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Published: September 15th 2007
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We have wine shops
They have sweet beer shops It feels a kind of relief, yet at the same time a certain bore, to be among native English speakers again. It has been over two months. I am on the Ryanair flight from Venice that is readying to pull into the gate at Stansted Airport. Though I was one of the last people to board the plane, I got a seat in the second row. I grab my bag from the overhead luggage bin and ready myself, brow scrunched, eyes focused, body wound up like an Olympic sprinter. As originally scheduled, I would have 30 minutes to get from tarmac to train. But the plane was 20 minutes late taking off. I think 10 minutes is an impossible amount of time to de-plane, get through passport control, pick up my train ticket and find the platform, but I decide to make a go for it anyway. I have no watch, so I know not that we'd made up for the delay in the air. The stewardess flings open the door--the starting gun. I hoist my bag over my head to squeeze past the first row and charge down the steps. On the tarmac, I don't even stop to put the
bag on its wheels, I just run. If I miss this train I'll have to wait another hour for the 2.5-hour journey to Leicester, to where my good friend Jens has expatriated himself. Though I am a patient person and wouldn't mind taking my time to the next train, I really enjoy the pressure of a tight schedule and the satisfying feeling of beating the clock. What can I say? I'm a natural, seasoned procrastinator.
I turn a couple of corners inside, my lungs caving, my skin burning. I hate exercise. Then, one more long corridor and at the end people climbing stairs to passport control. I just might make it in time. But, no! It's a tricky glass wall and I have to run down two more football-length corridors before I reach the steps. Trip time: 10 minutes (optimistically, deliriously). The line at passport control is long, too long. Too long to even beg for mercy to those queued in front of me to let me through so that I can catch my train, that must be leaving in 4 minutes. Finally, I'm at the front. All the people from my flight are starting to catch up. This
is futile.
Please, please, sir, just stamp my passport and let me through. Yes, I'm here on holiday, yes, I'm going back to Italy, yes, yes, I'm based there. C'mon, don't give me a hard time. Bang! Welcome to Britain.
God Save the Queen! I dash past customs with nothing to declare, weave through a Portugese family and some dreaded backpackers (pun intended), mapping their way out.
The station is just down the stairs right outside the terminal. On the platorm. Where's a clock, why are there no clocks?! I see that my train is on the board. Shove my credit card into the ticket machine to pick up the reservation. Two seconds later it spits the card back at me. Crap! I put it in the wrong way. Turn it around and shove it in again and before I take my fingers away the ticket starts to print. Take the ticket, but my card? Crap! It's jammed in there the wrong way. It's not coming out--there's no reject button, my fingers are too big and I just clipped my fingernails. No time! Now what? I fashion tweezers out of my passport and driver's license and retrieve the card.
Minnie
Olly's ferocious guard dog McGyver would be impressed. Now, where's platform 2? All the numbers are out of order and 2 is at the end. Will I make it? Is the train delayed? Did I somehow turn back time? Is the departure board delayed in changing its schedule? Did I run so hard that my momentum, counter to the direction of the earth, stop our planet in its tracks? Superman would be blown away. There's my train. I can't run anymore but I shove myself along. There, I see the conductor. I flail my arms frantically.
Wait! That's my train! I scream inside my head, but I just don't have the lungs for it anymore. It's the trash collector. I hop on the train, I don't care if it's mine. I ask a guy sitting there.
Yes, this train is going to Leicester, and, the time? Yes, it's 4:17. Three minutes to spare. My body's in tatters, it's hot as hell on the train and I spent the last of my Euros on the plane for a cup of instant coffee. But not that Euros would matter now. Even though England is in the EU they don't use Euros. And I didn't have time
Jens lives across the street from the prison
Jens says: "It's a beautiful builing, actually." Yeah, for a prison. to stop at a cash machine. Would I drink from the bathroom sink? Luckily, that water is boiling hot so I could not even debate that option. The doors shut, the train groans, I pull out a book and take my seat. Exhausted, elated.
I de-train in Leicester and go out to the street to wait for Jens. He rolls up a few minutes later on his new, home-built bicycle. A fixie. He's a mess. His pants are shredded from the ankles down (from the bike, I'll explain later), shirt stained. The first thing I say is, do you have dreadlocks? Are you trying for dreadlocks? Please, don't be another white boy with dreads. He wasn't. He had been up for the past 36 hours finishing his dissertation so we can just kick it for the next five days. He's getting his masters in sustainable building, green design, save the planet, etc. Can you get him a job? We walk back to his place. I meet his housemates Olly and Critchley and friends Tim and Carl. Cole? Cal? Curt? Carl. I've been away from English so long I'm having a hell of a time understanding anything anyone says. Olly
makes some tea and we shoot the shit and then we have a few beers and I begin to depressurize and Jens cooks up a stir fry and Critchley goes for a few more packs of lager. Finally, I'm feeling normal again. I'm not drunk. I've had a few beers but I think all the adrenaline and exertion from the day's exercise boils the alcohol out of my system on contact. We go down to the street for the last few minutes of sunlight and to have a look at his new fixie. A "fixie" is a fixed gear bicycle (one speed), which essentially means that when you pedal forward, the wheels move forward. Pedal backwards, the wheels move backwards. If you stop pedaling, the wheels stop moving--there is no coasting ability. They're popular among bike messengers for their quick acceleration and agility. Braking (without handbrakes) is painful to the body and just plain hard. It's counter-intuitive to learn, and difficult to master. Once, while attempting a skidstop, Jens jammed the pedals so hard that the chain popped and locked up his rear wheel. He ground to a halt to see that the tire had worn through to the inner
Leicester lads
Olly, i dont remember, Jens, Carl, Tim tube, which had burst from the pressure. So he refitted with a new tube and tire, and here we are outside taking turns. I decide that even in my clear state it'd be best not to try to learn this bike yet. So I watch. Tim nearly eats pavement before he gains any speed. Carl tries to pedal the bike backwards but can't manage. Jens gets it coasting pretty good but can't stop under control. Then we go to a pub for a couple of rounds and come back to the bike. And I decide now is as good a time to learn. Well, the story ends here. It's a fun bike to ride and I end up using it the rest of the two days we're in Leicester, but (much to the loss of a good story to recount here, and more to your disappointment, I'm sure) I don't hurt myself.
Part Two, after these messages...
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jens
non-member comment
wtf
dude, think you could have gotten a worse picture of me?