Traveling Alone: The Perhaps-Not-So-Interesting and Probably-Entirely-Too-Honest Thoughts and Experiences of a 21-Year-Old American Girl Traveling Europe By Herself For the Very First Time, Told in Six Episodes EPISODE THE FOURTH

“Right. D’you know your changes, then?”

I nodded.

He nodded.

He handed back my ticket.

Well. That was easy enough.

A boy who looked high school-aged with slightly protruding ears, an upper lip that seemed to permanently stick out over his lower lip, and a maroon shirt reading “College Athletics” sat down across from me after one of the stops. He had a Dr. Pepper and became thoroughly engrossed in a John Grisham novel as we pulled away from the station. I stared out the window again. For some reason, I had never imagined England having huge trailer parks.

The conductor announced our arrival in Chester about five minutes before we actually pulled into the station. I and several others, including the family across the aisle, jumped up as soon as we heard the word “Chester” and began making our way toward the door. We stood in a line as the train rolled to a stop and I caught some high school-aged boys right in front of me—one with braces and a hand-rolled cigarette behind his ear—looking me up and down and exchanging glances amongst themselves. I looked away and avoided their eyes.

The train pulled in and I got close enough to yank my blue bag off the luggage rack, then squeezed into the entryway where I saw my bag behind a couple of others, beside the trolley with refreshments that a guy with bleach-blonde hair and a silver earring had been pushing up and down the aisle throughout the trip. As people squeezed around me to get off the train, I tried to free my big red bag but couldn’t because of the other bags that were in the way. The trolley man was standing next to his cart in the entryway, and I entreated his help. He either didn’t hear or ignored me, however, because he walked away without a word. So I kept tugging, finally managed to get my big bag free, and pulled them both off the train. The train just on the opposite side of the platform said Virgin Trains on it, and I thought I recalled the conductor saying something over the speaker about the train to Crewe being just the next one over. I decided to ask someone. Conveniently, there was a man in a neon green vest standing next to a pillar close by.

            “Which train to Crewe?” I asked.

            “That one just there,” he said, hints of what sounded almost Cockney leaking out of his words as he pointed to the train I’d suspected.

            “Thanks,” I called, making my way to one of the doors. This time, I managed to get my bags on the train without help and even found a space for my big bag on a luggage rack. I kept my small bag with me, found two unreserved seats, and used one for my bag. It felt like an extravagant thing to do, especially if the train ended up being full, but right at that moment I didn’t really care a whole awful lot. I asked the first people I saw, “Will this train call at Crewe?” My word choice and inflection surprised me—I’d sounded almost British. But I’m almost positive my utter lack of the “calm “ part of the “keep calm and carry on” attitude gave me away. The older couple I’d asked looked at each other and said, “Yes, I believe so.” Not extraordinarily comforting, but I’d take it.

            I sat down again, and looked around the train. On the wall beside me, a brightly colored sticker announced “Free Wi-Fi.” I immediately dug out my iPhone and flipped the Wi-Fi on. I waited in agony for a few moments before accepting the fact that it just wasn’t going to work. Resigned, I turned the Wi-Fi off and slipped the phone back into my bag. I frowned up at the sticker. Liar.

            A voice crackled over the speaker saying, “This is the 14:35 with service to London-Euston, calling at Crewe…” I stopped listening after that. My stop was the first one. I breathed a sigh of relief and let my head fall back against the headrest. Okay. Okay. Okay.

            After only about twenty minutes, the voice on the intercom announced that we were arriving at Crewe. I managed to get my bags off the train without too much of an incident and stepped out onto a busy platform. According to the itinerary, I had about 15 minutes before the train left for Lancaster. I looked upward and scanned some signs, then followed one toward an information center. My bags—by now beginning to accumulate parallels to difficult children—and I approached the counter and I asked, “Excuse me, which train to Lancaster?” My inflections were doing funny things again. I had pronounced the r on the end, but the question had sounded slightly more Irish than American.

