Yes, it’s a rubbish title, I’m not great with titles, it was just that this was in the quote I used halfway through, and after using it as a placeholder for a while, I couldn’t think of anything better – oh well, it’s about a short trip to London and a night in a Travelodge with a broken lift. The podcast version is with my good friend and Londoner Arnold Agyeman.
Here’s the link to the blog post with photos for those reading via the podcast feed.
When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.
(Samuel Johnson)
Samuel Johnson didn’t have to live in today’s London with its creaking public transport and crowds of tourists, but his quote still broadly stands. London is extraordinary, I never tire of it, and thus am kicking myself for two reasons:
- I’m only here for one night
- I’m on another bloody flight!
It was all quite short notice, so that didn’t help in organising more complex travel arrangements, but yet again Europe’s trains were so disjointed and expensive that I failed to find any affordable realistic rail routes that didn’t involve overnight stays or lengthy sections on buses. Maybe one day I will have the gumption to say buns to the lot of them, and insist on an overland route anyway, however eyebrow-raising it may be … but not this time, so here we go again: British Airways out, Iberia Express return.
As ever, my journey starts on Madrid’s commuter trains.
This is so routine it’s mundane, but because of what happens next, it still counts as solo travel, and solo travel is different. Solo travel is the removal of all expectations from our shoulders, it’s when we get to wander and be ourselves anonymously, it’s the freedom to live life like no-one’s watching … even if starts just a mile or two from home.
Maybe it’s so precious because it contrasts to the rest of life; to the responsibilities and burdens, the workload and the interruptions and the long list of chores … Sure, we all want to feel connected and needed, but by God, it’s great to unplug from all that and fly solo now and again.
On a side note, I have never liked the schematic map used for Madrid’s commuter trains, I find its angles jerky and ugly, and the muddle of lines and fare bands confusing. If I had the software, I reckon I could produce something far more elegant.
Back to the action … I get to Chamartín and change trains to get up to the airport. Thinking I have a minute to spare, I walk up the platform alongside the train to get nearer the front, but then suddenly the train doors beep closed. The train’s engine rumble, ready for departure, and I desperately press the button but the doors don’t open. I look forward, hoping the driver will see me and take pity – and he does, the doors mercifully beep open again, and I reward him with a big thumbs up as I climb aboard.
As we edge slowly up to the airport, a mother starts screaming hysterically at her child. I don’t mean the usual flicker of temper that escapes the best of parents from time to time, I mean irate high-volume hysteria. I cannot see the kid from my seat, but I feel sad. I think of Louis CK’s joke that before you have kids and you see a parent shouting at a child you think “poor child, what did they ever do to deserve this” but once you’re a parent, you see the same scene and think “poor parent, what did they ever do to deserve this …” … it’s a good joke, but in this case the screeching is too violent, too out-of-control, and my heart breaks a little as I wonder if that child feels loved.
It makes me think about a recent Ayaan Hirsi Ali interview with Alex O’Connor that has been playing around in my mind. In it she described her conversion to Christianity in a way that genuinely moved me. I am basically an atheist, not remotely religious1, but I find the topic of religion interesting in a historical and philosophical sense, and admit her argument was beautiful.
I wonder how I might have reacted as a child had my religious education focused on the idea that I, an imperfect individual, a specky little misfit, a lost and lonely nuisance unsure of everything, had been told that he was loved equally and was just as worthy as everyone else?
I was lucky to be brought up in a safe and comfortable home, but it was of its time, and back then we grew up believing we were tolerated more than loved, cared for because it was illegal to do otherwise – maybe a philosophy that said yes, you’re imperfect, but so is everyone else, you have just as much value as everyone else, would have clicked with me.
Maybe.
As far as I remember my Scripture2 and Sunday School classes, they were mainly wishy-washy generalities and tall tales, focusing on obedience and unworthiness, punishment and reward, there was nothing as personal and loving as Ali’s experience.
I doubt I would have made such a connection between that hysterical mother and religion had I not just listened to the interview and been thinking about it, but in this moment, on this train, I hope that poor child feels loved.
No-one else on the train reacts though, and so I mirror them, unsure what else to do. I keep a distant eye on it, but I know there’s nothing much I can do anyway.
She gets off before the airport, and I turn my music back on, Spotify’s DJX so I don’t have to decide what to listen to, I just need to decide what to skip.
I arrive at the airport, and swish straight through to Security. Unusually the woman smiles, and asks me how I am, so I say I am fine, and ask her how she is.
“Fine, my shift is almost over,” she says.
I feign shock, and ask “but do you prefer being at home to being at work?”
She pretends to think, then says “yes, I prefer being at home” with a laugh.
