“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.
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