            “Just that one there,” he pointed to the next platform over. “Not the train that’s there just now—the next one. 15:09.” I thanked him and dragged my bags back through the door and across to the platform he’d pointed at. I decided to sit on a bench, tucking my bags in around my knees. The train pulled away. I pulled out my phone, just to see if there might Wi-Fi in the station, though I wasn’t hopeful. There was. Oh glory, there was Wi-Fi. I shot off a message to my mother, but that was all I had time for before the 15:09 with service to Edinburgh and calling at Lancaster pulled up. I’m not sure whether my arms were just getting tired or if the step was actually higher, but I struggled to get my bags on the train again. 

(To Be Continued...)

Traveling Alone: The Perhaps-Not-So-Interesting and Probably-Entirely-Too-Honest Thoughts and Experiences of a 21-Year-Old American Girl Traveling Europe By Herself For the Very First Time, Told in Six Episodes EPISODE THE THIRD

“That’s lovely, thank you, let me just give your passport back then,” she said. And if I’m not mistaken, the edge was gone from her voice. She double-checked that she was giving me back the correct passport and I stuffed my belongings lopsidedly back into my bag. Next step: train.

I followed the signs for “trains” through a hallway, then through a travel center with various shops, and then up the steps to a platform. Was I supposed to just go straight to the platform? Would this be my train? Did I need to go to a different platform? How would I know?

I decided to just haul the bags up the five steps (a more difficult task than it sounds), and see if I could just tell by looking at the signs. Maybe there would be a desk with a live human being who would let me ask a question. I found a customer service center with people gathered around outside and filed in, bags in tow. The man before me had just finished asking his question and the man behind the counter was saying something about Chester. Chester! That was the first stop on my train itinerary. After he left, I asked a probably very repetitive question—“So the train coming will go to Chester?”

“Yes, the 12:32 to Chester is on the way,” he answered. Relieved, I went back out the door to wait. I stood next to my suitcases for a moment, intermittently looking down the track, glancing at other people’s faces that were also looking down the track, and looking at my bags. Then a new thought occurred to me, and I scurried back inside the customer service center.

“One more question. I bought a SailRail through Irish Ferries and have the ticket that came with my boarding card—is that all I need for the trains?”

I was really asking if I would need to buy any additional tickets. The man understood my question, however, regardless of whether or not I asked it correctly.

“Yes, that’ll be all you need,” he said.

“Great. Thanks!” I said, hastening back out to the bags I’d left sitting just outside the door. It probably wasn’t smart to leave them, but it would have been difficult to drag them in behind me again, and I had made sure I could see them out of the corner of my eye. I rejoined my bags, feeling grateful and relieved that I was on the platform in plenty of time, had a ticket, had all my bags, and that it was looking more and more likely all the time that I would, in fact, get where I was going.  

The train arrived about ten minutes later, and I tried to haul my bags up through the door. A nice older gentleman behind me saw me struggling and held out his arms. I let him push my bigger bag up into the entryway. A family that I thought might be Asian American or perhaps Canadian hauled their big bags up just before I did. There really wasn’t much room on the luggage racks just inside the door, and they had just left a couple of their big bags in the gap between the cars. I quickly shoved my big bag in alongside theirs, then hoisted my smaller carry-on (that still felt enormous) up onto one of the luggage racks, right on top of someone else’s blue bag that squished a little when mine came down on top of it. Commence profuse mental apologies. I walked down the aisle to find a seat.

There were little white cards sticking up between the seats that said “reserved” and listed the stations between which the seat was reserved. I remembered reading something in one of the confirmation emails that my seat would not be reserved. I decided to play it safe and chose one of the very few seats that had no white card behind it.

The family I’d observed earlier sat down across the aisle from me. I couldn’t help overhearing snippets of their conversation. They were also getting off at Chester. The older son—he looked my age or so—got out his iPhone and mumbled something about Wi-Fi. Way ahead of you dude—I’d already tried it. They didn’t seem to know about the reserved seats.

The train pulled out of the station and I took out the little Samsung cell phone that was on loan from a friend, realizing I’d forgotten to switch SIM cards on the ferry. I found the SIM card she had told me was the English one and switched it with the Irish one. When I tried to turn the cell phone back on, however, it asked me for a PIN. Stumped, I shut off the phone, pulled out the SIM card and looked to see if maybe there was maybe a PIN written on it. There wasn’t, so I put the Irish SIM card back in and just left the phone off. It would be slightly more expensive to make calls, but at least it would still work for emergencies. Oh, snap. What is England’s country code?? That would be a really useful thing to know right about now. Why didn’t I look that up before I left? Bah.

