London Marble Arch
My day started by editing a 13-page summary of the online dialogue. My hostess, Carolyn, went through the 168 posts from 31 participants and organised the commentary into four chapters. Today I edited the first two. Her opening paragraph was too internal, IMHO, focussing on the number of comments and participation rate and the Convetit platform we used. I rewrote it in a rather purplish prose way:
"As befits a 24-hour-a-day industry that soils the air with around-the-clock emissions, our online dialogue on Asian utilities never slept. The Australians kicked us off each morning while the Californians got the final word each day. In all 31 participants from Australia, Japan, Republic of Korea, China, Singapore, India, UK, Germany, Denmark and the United States took part.”
In the afternoon I began stressing about my trip home tonight. The Northern Line of the Underground, working fine yesterday, was now out of commission, which I learned somewhat late in the day. So I had to catch a bus somewhere in Camden, not sure where, to Golders Green, where I would take a second bus to Stansted, where I had a 9:45 pm flight. Nervous about the connections I started early, 5ish. I found the unmarked temporary bus stop for the Underground replacement bus. I got to Golders Green an hour before my scheduled bus and JUST missed the previous Stansted bus. Which was OK because I stepped into a Persian cafe and ate the most amazing meal, saffron potato pancakes served with slices of cucumber, tomato, red pepper, delicious pickles, and some kind of thin squares that you used to make little wraps. And spicy Persian tea. Lovely. These were long, sweet pickles that had been sliced longways and arranged like a fan. Gorgeous AND tasty.
So at the National Express bus stop in Golders Green, I watched one bus after another come and go. I had a ticket for the 6:49 pm Stansted bus. The problem with discount buses and airlines is there is no one there to answer questions. At 7, I asked one of the bus drivers when the Stansted bus would come. He said he was going to Stansted. The sign on his bus said: London Marble Arch. I asked him why it didn’t say Stansted? The bus I’d seen an hour earlier said Stansted. He said the buses are labeled based on where they start. What?? WTF? Every bus, train, underground I use is labeled based on the end point, not the beginning point. So I got on the bus all hot and bothered that I’d be tight for time at Stansted. There had been other London Marble Arch buses that I could have taken, if I’d known.
The bus made good time and I walked through the carpark to the airport, where a big Eastern European woman was blocking the escalator to the terminal. She said the airport was closed. Wha? A big group of us stood there in disbelief. We convinced her to take down her red canvas tape across the escalator entrance. We went up to the terminal, which was jam packed. You couldn’t move. I was on the phone with David putting out the SOS. He told me to go to the RyanAir counter (at the other side of a very long terminal). The crowd was very dense, very confused, and a bit pushy. An announcer said everyone should leave the terminal. Most people didn’t move. But also, the doors weren’t opening. I backtracked to the door I had entered and beat a quick path to the bus lines counter, where I bought a ticket back to London. I don’t like dense crowds of tired, unhappy people and I wanted out.
It turns out a shuttle bus had caught fire on a runway, creating a smoky mess that infiltrated the terminal. All flights were canceled. Within a half hour, I was on another bus back to Liverpool Street, the first destination I could book. From there I took the underground to Kings Cross then I had to find a bus stop Carolyn described to me on the phone. As it happens, next to St. Pancras, where I had been the other day. I found it no problem and caught the 46 to Kentish Town.
In six hours, I had completed a circle from Kentish Town to Stansted and back. At a cost of about 18 pounds. While on the bus to Liverpool Street, I talked to David, who told me tomorrow’s flights are outrageously expensive, so he got me on a 2:45 pm Sunday flight out of Luton, another discount London satellite airport. I was a bit heartbroken at this news. Due to Barcelona, Edinburgh, a month in the US and, now, eight days in London, I have not had much occasion to sleep in my own bed.
When I’m this tired and stressed, tears become an option. I feel on the verge of tears because my reserve tank is empty. I tell myself how lucky to have access to a free place to stay--Carolyn’s--and how lucky to have David arrange my replacement flight. RyanAir’s app wasn’t working, so I couldn’t have arranged that flight on the bus even if I were app savvy, which I’m not. So I didn’t cry but I felt very sorry for myself that, after six days of working on the dialogue, I was headed back to Carolyn’s, where I would no doubt continue working. It’s hard not to when she’s beavering away.
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