Destination Unknown
By Susan English
Copyright 2011 by Susan English
Smashwords Edition
What does it take to see the world? Money? A good travel agent? Extended vacation time? Or just maybe all it takes is $700, a bicycle, and an indomitable spirit.
Prologue
As the subway train pulled into Grand Central Station, I glanced at my watch. 9:30. I felt a slight twinge in my gut, and stepped out onto the platform. People were streaming past me, a steady flow of bodies. Everyone looked like they knew where they were going. I shifted my pack on my shoulders and pushed my way through the crowd. Life suddenly seemed overwhelmingly complicated.
Okay, first things first, I thought. I need to get my bike. I’d shipped her via Greyhound Package Express, and that office was, allegedly, somewhere in Port Authority. I approached a woman selling newspapers, who gave me vague, convoluted directions: go through this door, turn left, turn right, go outside and around to the back of the building. I thanked her, even though I only absorbed about half of what she said. As I was walking out the door I looked at my watch again: 9:46. I shifted my pack, took a deep breath, and set off in search of Package Express.
Eventually I stumbled upon it. For some odd reason the office was down an obscure alley, removed from the hustle and bustle of the station. My pack was killing me by then. Good lord what had I packed, anyway? I gave the guy at the counter my claim ticket and leaned with my back against the wall, trying to ease the weight on my shoulders while he disappeared into a back room. I wanted to remove the pack but it was such a struggle to get it back on. When he returned I couldn’t believe my eyes: the box was huge! My jaw felt like it dropped to my knees.
“This your box, right?”
I nodded.
I didn’t remember it being so big. Funny how your mind has a way of shrinking or expanding objects or events. Yeah, real funny. Well great, now I had a backpack filled with sandbags and this gargantuan box.
I looked at my watch again: 10:07. Time sure was flying. I had three hours to get me, my pack and now this box to John F. Kennedy airport in time to check in for my flight. They had told me at the travel agency I needed to be there two hours early, since I was going overseas. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and sighed.
The box was far too big to carry, so I dragged it out of the office and into the street. I didn’t know where I was, or which way to go. I knew I had to get to a subway station, but I didn’t have any idea how. I began dragging the box down the sidewalk, thinking: this is New York; there must be a subway station close by. After about half a block, I started to worry; I didn’t know how long the cardboard would hold up under such extreme abuse. What was I going to do? Okay, I thought, I’ll have to take a cab. I turned around and dragged my box back to the Package Express, and poked my head in the door. The man who had helped me was kicked back, reading a newspaper.
“Excuse me, sir, where can I get a cab?”
He slowly lowered the paper and looked up. “Around the corner at the front of the building there are taxis, no problem.” He eyed at me a moment longer, then shook out his paper and held it up to his face.
Okay, around the corner. I could do that. Inch by inch I made my way to the front. I saw a line of taxis waiting for fares. I started to look at my watch again. I hate this, I thought, stopping myself. I hate all these time constraints.
As I approached at my snail’s pace, a man hustled up to me. “Need a cab?”
“Yeah I need one pretty bad.” I pushed the hair out of my eyes, and felt a trickle of sweat down my back.
“It won’t be easy with that box, but I’ll get you one.” His black eyes flashed and he gave me a grin, exposing several gaps where teeth should have been.
I didn’t know what was going on. Was this guy just being nice? I stood, watching him argue with first one cab driver then another; no one wanted to take me. Too much luggage, they all agreed. But my new friend was a hustler. “I do this for a living,” he said as he helped me load what little of my box that would fit into the trunk of a taxi. A light bulb went off in my head. Of course: he was working. With a sense of dread I reached into my pocket. How much should I give him? I agonized, feeling the weight of my poverty. I pulled out two dollars and handed them over. “It’s all I can give,” I told him, avoiding eye contact. He shoved the money into his pocket and was already walking away by the time I managed to call out “thank you.”
As I climbed into the back of the cab I heaved a sigh of relief. “The entrance to the closest subway station,” I said to the driver.
He eyed me through the rear view window. “Look, I’m doing you a favor giving you this ride, so don’t be changing your mind in the middle and telling me to take you somewhere else.”
“Oh, no, I really want to get to the subway, I’m absolutely sure of that.” Where else would I go?
He started the car. “All day I got people telling me, take me here, and then when we get there it’s, no, I don’t want to go here anymore, take me there.”
I stared at the back of his head. This whole conversation was confusing. Didn’t he charge by the distance? I was pretty sure it worked that way, having seen my share of TV. So, I reasoned, wouldn’t he earn more money driving people all over town? “I promise I won’t change my mind.”
I saw his shoulders relax, and as he pulled into traffic he glanced at me again, as if seeing me for the first time. “What’s in the box, anyway?”
“Um, it’s a bicycle.”
“Kind of big for a bike.”
“I know, I know, and heavy too,” I added.
“Well I wouldn’t ride a bike in New York City. Too many crazy drivers.”
I just smiled at his reflection.
He concentrated on driving, and before I knew it we were at a subway stop.
“You sure this is where you want to go, now?” His voice sounded friendly and accommodating, as if suddenly it would be okay if I changed my mind.
“This is it, thanks.” I crawled out of the car, dragging my pack, feeling a bit silly that we’d only gone a few blocks. I noted the amount on the meter and handed him a few bills, remembering the tip, but unsure how much was expected.
“Keep the change,” I said, mentally calculating. I had given him an eighty-five cent tip. I hoped that was okay. I started to pull my box out of the trunk. The driver got out and helped me unload it onto the sidewalk.
“You gonna carry that bike down those stairs all by yourself?”