I put away the phone and pulled out the train itinerary Jon had printed for me the day before. Holyhead to Chester. Chester to Crewe. Crewe to Lancaster. Do-able, right? Just two changes? I looked more closely at the times. I would have a total of about twenty minutes in Crewe to change trains. But not only was I changing trains, I was changing services—from Arriva Trains Wales to Virgin Trains. I had no idea what that meant. Would I have to go to a completely different platform? How far would I have to go? Was I going to end up running through the train station like a crazy? Would I have enough time to deal with my bags? Were my bags even still back there? I’d just kind of left them. I craned my neck and caught sight of my blue carry-on, but couldn’t see any sign of my red bag in the entryway. Maybe it was just out of view? It should still be the train, right? What if I didn’t have a bag when I got off the train? I pushed down a sudden fear that welled up in my throat. Why does my world always turn black when there are unknowns? I suddenly wished for a familiar face so much it hurt. Someone. Anyone.

I calmed down a little. Everything was going fine. I was on the train to Chester. I had twenty minutes to catch my next train. The guy next to me seemed nice enough but didn’t feel the need to chatter. Everything was fine.

I fought the urge to close my eyes. No sleeping. None. I didn’t even trust myself to read. My eyes stung, but I kept them open, watching the coast pass by out the window, then the fields, and lots of sheep. So many sheep. Seriously, who owns that many sheep?

I looked back at my little train itinerary. Only ten minutes to change trains in Crewe. I wasn’t changing services for that one, though—just trains. So maybe that would be okay. If the trains kept to the schedule (and provided I didn’t miss any of them—I swallowed back the fear again), it looked like I would arrive in Lancaster at about 4:00. Which would be perfect, because there would be plenty of time to catch my cab. Cab. Aw dangit, cab. I hadn’t been able to withdraw any cash yet. How was I going to pay for the cab?? I looked through my schedule again. No way did I want to risk looking for an ATM at any of my changes. Maybe there would be an ATM at the Lancaster station? Please? I hoped so. DEAR GOD JUST GET ME THERE.

Sheep. Sheep. More sheep. Oh look, cows! Sheep. Cows again. Sheep. Sheep. …deer? I mean, okay. Sheep.

A man came through the car asking for tickets. Most people produced little cards. I pulled the packet of three small blue slips of paper out of the envelope the man at the ferry port had given me, with “Lancaster” scrawled in a box labeled “Final Destination” on the last sheet. The man took the ticket and flipped through each of the sheets, pausing at the last one.

“For Lancaster?” he said, scrutinizing me.

“Yes,” I answered. I swallowed.

Traveling Alone: The Perhaps-Not-So-Interesting and Probably-Entirely-Too-Honest Thoughts and Experiences of a 21-Year-Old American Girl Traveling Europe By Herself For the Very First Time, Told in Six Episodes. EPISODE THE SECOND

I bought a coffee, then settled in, and the ferry left port not too much later. It rocked more than I was expecting it to. Then again, it IS the Irish Sea. I read some. Slept some, when I realized that other people were sprawling on the sofa-like seats and doing so too. I once asked the older couple just down from me if they might watch my bag while I went to the toilet. Toilet. I still have to consciously make myself use that word instead of “bathroom.” They weren’t impolite, but I don’t know that they were thrilled to have been bothered.

I decided to eat lunch on the ferry, since I wasn’t sure I would have much time to grab food anywhere else along the way. The ferry was scheduled to dock at 11:30 a.m., so at 11:00 I made my way back over to the café (slightly more difficult this time because of the rocking—I felt like a drunk when I had to clutch the edge of the counter just to keep from falling over as I ordered). I stumbled back to my seat with my tray of a packaged ham and cheese sandwich, fruit Danish, and Coke, giving prayers of thanksgiving to heaven that I have never in my life gotten seasick. I know some people who might not have been faring too well by that point. I finished eating just before we docked.

