the nearest station to Carter, but the machine wouldn’t take my American bank card. I dashed over to a ticket booth to buy one the old-fashioned way. The train wouldn’t depart for another thirty minutes, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything else, so I went to wait for it on the platform.
By my standards, I had packed light, but British trains—or at least the one I got on—were not meant for people with suitcases. I clambered on board and ended up having to squeeze the small suitcase between my legs when someone complained that it was taking up a seat. The train journey was going to be at least two hours, and there was no way I could sit like this the entire way. Much to the utter bemusement and horror of the businessman next to me, I hitched up my trouser leg and pulled off the artificial limb, giving my one remaining leg a bit more space. It says a lot about rush hour commuters that the man next to me never said a thing and no one else seemed to even notice that a girl had pulled a leg off and sat with it on her lap.
There was no room to get any work done on my laptop and I couldn’t focus on reading. Instead, I stared out of the window, first at the increasingly suburban areas of London, then at some smaller English towns, and finally just the countryside. It looked beautiful with the sun beaming down on the grass that was full of cows and sheep. Unfortunately, after about an hour and a half, the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the weather looked increasingly gloomy with every minute.
With a frustrating predictability, the rain started to fall just minutes before my train pulled into the station. I was one of the first people off and I made it to the taxi rank before a queue formed, which was quite an accomplishment, considering. I pulled up Carter’s address on my phone and read it out loud to the taxi driver. His reaction was to pull out a small GPS device from the glove compartment, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.
As the taxi left the shelter of the train station, any illusions I had that the storm might pass were soon shattered by the noise of rain hammering down on the car. In my haste, I’d never even thought to bring an umbrella on my trip to England.
The app I was using on my phone estimated that the journey would take around twenty minutes, but it had barely been fifteen when the taxi driver pulled to the side of the road and totaled up the fare. The sun had set in astonishingly quick time and it was now dark outside.
“Are you sure this is it?” I asked, looking out of the window even though I could barely see through it for the rain.
“Yes, yes, it’s just down there,” the man said, pointing down the road. “I can’t drive any further because it is a one-way street, but it’s just a one minute walk, at most.”
The map on my phone was not showing the road as being a one-way street, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I threw money at him, and despite his unhelpful demeanor, I gave him a generous tip.
I struggled forward in the rain, trying to pull my light jacket up to cover my head with my free hand while the other dragged my suitcase along the concrete. After a couple of minutes I realized there was no one-way street, but the taxi was long gone at this point. I ducked under a nearby tree, thinking that might offer some temporary protection from the rain, but instead the rain just collected into large drips on the ends of leaves before falling down my back.
The map on my phone showed that Carter’s house was nearby. I just had to keep going down the same street and then take a left. It was a four-minute walk, but I would be drenched to the bone in less than twenty seconds, anyway, so the distance hardly mattered.
With the map committed to memory, I picked up my suitcase—dragging it along the ground would only slow me down—and left the quasi-shelter of the tree. The rain made short work of my thin Californian clothing, and as predicted, I was soon
By my standards, I had packed light, but British trains—or at least the one I got on—were not meant for people with suitcases. I clambered on board and ended up having to squeeze the small suitcase between my legs when someone complained that it was taking up a seat. The train journey was going to be at least two hours, and there was no way I could sit like this the entire way. Much to the utter bemusement and horror of the businessman next to me, I hitched up my trouser leg and pulled off the artificial limb, giving my one remaining leg a bit more space. It says a lot about rush hour commuters that the man next to me never said a thing and no one else seemed to even notice that a girl had pulled a leg off and sat with it on her lap.
There was no room to get any work done on my laptop and I couldn’t focus on reading. Instead, I stared out of the window, first at the increasingly suburban areas of London, then at some smaller English towns, and finally just the countryside. It looked beautiful with the sun beaming down on the grass that was full of cows and sheep. Unfortunately, after about an hour and a half, the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the weather looked increasingly gloomy with every minute.
With a frustrating predictability, the rain started to fall just minutes before my train pulled into the station. I was one of the first people off and I made it to the taxi rank before a queue formed, which was quite an accomplishment, considering. I pulled up Carter’s address on my phone and read it out loud to the taxi driver. His reaction was to pull out a small GPS device from the glove compartment, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.
As the taxi left the shelter of the train station, any illusions I had that the storm might pass were soon shattered by the noise of rain hammering down on the car. In my haste, I’d never even thought to bring an umbrella on my trip to England.
The app I was using on my phone estimated that the journey would take around twenty minutes, but it had barely been fifteen when the taxi driver pulled to the side of the road and totaled up the fare. The sun had set in astonishingly quick time and it was now dark outside.
“Are you sure this is it?” I asked, looking out of the window even though I could barely see through it for the rain.
“Yes, yes, it’s just down there,” the man said, pointing down the road. “I can’t drive any further because it is a one-way street, but it’s just a one minute walk, at most.”
The map on my phone was not showing the road as being a one-way street, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I threw money at him, and despite his unhelpful demeanor, I gave him a generous tip.
I struggled forward in the rain, trying to pull my light jacket up to cover my head with my free hand while the other dragged my suitcase along the concrete. After a couple of minutes I realized there was no one-way street, but the taxi was long gone at this point. I ducked under a nearby tree, thinking that might offer some temporary protection from the rain, but instead the rain just collected into large drips on the ends of leaves before falling down my back.
The map on my phone showed that Carter’s house was nearby. I just had to keep going down the same street and then take a left. It was a four-minute walk, but I would be drenched to the bone in less than twenty seconds, anyway, so the distance hardly mattered.
With the map committed to memory, I picked up my suitcase—dragging it along the ground would only slow me down—and left the quasi-shelter of the tree. The rain made short work of my thin Californian clothing, and as predicted, I was soon
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