Where's Lyndsay?

Customs was friendly and smooth. The bags were there and waiting. As no one manned the “Nothing to Declare” area, immediately I was in the train depot outside ready to get some cash, call Lyndsay and get a ticket. Having been warned in advance not to change much money, I pushed a $20 at the teller who said it wouldn’t be enough to get the one-way ticket to London. Two $20s got me to town with 5 pounds or $2.50 to spare. But it wasn’t quite that smooth…
20 pence got me Lyndsay on the first try, but only for one minute. No nice “Please deposit x pence more.” But the phone does display your debit allowance. Easy enough instructions: get a single on the Bedford line to London Bridge. My good fortune, a real human manned the ticket booth and I was off to track 4.

Lovely train, really quite, no thump, thump as our trains have. The conductor took my London Bridge stamped ticket and I being in somewhat of a fog did not think to ask whether London Victoria was shorthand for London Bridge and Victoria stations. At the last stop, I learn that I have gone to the wrong station. Now, Lyndsay’s plan was to meet me at the platform in London Bridge station and she was already running late because of the plane’s delayed arrival. She was expected at work at 10. I called her in total frustration. Did I mention that the “Mind the Gap” take on a whole greater meaning in London where a foot up or across is not unusual? I call her and learn that I must take a train and meet her at Waterloo. The train workers are incredibly sympathetic. Without taking my first ticket, a gentleman put me back on the same train to go back on stop and there cross to platform 10 for Waterloo. I disembark at Clapton Junction and discover that there is neither an elevator nor escalator. I get more change to call Lyndsay, but I am apparently out of range. You all know the adage, “when rape is inevitable…” I slung the laptop and purse around my neck old-lady style, and pull my 80 pounder to the left handle rail – no sooner did I take a step, by a train employee picked it up and carried it down and up to track 10. There is a God and he hovers over train stations knighting gallant men. There she was as I exited Waterloo. She gave me my weekly train pass and we were off to another train to Ladywell and home.


There's hardly a minute to drop everything and be back at the train station to accompany her to work across London in Notting Hill. As we are waiting at the station she realizes that her phone is missing. Back home – no phone. Tried calling it. Nada. Probably dropped on the last train. At train headquarters we are given some hope that on Monday it may be found. Meanwhile we have no way to link up.

Lyndsay’s two hours late. Everything is charming. A gigantic sidewalk antique fair stretches for block. Notting Hill is totally congested with tourists (all wearing the sneakers I was forbidden to pack). Unfortunately, I dragged the camera around but had left the memory card in my laptop, so no pictures. It’s the hottest day in London this year, sweltering. I am still in my travel clothes and by 3 pm I begin the final four train connections home. I catch a shower and quick nap and then take off to walk to the top of her neighborhood where a park overlooks the city. Lyndsay’s out at a party. So, time to blog. The final gotcha of the day is that my plug adapter won’t work in London – they use the giant kind. Fortunately I have Lyndsay’s computer and hopefully my camera batteries will last. It’s 8:30 here; thanks all for helping keep me awake and adjust to London time. I can’t take any more frustrations today.