I picked up my things, took the lift back down to the lower level, and walked down the gangway with everyone else, emerging at a terminal. People seemed to be moving toward a large set of glass doors leading outside, and I thought I had glimpsed on a sign somewhere that a shuttle would come to take us to the baggage claim area, so I moved toward it and asked a man in a neon green vest if this was the case. He confirmed, and said the shuttle should be arriving in five minutes. I stood out in the wind and watched a rather backpacker-type-looking European couple who seemed to be in their early thirties or so. They stood close together and talked softly. She removed an eyelash from his cheek. He brushed a wisp of hair away from her eyes and kissed her forehead. Something flipped over uncomfortably in my chest and I looked away.

The shuttle arrived about TEN minutes later and we all piled inside. I hoped I would have time to make my first train, which was supposed to leave at 12:32. A woman with a small, wiry-haired Jack Russell in a carrier bag sat across from me. I tried to fit my carry-on bag between my knees and ended up looking like I was very awkwardly straddling it, but before I could readjust, people sat down on either side of me and I could no longer move. So that was how the shuttle ride went.

We pulled up outside a building and unsquished off the shuttle. I glanced up and realized that the red letters above the door said something about Wales. Freaking Wales?! Was I in Wales? Really? Mental note to check that on a map sometime.

I entered the door and immediately began scanning the baggage claim belts. I glanced over to the side and saw a dark red bag on the floor. I approached it. Yep. The one dumped unceremoniously facedown on the ground was mine. I picked it up and headed for the exit, when I realized that there were two officers standing on either side of the doorway and people were either pulling out their passports or little cards. I pulled out my passport as quickly as I could and handed it to the woman I first came to. I was hoping to get the other one. Her face looked kinder. But I handed it dutifully to the harder-faced woman and waited. She looked at me, comparing me to my passport photo (which looks absolutely nothing like me anymore—the short-haired brunette in the photo probably didn’t look even remotely related to the girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and glasses standing in front of her).

“How long will you be here?” she said in a very tight and proper British accent.

“Uhh… two weeks,” I stammered. Something about having to think of answers to important questions on the spot always makes me nervous. And after I answered her, I realized my answer wasn’t even true because I’d be in the UK another eight weeks, total. Dumb.

“What are you doing here?” she grilled farther.

“Uhm, tourism,” I replied quickly with the generic answer they say you should always give to avoid having to answer more complicated questions.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be at Capernwray Bible School for two weeks—I’m actually studying at Oxford in a few weeks—but I’m staying in the north first—“ Digging a hole and getting nowhere. And probably making absolutely no sense.

“Do you have paperwork for that?”

Paperwork. Paperwork? Suddenly, the synapses started firing correctly again.

“I have an immigration letter,” I blurted.

“Right, let’s just see that, then,” she said brusquely. I begin to dig rather awkwardly through the folder in my bag sitting on top of the carry-on.

“D’you want to just step over here and look for it? Just give me a shout when you’ve got it.” I obliged, even though she still held my passport in her hand and something about walking away from it never sits well with me. I had to extract almost every single paper from the folder, but I finally found the letter and held it up. She saw me out of the corner of her eye and came over to look at it. Her eyes narrowed and she scanned the paper. My insides turned over. Were the dates right? Since the program didn’t start for another three weeks, was it going to be enough to get me into the country already? What if I couldn’t get through? I’d miss my train. Where would I stay? What if they refused to let me in? My thoughts started racing through various worst-case scenarios.

(To be continued...)

Traveling Alone: The Perhaps-Not-So-Interesting and Probably-Entirely-Too-Honest Thoughts and Experiences of a 21-Year-Old American Girl Traveling Europe By Herself For the Very First Time, Told in Six Episodes. EPISODE THE FIRST

Up to this point, my travels alone have consisted of a couple of flights to Ecuador—met on the other end by friends who might as well be family—and making my own arrangements and traveling to places within the States. So, to preface, this was my first time making my own travel arrangements and getting myself around in Europe, and somehow it just seemed… bigger, I suppose. More intimidating.

            I saw the rest of my May Term classmates off early Wednesday morning, and then had a day to myself in Greystones. Which mostly consisted of uploading my last photos from Ireland, packing, going into town for food, and finalizing travel arrangements with Jon’s help. Talked to Mom briefly and sorted out what I thought might be a ferry crisis, but it didn’t end up being one, fortunately. I’m still amazed at the way the timing all worked out. I didn’t know anything about my trains at all until I sat down with Jon that morning before I left, so it is sort of incredible that everything went off without a hitch.

