I am back in St Andrews now. I am in the middle of exams, so I have been busy studying and procrastinating from studying. I just took my Economics and Arabic oral exams today. The econ one wasn’t great, but I’m pretty sure I passed (wooo!) and Arabic went well. I only had one point where I had no idea what was being said, but we just moved on. I answered most questions (“Where are you from?†“Where do you study?†“What do you study?†“Where does you mother work?†&c.) fairly promptly and had a pretty good flow going on.
My holiday was really nice, and I enjoyed the time with family and friends back in The Motherland. My trip back over here, however, was horrible.
Here’s what happened:
On the night of Saturday, the 30th of December, I stayed up all night. I attended a watch-movies-with-friends thing that became an impromptu “New Years Eve Eve Party,†complete with party horns, confetti poppers, hats and sparklers. I got home about 30 minutes after midnight and didn’t go to sleep. I had things to take care of and needed to pack and organise.
I weighed bags carefully to just meet luggage weight limits. I had not brought much in the way of clothing to the US, but brought quite a bit of food (including four litres of Irn-Bru, which were pretty heavy) and some gifts back with me. For my trip back to Scotland, I packed some “cheap†American products. I had some clothes that I had purchased, American peanut butter (mmmmm!), Goldfish crackers, contact lens solution (three bottles of name-brand solution in the US cost less than one bottle of store-brand solution in the UK; unfortunately, this is just in line with other prices), and other goods.
I checked with both of my carriers, United and Aer Lingus, and US and Irish airport authorities to see what the restrictions would be for carry-on bags. I was very careful to see if I could take two bags through Ireland, because I knew that the UK had a restriction allowing just one carry-one through security. I planned ahead and had put my laptop into my backpack on the trip to the US and had put my computer bag inside my checked luggage. I found that, although Ireland has a one-bag rule, because I was just making a connection from the US through Dublin and would not have to pass through security, I would be able to have two carry-on bags.
As an afterthought I packed A Prayer for Owen Meany. I had read it (allegedly) for English last year. We were told that we didn’t really need to bother with the part about Vietnam in the middle. I took that a step farther and read it medium-rare—done on the outside, but not quite in the centre. I never actually read for more then ten minutes on planes and I knew that it would just be a distraction from studying once I got to St Andrews. I am very glad I decided to pack it.
On Sunday, the 31st of December, my second day without sleep, I had a fairly early flight to Chicago on United Airlines, so I headed on over to the airport and did not eat anything that morning. Due to weather problems in Chicago, I had to wait in Norfolk for several hours before boarding a flight at five that evening, during which time I did not eat.
The flight went well, but then we sat on the runway in Chicago for over an hour waiting to get to an open gate. By this time I had long ago missed the Aer Lingus flight from Chicago to Dublin, which would connect to Edinburgh. United rebooked me on a flight to London Heathrow and then a flight with their partner BMI to Edinburgh. I waited for the flight, yet did not eat.
When I boarded the plane, it took almost two hours to get off the gate—the co-pilot’s oxygen system needed to be repaired. When we finally started taxiing for takeoff, there was a huge amount of lateral motion, just a taste of things to come. We were flung from side to side, then made it into the air and toward Scotland. Things were looking good! The seats, however, were quite uncomfortable and only reclined five-degrees. There was a lot of turbulence, which would strike with the most force in the middle of beverage and meal services.
A few minutes after takeoff, they began showing a movie, “Little Miss Sunshine,†which was the best part of the trip. A few minutes later, beverages were served. Just after I got mine, the turbulence started. Then it got extreme, and the flight attendants had to sit down and buckle up. The man behind me spilled wine all over the plane, which smelled the entire trip. Several people around me had their drinks sloshed around, but fortunately I had proactively consumed mine as the rough air started, and nobody spilled anything on me.
When meals were served (and another wave of turbulence hit), I actually was beginning to get hungry. Around this time, we flew into 2007. The pasta, usually a safe option, was very greasy and made me lose my appetite. I tried sleeping. I couldn’t sleep. I only got a total of about fifteen minutes of very bad sleep in very little bits on the entire trip.
On Monday, the 1st of January, 2007, I made it to London.