“But at work you get to meet interesting people … good-looking guys …” and she gets the joke, making me give the Security process a full smiley face as I exit. Connecting with strangers with moments of humour is a lovely thing at any time, but finding security staff with a sense of humour, that’s a whole new level of wonder and joy.
In contrast, the aloof policeman at passport control doesn’t look at me and doesn’t speak to me, he just tosses my documents back and waves me aside as if he were swatting an irksome fly. He wouldn’t have got a smiley face had there been such a machine to register my reaction, but the police don’t ask for feedback on their service, they’re above all that. I walk on, people making the most of the their petty power is irritating, but it’s only a tiny fly in the ointment of my day and I ignore it.
I had forgotten I was going to London, and therefore hadn’t calculated the time needed to take the train to the satellite terminal and get through passport control, and although it wasn’t too crowded, these extra minutes mean I can only quickly grab some food before needing to rush to my gate. This is not as easy as it may sound, my post-cancer body is not forgiving of badly-timed scran, and eating the wrong thing at the wrong time can put me in all sorts of awkward situations.
I get on the plane and take my aisle seat, Kindle in hand, ready to finish my book (Natural Causes by James Oswald). I’m not really enjoying it, I feel I’ve read enough gritty Edinburgh-noir police books, and am not sure I need another, especially one with a demonic twist, but it’s for my book club, so I’m determined to finish it.
Passengers get on after me, one anxiously looking at the seat row numbers, as always hidden in tiny lettering in obscure places. A man is squinting, desperate, feeding information back to his nervous wife “… this is row … er … 1, then the next … it’s … er, 2 … and this one is … er … it’s 3 …”
I quietly wonder when he’ll spot the pattern.
“We’re in row 27,” his wife says, and he checks to see if row 27 is the one after 3. It isn’t. It turns out the one after 3 is 4.
They continue their search for row 27, passing me in 7D.
I watch the other passengers getting on, and amuse myself by deciding who’s the most attractive – applying the age-appropriate rule to make it more challenging. I also check to see how people are dressed in case I can pick up any ideas. Being rubbish at dressing myself due to having no visual imagination whatsoever, I’m always on the lookout for tips.
I browse the menu. I’m not going to eat, but it’s nice to imagine what I might eat, were I in the market for food. There is a Christmas sandwich created by Michelin-starred chef Tom Kerridge and I wonder if you really need a chef to make a sandwich, although it does sound rather good.
A nice man with very ginger hair sits next to me, and he makes some small talk and I think he might be chatty, but he then gets out his book (The Secret by Lee Childs) and disappears into it for the rest of the flight.
The world’s most thorough and fastidious crew member checks every single person is exactly obeying every single rule as we taxi toward the runway – she is nudging bags deeper under seats, checking every seat belt is properly fastened, making sure window blinds are raised as high as they can go … and then I notice the ginger man next to me has a CAA jacket, and wonder if having a Civil Aviation Authority man on board is influencing her approach.
We take off, and the ginger man theme continues as the crew hand out little packs of gingerbread men and a bottle of water. I am a big fan of ginger, in almost every form, so am very happy with my unexpected treat – few airlines offer anything for free anymore, so hats off to British Airways for continuing this tradition.
We land on time and although the automatic passport gate won’t let me into the country, the friendly man on the passport desk does, adding a nice “Welcome back to the UK” as I take back my passport and cross the border. I thank him and smile, good to see someone in authority using their power to make people feel welcome. I mentally award him a smiley face.
I stroll to the Underground, imagining that, it being an Underground, it will have regular trains and there’s no need to worry about timing my arrival with any particular service – well, I got that wrong. I just miss one, by a second or two – no kindly driver re-opening the doors here! I am not too fussed though, but as the minutes tick by and no train comes, I start to worry.
15 minutes later, it chugs into the station, bold as brass, not a word of an apology.
I look around for a feedback machine, ready to go for the sad face, but there are none.
I get on in a bit of a huff, but am glad to be sitting down, safe in the knowledge that we’ll soon be racing toward Central London.
Well, I got that wrong.
“Soon” turned out to be about 20 minutes later, and “racing” turned out to be stumbling along at walking pace … by the time we got to Acton Town I wasn’t the only one losing the will to live, the train was too, and we were all kicked off and made to wait for the next one.
A few minutes later a crowded train arrives and I squash my way on, ending up in a corner, bent up against the curve of the roof, someone’s jacket hood in my face
I wearily stand as we set off, counting down the stops until we get to Piccadilly Circus where I have to change to the Bakerloo line.
Piccadilly Circus is a lovely old station, typical of London’s old style with its warren of tiled tunnels. London is the world’s oldest underground railway, so it’s little wonder it can look dated compared to much swisher networks in other cities, but this can often be charming, such as here in Piccadilly Circus:
The Bakerloo line is one of the oldest, built in 1898 by the Baker Street and Waterloo Railway Company, and connects Baker Street in the north to Elephant and Castle in the south (via Waterloo).
