Soggy hair and strangers

by Amy Louise Goodman (Denmark)

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

I missed the last connection, so I'm stuck here, in the wrong end of England. My hair is cold and stale with the rain that incessantly poured 5 hours earlier. My ears feel like something has crawled into them and died. My brain and eyelids are battling over sleep. I shovel slightly past-ripe grapes into my mouth, in an attempt to keep myself energised and entertained, without using my phone battery. Despite my anguish, and newfound grape dependency, today had started well. My early morning began in Edinburgh. I am not too far from home, everyone speaks my language, and I haven’t even changed currency. Regardless, the addictive haze of newness that you catch when you travel, surrounds my brain like a fog. I am entirely alone and content. My face even breaks into a smile, despite it being before midday. I step out into the icy sun, and I am in awe of the teabag stained facades that line each road. 9 hours later, I am alone and miserable. Leaving Edinburgh almost an hour late, there is no chance of me making the next train. Unable to find another online, I try to find answers with the ticket inspector. “Yeah, looks like ya gonna miss the last connection to Bristol”. I feel blood rush to my face, my breathing speeding up, and my soggy head starting to throb. “But don’t worry”, he assures me, “just find customer service”. My heart rate returns to normal, and I realise that I am surprised by his kindness. It seems my London lifestyle has left me callous towards strangers. Then, as if some mystical train god has decided that I need yet more stress, my e-ticket stops working. Some unpublishable words run through my brain, and I call the ticket company. They can’t hear me, so I hang up, and send a few frantic emails. Suddenly, 3 strangers sitting across the train start talking to me. Their beers in hand, booming voices, and towering bodies, immediately have me slightly onguard. “Did you say you’re going to Bristol?”, one of them asks. The brothers are Bristol natives, and speak about their home with enthusiasm that can only be described as on par with that of a labrador. They list their favourite spots, and insist that it is the 'best city in the world’. Whilst Trip Advisor might dispute their ranking, I am grateful. For the first time in hours, I am actually looking forward to my destination. Arriving in Birmingham, my newfound friends wish me luck. I am anxious nearing customer service, but the old man behind the desk seems kind. “Your taxi is on its way” he confirms, but is immediately contradicted by his colleague. “No, no, all the taxis in Birmingham are full” he jests. He seems to be under the illusion that he is a comedian, but after this journey, any jokes are welcome. “Ahh, okay no worries, you can get me a hotel then,” I tease, attempting to use any wit or banter left in my swampy head. “I’m afraid there are no rooms left”, “woah, it's like the nativity story, no room at the inn” I remark, trying to be smart. A few seconds later I cringe at myself. “Next time, you need to bring an interpreter” the comedian later comments. “You’re too posh for us!” decides his friend. “Baaaaaaa-rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ttttt-hhhh-eee”. He mimics my pronunciation. His face becomes exaggerated, as his northern vowels attempt to contort into my southern accent. We chuckle at the age old north/ south divide that has inevitably arisen within conversation. Eventually, with an intimidating number left on the taxi meter, I arrive. My friend who is generously lending me his sofa for the night asks, “That must have been the worst journey of your life?”. I shake my now dry head. It could have been I think. Instead, I had a customer service comedian, (making any dad joke look flawless), and a friendly ticket inspector. I had my pals on the train, who I am still convinced are secretly employed by the Bristol tourist board, and a free taxi ride across the country. Not to mention, a lot of grapes.