I was praying that I would not have to pass through security and have to face the One-Bag Policy. I did. It was horrible. I first tried nonchalantly (and unsuccessfully) to cover my laptop bag with my coat. That failed. I was asked to consolidate or check one of my bags downstairs. Checking my bag would have taken quite a while, as I would have gone all the way to the check-in area, waited in the queue, and returned to security. I gave a shot at consolidating. By this point, I was tired and frustrated. I just wanted to be back in St Andrews.
I spent ten minutes trying to cram my laptop and its bag into my backpack. I took my laptop out of the bag and put it in the backpack. Then I tried to put the case in. Unfortunately, it was bigger than the backpack. I tried folding it. Then I took all of the cables and bits out of the case and folded it into thirds. Still would not fit. By this time, I was very frustrated. People were walking past me to security with rolling suitcases three times the combined volume of my two bags. Oh, the injustice! I took some books out and wrapped them in my coat. I took the laptop out—I would have to carry it through security anyway—and finally got the laptop bag into my backpack but could not zip it up.
I made it through the security check-point and passport control (they let me into the country!) and sat at the gate, waiting for my next flight. I was almost there. Or so I thought. The flight to Edinburgh went very well. The plane was just over one-third full, and I had an entire row to myself. I even got a little sleep in. I fell asleep as we left the gate and woke up to find that we were on the runway. Had we arrived in Edinburgh already? I looked out and saw the control tower. Nope, London. I had only been asleep five minutes.
We approached Edinburgh from the north, breaking through the low cloud ceiling to see the patchwork of green fields of Fife in twilight. Oh! Wonderful Fife! I thought happily of St Andrews on the end of the peninsula. I would be there in a few hours. Or so I thought. We made a steeply banked turn (my favourite!) and headed back to the Edinburgh airport. I was very happy. This had been the worst trip of my life, but things would end well. I was wrong.
We had a smooth landing and I got my checked bags right away from the honour-system “call us if you have anything to declare†Customs zone. I was in Edinburgh. I was almost at St Andrews! I took the Airlink bus to Waverly Station, planning to take the train to Leuchars and then get to St Andrews. Then I realised my problems were just beginning. Because it was New Years Day, the train service was greatly restricted. Hogmanay, the Scottish New Years celebration, has traditionally been more widely celebrated than Christmas. It continues to be a strong influence, shutting down all train services to St Andrews for the day. First Scotrail was not even running anything. If I had wanted to go to Glasgow or England, I would have been luck. But no train service to St Andrews.
My next thought was to try the bus. Even on a good day, the bus connection between St Andrews and Edinburgh is limited. I went to the bus stop on Princes Street and looked at the timetable. I, apparently, had just missed the 16:45 bus, so I decided to wait for the 17:45 bus. The wind was blowing—the fireworks the night before had been canceled due to high winds—but I managed to avoid most of it huddling behind the bus shelter. By this time I had gone two days with almost no food and three without sleep. I was freezing.
I could see the rides and merriment going on around me. I wanted to be in Edinburgh having fun, not stuck there towing bags around in the cold.
I had a sweatshirt and three coats on, but I was shivering very intensely. I only had a layer of jeans on, but my legs were not cold. I was just very cold in the core of my body, which was pretty weak at this time. I waited fifty minutes. It was 17:45, but the bus was not there. It was a busy time and Princes Street had been closed to everything but busses and taxis, so I decided to wait a while longer.
Thirty minutes later, I gave up on that idea. I loked for other ways to get to St Andrews. I knew that a taxi would be expensive—at least £90. I only had £20 in cash on me and not much more in my bank account to withdraw from an ATM. I also had enough US dollars to pay for it, but nowhere to exchange my money. Even in my desperate state, the price of a taxi was still significantly above my reservation price, so I would not have done it even if I could have paid for it.
I tried to find just any way to get to Fife. I thought that if I were able to at least make it to Fife, I would be able to use the Fife transportation network to make it to St Andrews. I had seen a bus to South Queensferry, on the Edinburgh side of the Firth of Forth, so I thought that I might be able to get that far, take a taxi across the bridge, get out at North Queensferry, and take a bus to St Andrews, maybe via Kirkcaldy. I waited for another hour, convulsing in the cold, but did not see the South Queensferry bus again.
