to transpire we may have been much more concerned about the time at this point. (Dave would like it to be noted that he was, in fact, rather worried at this time, watching the stations roll by all too slowly.)

We arrive at 'Kings Cross/Saint Pancras' station in short order and head for clear skies above and to where we suspect the buses are. How wrong we were. No buses in site but within the terminal complex we see what appears to be an information kiosk. After an impatient wait behind a woman hell-bent on plumbing the depths of the assistant's knowledge on local eateries, we are told that we are at 'Kings Cross' when we need to be at 'Saint Pancras' to get MegaBus (who knew that they are in fact different stations? All the literature talks of them as one.) We break into a shuffling run and head off down the directed passage, and I nearly clean up a chap in a suit in the process. Still not really clear on where we are or where we are going, I accost a passing member of the station staff and he informs me in a thick French accent “MegaBoos. All the whay to ze end and left” all the while making air hostess-esq hand gestures.

Now running in earnest (packs and all) we hit the end of the terminal and break left, into the frigid London morning. What greeted us here was devastating. A large bus-bay, totally devoid of buses. Not one.
The emotions playing across Dave's face tell the story best. The concerned excitement of not knowing if we would get there on time (but having our destination in our reach), melted away leaving nothing but confusion, frustration and utter dismay in its wake.

By now we were further behind schedule than Eric Moussanbani (http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympics2000/swimming/931508.stm) was behind the world record in his 2000 Olympics heat.

But wait! Another information kiosk, the little beacons of hope in our morning of despair. We are informed that MegaBus is leaving from just up the nearby escalator.

We bolt. Dave asks with wonder (and perhaps some disbelief), “How are the buses upstairs?!”

Greeting us at the top is a train platform, 4 ticket inspectors, and a MegaBus booth...and once again, not a single bus. Dave presents the fellow in the booth with a scrap of paper with out booking details hastily scrawled on it and we are given in return two orange tickets with a barely legible 'M/B' scribbled on the back, then pointed to the inspectors not 6 steps away. Upon presenting the tickets to one woman, she looks at us as if we are a little mad, and states: “These are not tickets.” We look back to the MegaBus booth, expecting to see the man scampering off, wheeling his scam-booth with him. At our protests that these are indeed tickets, given to us not a moment ago, a senior ticket inspector (oh what a title to posses) steps in and takes over the investigation. He is not interested in our handwritten tickets, but on seeing the afformentioned scrawled booking number, he directs us to the train on the right. I'm pretty sure as he ushered us on board, he could read our faces crying “But this is not a bus!?” We deposited our bags and find a seat still confused. Only then did realisation dawn on us (Dave more so than myself) that it was a train to the Midlands, THEN a bus from there. Someone had forgot to tell us this however. Not one of the four people we asked thought to mention that our MegaBus was a train.

Retrospectively, I quite enjoyed the whole debacle. Though if you were to question Dave, you'd probably get a less enthusiastic response. As I type, we are packing our bags, at Dave's direction. Our train to Edinburgh leaves in just 28 hours. I fear that he'll have us camping on the platform.

J. out