The Ireland Story (Part 2)

Quick Recap of Part 1:

Me-awake-miss-bus-run-wrong-credit-card-miss-train-£20-new-train-BHX.

Got it? Good. Moving on.

The ride into Birmingham New Street was uneventful, fortunately. Well, the girl sitting across from me kept giving me the ‘You’re pretty cute’ look while she was talking to her fiancé, but that was about it.

The train from Cheltenham doesn’t go directly to BHX; you have to take an underground train from New Street to the airport. Then you get on these really nice looking monorail like cars. Not sure, of the proper name.

Anyway, New Street Rail Station to the airport proper took about 25 minutes, meaning my arrival time was about 9:15 am. Flight was at 12:30. So I’m good to go. Surprisingly BHX is pretty small, especially compared to Heathrow or JFK which are sheer monstrosities of international transport hubs. Only took a quick look around to get my bearings, I bypassed all the closed check in stations, spotted a sign for Air Lingus, and–

…

…

…

Holy shit, I forgot my fucking passport.

5 minute tram ride, 15-minute underground trip, 5-minute walk, 90-minute train journey, 15-minute sprint, and another 5-minute walk away sitting in the bedside drawer inmy locked room, in the also locked second floor flat of the gated off University Residential Halls building was my passport. The only passport that could possibly allow me to exit England and board my flight.

Some quick math, 5+15+5+90+15+5 = 2 hours 15 minutes of travel time, per direction. Short version? Not getting there and back. Next flight? Tomorrow, transfer ticket fee = £168.

Well… shit.

Phone. Phone can make calls. The study abroad directors have phones. Have cars too! First one? In Bristol, no go. Second one? Vacation. Damn.

Still going though. Gotta be a cab around, perhaps quicker than a train. Outside departures? No cab. Outside main entrance? No cab. Outside arrivals? Seriously, no cab? How are people getting home?

Back to the phone.I’m desperate, clutching at any vague idea, and probably going to miss my flight.

There’s a saying,‘everything happens for a reason’. Personally, I don’t buy that crap for a second. But I am no less awe struck when a series of events become so coincidental and so convenient that it feels like there is someone helping you. There isn’t, but I’m nonetheless impressed with how things turned out.

My parents were the ones who booked my ticket. My Mom had given me a choice between Birmingham and Heathrow. At the time I hurriedly sent an email that said ‘Heathrow’ and nothing else.

About a month or so before the delightful travel experience I decided to join a sports team. I had passed on the over large and serious University Rugby team already, so I figured, maybe the (American) football team is a bit smaller, a bit more relaxed. I gave them a chance, loved my first practice, and been a member ever since.

Around the same time I was joining the football team my mom messaged me on Skype to tell me she was about to order my tickets. She wanted to know if I still wanted Heathrow. By this time I had been to London four times and couldn’t be paid to go again. I said Birmingham, the airport that is only a one-hour drive from where I live in England. Versus the two and a half hours it takes to get to Heathrow.

The football team is 40-50 people strong, that’s 40-50 chances to find a car and some one crazy enough to give my plan a chance. Only took two calls. And hehad a car, a free day, and was willing to help me out; amazing group those Gladiators.

The plan was this: I call campus security; tell them I needed let into my halls, because I had locked myself out. My mate gets in pretending he’s me, grabs my passport and does what he can to get it to me in time.

And GO!

Part one was successful, now I had to play the waiting game.
Reflecting back, this is what I find most interesting about this experience. At the point where everything had gone to hell and there was no chance that I was going to make my flight I was the calmest. When things started to work out is about when I started to get nervous.

But anyway.

Text Received!
Be there in tenx
11:24 am.

My friend arrived by 11:35, by 11:40 my passport and me were in front of the ticket counter for Air Lingus, and by noon I was waiting in the terminal for my plane.

Had I been at Heathrow, never would have gotten the plane. Had I not given myself 3 hours between arriving at BHX and lift off; had I not joined the football team; had I just given up; etc etc. But I did, and despite my best efforts I made the plane on time and got to Ireland in one piece.

I’m sure there’s a life lesson in this journey, but all I learned was this: duct tape your passport to your face the night before you leave for international travel.

The Ireland Story (Part 1 of 2)

I’ve never claimed to be good at traveling, which is convenient, because I suck at it.

This is the story of my journey to Ireland from Cheltenham UK.

The plan was to be up and out the door by 6:30. Catch the bus to the rail station, take a train at 7:20 to Birmingham International, and then chill a bit until my flight to Ireland at 12:30.

By 6:45 I had already messed up; no more than an hour later I had screwed up royally; and by 10… well by 10 I discovered that I had fucked up almost beyond repair.

I had packed the night before, so waking up just meant throwing some clothes on and stashing my laptop into my bag; I was out the door by 6:30 no problem, and hurrying down to high street.

Spying a bus in the distance I ran up expecting to get a ride to the station, as was planned. Wrong bus.

The correct bus was pointed out to me as it blew past, skipping the nearest stop and ignoring the 21 year old now tearing down the street after it. Since I was already running, I figured, “Why not just continue, Forest Gump ran for weeks, I should be able to make it to the rail station no problem.”

‘No Problem’,if there is an antithesis to this journey, that sentiment is it.

The trouble with running to the rail station isn’t overtly apparent. For one, I had no idea where it was. I had just taken off in the direction I saw the bus go. Luckily I managed to find some people along way that pointed out the best route. Problem two was distance. A maintenance worker I bothered for directions physically recoiled at the prospect of running to the station.

At that point I doubled down and sprinted in the direction he sent me. 15 minutes later I finally arrived.

England and America are very similar countries, almost identical in many respects. When compared to other countries, such as Japan, the differences between the two Atlantic neighbors are almost completely negligible.

Which, in fact, makes those differences, dangerous as hell. Little things can cause huge problems.

For instance, forgetting which side of the road cars travel on can get you killed; misunderstanding the term ‘knock you up’ can ruin your friendship; and having a “chipless”

American Credit Card can make you miss your train. (See figure 1 and 2).

Time of arrivalto train station: 7:15.

Time of train’s departure: 7:20.
Time it takes to retrieve tickets from automated dispenser: 3 min
Realization that my card doesn’t work with the automated ticket dispenser: FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUU!

Fortunately,the next train to BHX (Birmingham International Airport, for those of you not fluent in airport abbreviations) was only a 30 minutes wait. I was out £20 for the second ticket, I was sweaty, exhausted, and frustrated, but whatever I was on my train and still going to be early for my flight.

It was an hour, hour and a half ride to the airport, it marked the end of the first leg of my journey, and thus it will be the end of Part 1 of this post.

Figure 1

Card with a chip in it.

Figure 2

American Card without a chip for comparision

How this works

This is my travel blog. For those of you who are not aware, I’ve been in the UK for about 4 months now studying at the University of Gloucestershire. I am only now starting a blog because; well I’m fucking lazy, and haven’t gotten around to it until now. And more importantly, I think I might actually have something interesting to write about now.

I don’t plan for this to be a journal. I won’t be writing about day to day goings on in my life, and how “I went to France today OMFG! It’s sooooooooooo beautiful”. I’m sure there are enough of those out there. While I have no doubts that mine would be the best, I still prefer to stand out a little.

‘Pretentious wank’ would be how I would describe my blog if I came across it randomly. However, as I am the author, I prefer, ‘Observations and musings on life traveling, life abroad, and life in general’. You can decide for yourself which one it is. All I ask is that you give it a chance and maybe, if you can spare a moment or two, leave a comment about what you read. Thanks. Enjoy.