By this point, I was tired of waiting in the cold and worried that my plan, which was pretty elaborate, would probably result in even more problems. I had no idea of what the busses in Fife were doing—maybe they weren’t running at all. I decided that it would be better to be stuck in Edinburgh than Inverkeithing or some little picturesque Fife fishing village. I headed to the bus station to see exactly what my options were. Part of the way there I stopped. I was pretty sure that I knew what the answer was and my bags were getting pretty heavy, so I decided to find some place to stay for the night.
I checked at a hostel (where I could afford to stay and just barely have enough to make it to St Andrews if I withdrew more money), but it was full. I decided just to spend the night at the airport.
I went to the usual stop where the bus to the Airport should pick up passengers. There were quite a few other people there waiting for the bus. The glass in the back of the shelter had been broken, apparently pretty recently because two workmen came to look at it. They did not know where the bus was.
Eventually some of the people started taking taxis. I remembered that the other bus shelter had said something about some busses leaving from St Andrews Square. So I headed over there and found the bus. I was the only person on it as we returned to the airport.
I spent the night in the Edinburgh International Airport international arrivals area.
I got there at 8:30 that night and asked about a taxi, just to be sure that it wasn’t an option. I learned that it would be at least £110. Still not an option, and even less attractive than before. I slipped a pound into the internet kiosk and went online. I checked the bus that links Inverkeithing to the Airport (I had just remembered it)—closed until 3 January, and limited service even then. I looked at the train—there was one at 5:37 the next morning. I looked at the bus—I could take the first one at 4:45, get on the train, and be at St Andrews by sunrise. There would be nobody on the train and I would have a nice trip. Things looked (relatively) good.
I sat down, took out A Prayer for Owen Meany and began to read. I am very glad I brought that book, because I couldn’t go to sleep that night. I tried to sleep sitting up. I tried to sleep laying down. I just couldn’t sleep. I was exhausted, but could not sleep. I was not hungry at all. So I just read. I fell asleep a couple times, then would jolt awake and look at my clock. No more than thirty seconds of sleep. I read all night.
At 4:30 the next morning, Tuesday, January 2nd, I went outside to get the bus back to Waverly Station. At the first stop after the airport, a rather drunk man stumbled onto the bus. He sat across the aisle from me in all of his urine-soaked glory. He was a very talkative drunk. I was a very exasperated and grumpy Frank. So he talked to me. So I decided to have some fun. I made up a life story in response to his questioning. Here is a short play based on my experience, entitled “Frank and the Drunk Guyâ€:
Frank is sitting on a bus, reading A Prayer for Owen Meany. On the other side of the bus a row in front of him sit two young women. The bus stops. A man stumbles onto the bus. Frank, crouched over his book, sees the man out of the corner of his eye and believes him to be mentally disabled. The man sits behind the girls and across from Frank. Frank continues to think that the man is mentally disabled until the odour of urine hits him and the man speaks as the bus begins to move.
The man speaks in a very inebriated, slurred manner
Man: Where’re you from?
Frank looks up from his book
Frank: Sorry?
M: Where’re you from?
Frank realises he is dealing with a drunk who wishes to start a conversation with him. Despite being very tired, Frank decides to have some fun. And to call the man “Drunk Guy.†Just after saying that, Frank gets angry at himself for not paying attention and discovering that the man was drunk earlier. If he had known, he would have started the conversation speaking in a really bad German accent and say that he is from Munich. He tries to think of something that will work with his American accent, looks at Owen Meany in his hands (the book, not his dead, armless body), and decides on Canada. It makes sense. Frank can rarely tell the difference. The drunk guy will surely believe him.
F: Canada. Toronto.
Then he remembers how drunk the guy is and gets even angrier at himself. He could have got away with everything.
Drunk Guy: Where’re you going?
F: Dundee
DG: D’you wanna go for a pint?
F: No. It’s 5 in the morning and[suddenly elated] I have a train to catch!
DG: Where’re you going?
F: Dundee
DG: Why’re you going there?
Frank sees an opportunity for more fun
F: I am visiting the eldest of my ten children. She’s at the University of Dundee, studying[thinks of a course] Art. Design. I am a cinematographer and I guess a love of art just runs in the family.
DG: I’m an artist. Where’re we going?
F: [Decides he would feel guilty if he lied to the drunk guy on this] Waverly Station.
DG: [falling into aisle] D’y’wanna go for a pint?
F: Maybe next time I pass through Edinburgh.
DG: Where did you study?
F: Tidewater Community College.