            I woke up at 4:40 a.m. to finish my last minute packing, have time to shoot off a couple of messages, and get some breakfast before heading out by 5:40 to get to the train station before 6:00. I left Coolnagreina, bags in tow. Halfway through the ten-minute walk my arms were already starting to feel tired and I began to worry that I would be able to manage the bags all day long.

I took the 6:00 a.m. DART into Dublin—something I was well used to by that point since I’d done it probably five times while we’d been in Ireland. One-way fare is just a little over €5, so I purchased the ticket and asked the man behind the window if there would be cabs available outside the Connolly Street station. In the time we’d been in Ireland, I’d only ever gotten off the train at Pearse Station or at Tara Street, and so didn’t know. He informed me there would be plenty of cabs, and was nice enough to open a door for me so that I didn’t have to struggle with my ticket and then with getting the bags through.

The DART was fine. I was very sleepy and kept having small panic flashes that I would accidentally fall asleep and miss the Connolly Street stop. I fought it down, but the knot in my stomach wasn’t pleasant. I managed to get off at Connolly Street, and realized that it was even bigger than the Pearse Street station. I asked a man at an information desk where I could get a cab.

“Down the escalator on street level—they’re all right there,” he said, shifting his eyes to the next person almost before he’d finished talking to me.

“Thanks!” I called, lugging my bags through the terminal door. The escalator wasn’t working. Grand. Ah! A lift. That’ll do. I took the lift down to the street level and saw four or five cabs waiting. Perfect. I checked the time on my phone—I needed to be checking in at the ferry dock within the next few minutes. But I’d already crossed the river on the train, so it couldn’t be too much farther in a cab, right?

A black man who must have been French got out of the first cab I approached and put my bags in the back.

“Ferry port, please,” I told him, getting in the back of the cab. I listened to the Irish announcer on the radio station. A woman was talking about Caesarian sections.

“Which terminal?” were the only words he said during the course of the seven-minute drive. “Irish Ferries,” I replied, and watched as we wound around inside the docking area, following the signs for “Irish Ferries” and “Foot Passengers.” I recalled how, talking with Rebecca (one of the Coolnagreina employees), she had said that when she thought of taking a ferry, she thought of driving on, because that’s what you do on a ferry.

The cruise ferry was huge. It was a sunny day and I wondered what “adverse weather conditions” had caused them to cancel the swift ferry. We pulled up next to the port station and taxi man helped me get my bags out.

“Do you have change for fifty?” I asked, pulling out a fifty-euro note. I had wanted to be prepared, and also wanted to already have money with me when I came back through Ireland to catch my flight home instead of having to find an ATM. He asked for €52 and gave me €40 in change.

I checked in at the desk with no problems. The man gave me my boarding card for the ferry and an envelope with my name on it that he said contained my train tickets. I put a baggage claim tag on my big bag and asked him could I keep both the smaller one and my purse with me? He nodded and told me to go through and put my big bag on the belt. They waved me through the security check without so much as glancing through my smaller bags. I guess I must not look threatening.

Up the escalator to boarding. They checked my boarding card and told me to take the stairs, then saw my bag and said, “Ah, better use the lift.” So I did. I didn’t realize when I was actually on the ferry. It just looked like another building at first. I asked the man at an information desk where I was to go next and he said, “Just sit anywhere you like.” I felt dumb.

I settled into a spot near the café. The cruise ferry was nice. And a sticker announcing free Wi-Fi caused me to immediately dig my phone out of my bag and begin to send off some messages. I was hoping I would find some more Wi-Fi throughout the day but couldn’t be sure, so I wanted to use it while I had it. Almost everyone at home was in bed, of course, but mom answered my text anyway. I felt slightly triumphant to have conquered the first two steps in my plan without a problem. The hardest part, though, I figured, was still to come: the trains. Which I still knew very little about. Only that, supposedly, all the rail fare should be covered under my SailRail pass through Irish Fairies, even though the details of it all were still not clear to me. I had only paid €50 total for the SailRail, but the train trip alone, when I looked it up separately, said it would cost over £60, which made no sense to me. I also knew I had to take three different trains. And that I only had ten minutes in one of the stations to change trains. This could prove interesting.

(To be continued...)