The Bus That Got Away

This is a story about the promptness of the British public transportation system.

It was a fine idea, at the onset, to spend a day in London as soon as possible after arriving at the University of Kent in Canterbury, in the southeast of England and a mere 2 hours from one of the most famous capitals in the world. It seemed an equally fine idea to save money by not spending the night, and rather book the first bus in that morning and the last bus out that night. Isn’t it funny how things always sound better on paper?

That morning of January 20th, five bubbling American students trundled down the long hill from the University into downtown Canterbury. We watched the sun rise against a dusty blue sky as we walked, and smiled, imagining it was a good omen.

We rounded the last corner on High Street to see the bus roaring to life. As we broke into sprints and toppled on, now a panting early morning heap of limps and coats, I looked at my watch: 6:05 AM on the dot. Never in my life had I been on a bus that left at exactly the minute listed on the ticket. Something to remember, I thought groggily, and spent the rest of the bus ride recuperating.

Our time in London was idyllic. We saw everything from Big Ben to the Tower of London, zipped about on the tube and giggled each time we heard, “Mind the gap.” We ate lunch in Hyde Park despite the less-than-ideal picnicking temperature, and shared pints of cider at a pub with old bearded men after dinner.

Our bus left the London Victoria coach station at 11:45 PM, so we decided it would be best to return absurdly early, just in case, the memory of our morning sprint still fresh in our minds.
All day, we had been riding the yellow Circle line around to everywhere we needed to go - it was quite convenient. So we hopped on it again and settled in.

“This is great,” one of our party said happily. “All day in London, and we haven’t gotten lost or anything!”

“I know,” I agreed happily. “We’ve done really well!”

2 stops pass, and with a sinking stomach I realized we were on the wrong subway train. We had somehow gotten on the Pink line, which paralleled the Yellow for quite a while, and must have shared a track. The trains were not marked except at the front, so by following the signs for Yellow we had assumed it was, well, the Yellow. We had only sidetracked by one stop, so it wasn’t that big of a deal - we got off, reversed, and switched platforms to the Yellow.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

Apparently, Saturday nights were prime time for underground construction. It took a solid 15 minutes for our train to arrive, and when it did, it crawled. And I mean crawled. Anxiously, we watched the time - 20 minutes till bus blast-off.

“How do you leave an hour early for a 20 minute tube ride and wind up pushing the clock so much?” one of the girls moaned under her breath.

You use under construction public transportation, that’s how. I signed and shifted my weight anxiously.

10 minutes. 2 stops away. 5 minutes. Victoria train station – 3 blocks away from the coach station where we needed to be.

We literally sprinted off of the train. There were two ways out; we burst up the first to find nothing familiar. We darted back down, I almost ran over a small child, and finally we found ourselves on a familiar street.

Three of the others vanished in the bustle of London. Behind me, I heard the fourth girl cry out. Turning, I see her limping on a freshly twisted ankle.

First casualty, I thought grimly, and we staggered forward.

We rounded the bend by the Starbucks to see the other three standing, confused. With a sinking stomach, I realized none of them knew the way back.

“Down that street!” I screamed, and they bolted.

This is absurd, I thought as I gave her directions. This is absolutely out of control.

Finally, heart pounding, I rounded the last bend to the station - and see a coach pulling away with “Dover, Canterbury” on the front. My watch said 11:45 on the dot.

“That’s… that’s our bus. Oh God. Yup, yeah, that was ours.”

We stormed into the station anyway and begged the attendant to ask the bus to wait. It was all of a block away, but she said she wasn’t allowed. She told us it had one more stop in the city, but when we asked her for directions there, she said that if we didn’t know, we would never find it.
Deflated, we plopped down in the metal seats of the station. The next bus wasn’t until 7 the next morning. Some of the group began to curse the system, but really it was an extraordinary bout of bad luck. It felt wrong to be mad at the bus for leaving on time - we knew it did from the morning. Our only fault had been ignoring the signs about tube construction, and assuming an hour was long enough to get anywhere in London.

Lesson learned? Don’t ever - EVER - book the last bus out of London. Or anywhere, for that matter.

So I started mentally preparing myself for a night in the bus station, when a burly security guard come up to us.

“Station’s closing. You’ll have to leave,” he grunted. We stared open-mouthed as he walked away.

Stunned silence captured us for a moment, until one boy through back his hands. “And the bottom drops out,” he groans.

Now, me in a bad situation typically means uncontrolled laughter. This was no different. I was rather useless as we began our hunt for a night’s lodging, consumed by the absurdity of the situation and already appreciating what a fantastic story it was going to make.

We walked around the general area, looking for a bar or pub or anything open at night - let me tell you, the area around Victoria train station closes down at midnight. They won’t let you in the train or bus station unless you have a ticket for something in the next half hour, and the underground shuts down at 12. There aren’t any 24-hour Wal-Marts here, folks.

So, we bought tea and spent the night in the drop off point out front of the train station. In all honesty, it wasn’t that bad — a little cold, but we were surrounded by other travelers, security guards, taxi drivers, etc, plus we had each other and a vendor selling pastries, coffee, and tea all night. The sidewalk was cold, but it was never cold to the point of feeling as though staying outside would be a dangerous thing. Uncomfortable, nothing more.

Around 5 AM, the coach station opened up again. We had to pay another 11 pounds ($22) for a new bus ticket, which left on the dot at 7 AM, getting us home by 8:30. I slept from 9 until 2:30 in the afternoon, through what turned out to be the first sunny day since I had arrived in England.

Of course.

The experience taught me something invaluable about studying abroad, and about travel in general: along with your passport and visa, the most crucial thing to carry with you is a sense of humor. Write this down: things will go wrong. It’s inevitable and unavoidable. All the best laid plans are bound to fall off the track at least once, and the best thing you can be armed with (along with hot tea and pastries, of course) are good friends to rely on, and laughter at the situation. Learn, adapt, and roll with the punches – and come back with stories and experiences that make your friends and family say, “I can’t imagine…”

They can’t. You can. And boy, is that an empowering feeling.


Posted by Marian, Canterbury, England Spring 2007