My hotel is in Elephant and Castle – the area named after a pub of the same name that sits at this important crossroads – and so I am looking forward to seeing another old station and historical part of the this great city.
Well, I got that wrong.
Elephant and Castle tube station is no Piccadilly Circus. I get off the train, head off down a corridor, up and down stairs, along the crowded Northern Line platform, to end up in a lift vestibule … a lift? The lack of control makes me feel claustrophobic, but I handle it, and wait calmly, observing the reasonably orderly squash that is sort of a queue. I ignore the first lift, it’s too busy and I am not in the mood of crowds. I wait and squeeze in the slightly-less-busy second one. A few moments later and I am out in the main station area feeling relieved to be within reach of proper exits I can control.
The faces are getting sadder.
Outside it is pouring down and I get soaked as I head toward my hotel. I don’t see it and walk past, continuing up the road, then I notice a market on the left that I’d seen on the map and knew was beyond my hotel, so I check Google Maps and turn around, squelching back down toward the station. Eventually I find it off to one side by the railway line.
I am soaked and exhausted, but at least I have arrived at my hotel and can now get dry and relax!
Well, I got that wrong: the lifts were broken, and my room is on the ninth floor … I’m running out of sad faces …
Time for a Camden Pale Ale and some food in the Travelodge café, a chilly brightly-lit space with all the charm of a school canteen. I sit down at table 12 in my damp clothes, listening to Capital Radio they have playing on the big TV screen. I miss DJ X, at least he knows what music I like.
I finish my food and wearily struggle up the nine floors with my bags, praying my room key works. I sigh with exhaustion … I think I might be tired of London.
The River Thames
There are two things scarce matched in the Universe – the Sun in Heaven and the Thames on Earth.
(Sir Walter Raleigh)
I wake up the next day feeling refreshed.
It turns out that walking down nine flights is easier than walking up them, and after a hearty breakfast in the same Travelodge canteen, I take a stroll up Borough High Street to look at The Shard and the river at London Bridge.
I don’t know this bit of London, and it’s great to discover a new neighbourhood – London is not just big, it’s infinitely varied and complex, with so many different areas with their own character and history.
The sun is shining and as I spot The Shard I see a bus coming and think it’d make a good photo, and just as I’m framing it and trying to find a straight line, a taxi rushes by too:
I walk closer to the UK’s tallest building, designed by Renzo Piano. Piano’s company (then a partnership with Richard Rogers) designed Paris’s famous Centre Pompidou and so the Italian architect is no stranger to controversy, and The Shard had its critics back in the day, mostly those who liked the fact that London hadn’t become a forest of skyscrapers like so many other major cities.
Yes, it’s a skyscraper, but The Shard is beautiful, and squatting over London’s oldest railway terminus, London Bridge, it makes for an interesting contrast of old and new.
I didn’t know London Bridge – the UK’s seventh busiest station with around 50 million passenger movements per year – was the oldest of London’s many terminus stations, but this bollard soon put me right:
I don’t have time to go up to The Shard’s observation deck, so just head up to the Thames and look across to the City. It’s here that the Sir Walter Raleigh quote is carved into the wall, and although I think he’s exaggerating (there are many places on Earth more beautiful than the Thames) it is still a great view and the river – despite its humdrum name – is historically fascinating given its unique status in British history.
I head over to London Bridge – nothing more than a functional extension of the A3 – to look downstream at the much nicer Tower Bridge and the ancient Tower of London castle. I must read up more on the Tower and explore it properly one day, it’s almost a thousand years old, and the scene of so much history from William the Conqueror in 1066 to the Kray Twins in 1952, and is still the home of the Crown Jewels.
I take a couple of snaps from the bridge and head back to my hotel – this is a work trip, and I have no time for wandering around, I need to get cracking.
Going home
I get to Victoria Station – while we’re doing the stats, it’s the UK’s sixth busiest3 – ready to get the Gatwick Express. Victoria reminds me of my past, I used to live just off Wandsworth Common and later moved to Brighton, so Victoria was my London gateway. Having not eaten since my breakfast, I am starving, and am tempted by the pasty shop on the other concourse, but last time I succumbed to a chicken and mushroom pastry treat, it was padded out with potato and I swore to never eat them again on principle.
The Gatwick Express pulls in to the station. I have plenty of time and so with no chance of the doors beeping closed on me, I walk to the front to get away from the crowds that will rush for the train as the departure time draws near. It’s 30 minutes to Gatwick, at least in theory, although this train takes a few extra minutes on its short journey south, but soon we’re pulling in to the airport’s station.