Frank returns to his book.
DG: D’ya wanna go find a pub?
Frank ignores the drunk guy, who turns his attention to the two passengers sitting in front of him
Where’re you from?
Girl 1: Taiwan
Drunk Guy proceeds to tell a very racist joke which makes the two girls giggle nervously and Frank cringe and very quickly forget because it is so horrible. Awkward silence ensues for the next few minutes as the drunk guy mutters to himself. Drunk guy turns back to Frank
DG: Do you wanna go for a pint?
Frank does not have to answer that question, as the bus has arrived at the train station. He gets up and grabs his bags. Unfortunately, the drunk guy is standing at the door, his arms extended and grabbing the bars on either side. This method of support also happens to block Frank’s egress. He is exhausted and carrying several bags and just does not want to deal with this. He stands there patiently. He knows the man can’t just stay there forever. After a few seconds the horde of people waiting to go to the airport will go on a rampage and tear the drunk out of the door. Drunk guy drunkenly asks the crowd his present location
DG: Where am I?
Bus Driver: Please get off the bus
DG: Where am I?
BD: GET OFF! [Exit Drunk Guy]
Frank turns to face the bus driver who just took care of the obstacle.
F: Thank you [Exit Frank]
When I got to Waverly, I discovered that, although they were running, trains were still on a restricted timetable, something that I had missed on the previous day’s visit to Waverly and my online check. The first train to Leuchars was not until 10:30 that morning. So I sat in the station for five hours.
I should have just stayed in the airport. I was in the enclosed portion of the station. It has doors and a roof, but no heat. It was protected from the wind and much warmer than if I had been outside, but still very cold. I sat on a bench and was subject to draughts every time the sliding doors opened, which was very often.
I had not eaten in a long time, but was still not hungry. I was on my fourth day without sleep and very tired, but there was no rest to be found. Again, I was shivering uncontrollably and was too worn out to read, so I sat there with Owen Meany sitting in front of me, staring into space. I just had an overall feeling of horrible. I would fall asleep, but wake up to find that a person walking in front of me had just covered a short distance while I was asleep.
After five hours of this, I headed out to the platform to get my train. I had to go to Platform 8, which involved crossing a track. I first tried the lift, which, conveniently, was experiencing technical problems. So I dragged my bags across the street and took the stairs. Normally this would not have been a problem. The stairs even had a very gentle slope, with almost no rise between treads. But I was quite tired and I had to take one step at a time, pulling my bags up. I made it to the platform and waited.
I was running on adrenaline at this time and cold once again. I had been shivering a lot the night before and in the station, but now I could not stand up unless I did a sort of bicycling thing with my legs. If I stood still, my legs just crumpled under me. I was a mess.
The train was delayed, so I stood there for fifteen minutes. When the train finally arrived, I had to get my bags on the train. That was no easy task, and the completely full train made this no easier. This was not the empty early morning train of which I had dreamed. I managed to get a seat, got out Owen Meany, and tried to read.
Because it was the first train service in a while, I ended up on the slow train to Leuchars, calling at Haymarket, South Gyle, Dalmeny, North Queensferry, Inverkeithing, Dalgety Bay, Aberdour, Burntisland, Kinghorn, Kirkcaldy, Markinch, Ladybank, Springfield, Cupar, and basically about anywhere between Edinburgh and Leuchars with a population of at least five sheep. This took almost two hours and I was falling asleep.
Sleep would have been good overnight in the airport or in the station, but now I didn’t want to go to sleep. I needed to be awake, so that I could get off at the right station. I am always terrified of missing things when I am asleep (trust me, I have), so I never sleep at airport gates, trains, or anywhere else where timing matters. I managed to fight it to within three stops of Leuchars.
Then I fell asleep. I awoke to find the train stopped at Leuchars station. I was frantic, grabbed all of my backpack and computer bag, bolted to the luggage rack and got my two suitcases, and was just about to head out the door. Then someone stuck a book in front of me. I had no idea what it was at first. I was exhausted, groggy from my five minutes of sleep, running without food, and frantic about getting off the train. Then I realised that it was my dear travel companion, A Prayer for Owen Meany, and that I was being told I had left it on the table. I didn’t see who had saved it, but I really hope I thanked that person. I made it off the train. I was the last person.
