Late-night London

In the last few weeks I have been so busy with school, traveling, visits, etc. that I haven't had any time to seriously sit down and write a new entry. Since the last post, I have been to London for my 21st birthday, Morocco on a 4-day cultural exchange program, and I am currently in northern England visiting my aunts for spring break. On all three of these trips I had some late-night, money-saving but not sleep-saving, experiences with transportation. During my first trip, to London, I spent almost as much time with my friends as I did traveling, with virtually no sleep.

Thursday, February 21 I set out to the airport in the evening to catch my flight to London. I am lucky enough to live on the metro line that takes me directly to the airport, so I was there in no time. I got on my flight with virtually no problems, but the real trouble happened when I landed on British soil.

Because I am an idiot and apparently didn't pay attention to which airport I would be flying into when I booked my tickets, I realized the day before I left that I would be flying into Luton Airport, about 30-45 minutes outside of London. Meaning: no quick metro rides, taxi rides, walking, or seeing friends at any sort of reasonable hour. No, silly me. Not only did I have to figure out the train schedule to the main train terminal at about 11:30 p.m. when no one was available to ask questions to, but I sat through about three trains I could have taken that passed through the station. Why? I didn't understand where each one went because the schedules may as well have been written in Greek. Nothing made sense and I almost started hyperventalating until I found a man who obviously worked at the station, with a kind and understanding face, ready to help me. He realized my mistake immediately: the trains don't say "this station", they only have the final one as their name. Stupid Dara, stupid.

When I finally got on the correct train and into the city, it was already 1 a.m. Too late to take the metro which closed at midnight, I couldn't get in touch with any of my friends because the phones weren't connecting, and on top of all of this, the area surrounding the station I arrived in might as well have been a ghost town. No taxis waiting, no people to ask for help. So I started walking. I walked a few blocks, crossed a few streets, and finally saw a taxi with a green light, indicating its availability, about to turn in the opposite direction. I frantically grabbed my suitcase and purse and ran across the street, catching the driver's attention just in time. He knew exactly where the address was that I held in a folded, dirty piece of paper. Twenty minutes later, I was inside with my friends, eating food, talking, and soon after I was sound asleep.

The visit itself was very nice, but too short, and before I knew it I was on my way back to Madrid. Again, my flight was at an ungodly hour: around 7 a.m. I had consulted the train schedule that indicated certain train stations in London had trains going to Luton Airport at given times. Apparently I read the schedule just as clearly as when I was trying to LEAVE Luton Airport. When I got to the first train station via taxi, it was closed. I had the taxi driver take me to the next train station on my list: closed. This time, I saw a group of girls who were speaking Spanish, and according to what I was able to understand, were going through the exact same thing I was. Bingo!

I went over and told them I thought the trains weren't runnign at this hour. Lo and behold, they had the train schedule printed out, proof that yes, indeed there was a train to Luton Airport in the middle of the night. We banged on the window where I saw a train station worker sitting, and I asked him. His response: sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. This station is closed. Trains don't run this late. Asshole...

So luckily, I was able to speak Spanish with this group of 6 girls from Madrid who were on the same flight as me, and we decided to try to share a cab. The taxi driver who was still there argued he could get in a lot of trouble with so many people in the car. But apparently the crying and whining of seven 20-21 year olds was enough for him to give in. We piled in with our luggage, two of us sitting on the floor, one girl huddled over so as not to be seen by any passing police cars, and 45 minutes later we were there. Splitting the cost, it was actually not that bad. The girls and I split ways (I hate waiting for groups of people) but they thanked me for my translational skills (meaning, I spoke English to the taxi driver). Yey for English being my first language!

Once in Madrid, the trip home was fine. When I finally got back, I slept almost until dinner time. All that late-night traveling and lack of sleep had really done me in. But at least there was a story!