I get through a busy security process, my temper just about intact, the staff are distant and superior without being overtly rude.
I head to the lounge to see if I can get some free food. I’m in the mood of a glass of red wine and a decent cheese board. As I go in, the lady on reception asks me how I am, so I say I am fine, and ask her how she is.
“Fine, my shift is almost over,” she says.
I feign shock, and ask “but do you prefer being at home to being at work?”
She pretends to think, then says “yes, I prefer being at home” with a laugh.
“But at work you get to meet interesting people … good-looking guys …” and she gets the joke and we all have a laugh. She doesn’t need to know I’m not very original.
I don’t have much time, and there’s no cheese anyway, so I sit for a few minutes so I can stop rushing and get all zen, then head off to the distant gate.
The flight is a flight like most other flights. I am uncomfortable, hunched over the table, drinking red wine and reading my book with tired eyes, desperate to get home, trying not to elbow the poor guy squashed into the middle seat on one side, and not get biffed about by the cabin crew on the other.
Why would anyone fly for pleasure?
In a recent video Noel Philips flew every Skyteam airline (17 of them!) to win a million air miles! Now, I’m not knocking Noel, he seems like a nice fella, and for a second let’s overlook the massive unnecessary carbon footprint he just inflicted on the world, and ask why would anyone subject themselves to 17 flights in ten days?
He’s an aviation buff, but even he seemed to take little pleasure from the act of navigating airports and sitting on planes, despite taking Business Class for a fair chunk of his mission.
Let’s burst the Business Class bubble while we’re here: it isn’t that great. It’s great compared to Economy class, but isn’t everything? At best it’s a comfy seat with access to much the same array of films and TV you can get at home, and a flat bed that isn’t anywhere near as good as the bed in your house. The wine might be several notches above your usual plonk – and the food nicer too – but with the cost of a business class fare, I could get a dozen decent meals with fine wines and still have change to offset my carbon footprint!
I love travel, I love journeys, I love exploring, but that is exactly what flying isn’t. Flying is the removal of all the good things about travel in order to move from A to B as quickly and cheaply as possible.
Although “quickly” depends on a lot of things. If we factor in the waiting times and numerous queues involved in air travel, that “quickly” isn’t quite the shiny jewel it first appears. I left work at about 16:30 UK time, and I get home after 1am Central European Time – so total journey time was almost eight hours.
It would have been half-an-hour less had I not got stuck in the lengthy slow-moving passport queue on arrival. I manage to listen to full episode of The Square Ball podcast as well as part of Body Count’s Merciless album, and have time to crticise the over-designed dangly up-lights that I don’t care for.
It’s my turn and the policewoman checks my documents, then finds an empty page and stamps my passport. I sigh, she shouldn’t stamp it, it doesn’t need a stamp because I have permanent residency, but she does it anyway.
I smile and thank her, I’m too tired to argue about it.
The last time I tried to school the police on how to do their job was a few years ago, and I admit that it wasn’t received with quite the warm gratitude I had hoped. The lucky policeman in question ignored my truth bombs, and instead warned me to never dare question a policeman about their work. I harrumphed at him then, thinking that someone should bloody well question the haughty bastard, seeing as he was wrong, but even an idiot like me – someone with the interpersonal deft touch of a wasp at a picnic – could spot that the best move open to me then was to keep my opinions to myself. To be fair to him, Brexit had only just happened and us Brits – even those of us with permanent residency – needlessly being sent into the Everyone Else passport queue was a new thing … and yes, okay, if you really want to know, I suppose it’s true I was being stroppy because it was late and the stupid airport had made me walk in a lengthy stupid zigzag to get to the stupid passport desk, but if he imagined he was dealing with the sort who wasn’t about to question authority, he had another thing coming. Sorry fella, but I don’t do hierarchy, we don’t need it, we can be competent and respectful and cooperative without the need for an org chart. There’s no need to be lording over everyone like some officious peacock just because someone gave you some petty power and a uniform!
I’m definitely not tired of London, certainly not tired of life, but perhaps I am getting tired of air travel.
Footnotes
- I am not keen on the label “atheist” because it suggests a closed mind on the topic, as if I am attaching my identity to it, although the label is – at least at the moment – accurate. I prefer a more positive descriptor though, like stoic humanist, which is what I’m aiming for in life. ↩︎
- At my primary school it was called Scripture, at secondary school it became RE: Religious Education. ↩︎
- The top 12 busiest stations in the UK are all in London, with Liverpool Street topping the charts these days. After that it’s the big cities of Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds and Glasgow before we head back to London for the next cluster. Edinburgh makes the only other top 20 non-London spot. ↩︎
MrJohn 