I schlepped everything up the ramp, across the southbound track, down the ramp, and to the street level. I waited for a bus to St Andrews. The bus, too, was on its last day of the restricted holiday timetable. I stood at the bus shelter for forty minutes, dragged everything onto the bus, and crumpled into the nearest seat. The bus took the back route through Strathkinness, I saw that the next stop was David Russell Apartments, so I got out there, thinking it would be the fastest way to New Hall.
I had underestimated the length of the path that stretches from DRA to the Sports Centre, which I had follow. That was the first time that I had ever transversed it when I was not running. Apparently, things seems much shorter when you are running and talking with people than when you have been on the road for three days. I should have just gone all the way to the bus station.
Finally it arose in the distance: glorious New Hall! I have never been so happy to see her in my life. She shone in all of her allegedly-designed-after-a-Swedish-prison (yet probably with less humane treatment—Sweden’s “open prisons†actually are more relaxed and have better food than New Hall) institutional glory! I walked in the doors, immediately went to my room, brushed my teeth, took a shower, and collapsed into bed.
I had made it, arriving a little past two that afternoon, over a day later than I had planned.
I fell asleep very quickly, and awoke, greatly refreshed, at one the next morning. I still was not hungry, but decided to eat a can of soup because I had not eaten in days. I went back to bed, then woke up again a few hours later.
And that, my friends is the story of Frank’s worst travel experience.
I like to learn from my mistakes. That was a big one. So what did I learn? I hope I learnt a lot. I did:
- Most importantly (this would have eliminated 95 per cent of my troubles): FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STAY AWAY FROM SCOTLAND UNTIL JANUARY THIRD. YOU CAN PUSH IT AND GO FOR THE SECOND, BUT YOU WILL BE MUCH HAPPIER ON THE THIRD. EVERYTHING IS SHUT DOWN AND YOU WILL BE MISERABLE.
- Sleep before flying; don’t leave your packing until the night before. OK I will continue to procrastinate on packing, but I will also sleep. There is an inverse relationship between the distance I am travelling and when I start packing. When I flew to Massachusetts, I was packed almost a day ahead of time. When I flew to China, I started packing at 9:30 the morning before a flight that left at noon, which gave me approximately negative fifteen minutes to pack (I did it in positive fifteen). My life is an ultimatum game.
- EAT! STAY HYDRATED!!
- Check timetables ahead of time. Even though you think something may be running some day at a certain time, it probably is not. I could have solved many problems if I had done this.
- Whoever created the One-Bag Policy hates people and all that is good in this world. I bet they kill puppies and babies.
- Travelling is bad. I have heard the following response from jaded travellers many times to people who say that they like travelling: “You only like being in a new place, you don’t actually like the act of travelling.†I used to disagree with that, and I still do now, but I am definitely much more cynical about travel. I do enjoy actually travelling. I have had some bad experiences and my recent NIGHTMARE (although it could have been much worse—that was only my worst travel experience), but I still like the act of travelling. I love trains. Flying usually is not very bad I think that travel by airship would be wonderful (and environmentally friendly!). I just now am at the point where I would pay for people to anaesthetise me and fly me wherever I am trying to go if it meant that I would not have to undergo my recent experience again.
- Pack a book. If all else fails, it may keep you sane.
Note: This was typed up over several days by a revision-addled mind in tiny chunks when time was found and not proofread, so please excuse any repetition, grammatical errors, or other mistakes. It was composed in Word, then pasted onto the web, so there are tons of formatting errors that need to be fixed. For example, the WYSIWYG editor had turned the whole thing into tag soup. I don’t really want do deal with it manually now, so deal with it.
Frank! I love you! I’m sorry you had such a bad trip! And I’m sorry Amallie and I kept you up on New Year’s Eve Eve! And I’m sorry I’m using so many exclamation points! And I hope I can come to Scotland in September!
I read this to your grandmother and she said, “Frank used to be such a good sleeper.”
I LOVE UPDATES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WAY TO GO FRANKGEORGE.COM!
*drops dead*
i would’ve probably killed myself.
jumped in front of the bus
flown out the window..
or jsut start walking to fife. i wouldn’t care about the cold.
I am sooo sooo sorry. that’s horrible.
*patpat*
maybe next time…
but hey, you got a story out of it, and bragging rights to the “worst travelling experience..and most interesting!!”