I looked around. “Guess so. I don’t really have much choice.”
“Well, good luck.” He got back in the cab and I watched as he drove away.
I looked at my box, then at the stairs to the subway, and took a deep breath. I began pulling the box behind me, making my way down the stairs, one step at a time. Most of my effort was spent trying to keep the box from sliding uncontrolled to the bottom. This was much harder than I had anticipated. Finally I made it to the bottom, sweat dripping.
I leaned my box against the token booth, stuffed a dollar bill through the crack in the window, and asked the clerk for directions to the “Train to the Plane,” a subway train which promised to take its passengers to John F. Kennedy Airport. As the woman slid my token under the bulletproof glass, she leaned over the counter, peering at my box. “You need to take that through the side entrance, it ain’t gonna fit through the turnstile.” She pointed to a gate. “I’ll buzz you in. Just go one stop downtown and you can catch the JFK train there.”
“Okay, thanks.” I stuffed my change into my pocket.
“Put the token in the turnstile and turn it,” she called to me, then buzzed the door open.
I did as I was told, and pulled my box through the gate to the platform. The train arrived, and I heaved my heavy load inside. When I got off at the next stop, I discovered that I would have to climb some pretty serious stairs to get to the platform I needed. It just wasn’t getting any easier. And I thought going down was hard. After an effort on my part born of pure desperation, my box and I made it to the right platform. I examined the box; it was starting to tatter. I struggled out of my pack and, after dropping it to the floor, leaned against a pillar. There was a small crowd of people waiting, and all eyes turned to look at me.
A few minutes later the train pulled in. As I labored to pull my gear on board, I was surprised to find a tall, well-dressed man lifting the end of the box. “Wow, thanks,” I said. He just smiled.
Finally I was on the train. I dropped my pack to the floor and sat down. I noticed people were still looking at me. A woman sitting across from me asked, “Hey, where you goin’, girl?”
“I’m going to Europe.” I felt the blood rush to my face.
“So what you got in the box?”
“My bicycle.”
Suddenly the whole car was in the conversation. It was as if people were just waiting for an opening to talk to me. Why was I going? Why was I bringing my bicycle? Why didn’t I buy one over there? Where was I going to stay? These people were full of questions. And the thing was, I didn’t really know how to answer them. What did I think I was doing? I didn’t know. I had gotten this idea in my head to travel Europe by bicycle. I had no idea what precipitated such a plan. And it wasn’t as if I’d ever done any kind of bike travel in my entire life, nor did I know anyone who had.
“Girl, you crazy,” the woman across the aisle informed me. I couldn’t do anything but shrug my shoulders and smile. She was so right.
Part 1
The plane arrived at Gatwick airport at ten-thirty Saturday morning. I hadn’t slept at all on the flight over, my excitement, combined with cramped seating, made sleeping impossible. I followed the other disembarking passengers, stumbling sleepy and bleary eyed off the plane and right into British customs.
Passport?” The customs official demanded.
I handed it to her.
She opened it up, eyeing the photo, then glanced at me. “American?”
I nodded.
“How long will you be staying in Britain?” she asked with a scowl.
Despite my inexperience in the art of traveling, I did have some fairly clear ideas about authority. One: divulge only a minimal amount of information. And two: manipulate the truth to make it seem as benign as possible. In other words, lie.
“Two weeks.” Of course I had no idea what I would do or how long I would stay. For all I knew about my future plans, it might be years before I returned home.
“How much money do you have?” She was really firing out those questions.
I thought a moment. After paying the plane fare, I figured I still had a little under seven hundred dollars left. “Seven hundred dollars,” I told her.
She was shuffling some papers around; as I started to lean over the counter to see what she was doing she said, “Let me see your money.”
What? Let her see my money? I hadn’t expected that. I looked through my money belt. Where had I put my traveler’s checks? “Um, my money’s in my backpack.” I hoped it was true. What did I do with those checks?
“Where is that?” She narrowed her eyes, looking at me intently.
“I, um, I don’t think they’ve unloaded it from the plane yet.” I felt my face flush.
The customs woman replaced the cap on her pen, snapped her folder shut, and stepped out from behind the counter. “Let’s go check.”
I followed her downstairs to the baggage claim. Luggage was already circulating on the conveyor belt. I didn’t see my bright yellow pack. I glanced at the woman; she stared straight ahead. After what felt like an hour I spotted my pack. “There it is,” I pointed, and hurried over to pull it off the conveyor belt. Heaving it to my back, I turned around to look for the customs woman. She was standing right behind me. “Oh, there you are,” I said, feeling stupid. As if she would have let me get away? Right. We moved back several yards to escape the throng of travelers waiting like vultures to pounce on their belongings. I dropped my pack to the floor with a thud. Here we go, I thought. I sat down, flipped open the top pack and began pulling out clothes, books, toiletries, a towel, and piling them on the floor beside me. Where were those checks? Second compartment: more clothes, a journal, hairbrush, wait, there it was, a blue plastic envelope.
“Here they are.” I waved the envelope triumphantly.
She held out her hand and I gave her my checks. In less than a minute she handed them back, along with my passport.
“That’s it?” I asked.
She smiled for the first time. “Have a nice stay in England.” She trotted off, leaving me sitting on the floor, encircled by my belongings. I flipped through my passport, looking for the stamp. There it was, Gatwick, 4 August, 1984. She must have stamped it before we came to look for my money. And what if I hadn’t been able to produce my traveler’s checks? Very confusing, but I had made it. I was official.
By the time I had everything repacked, the crowd had thinned, and only a few lone suitcases remained circling on the conveyer belt. But, what about my box? Had there been some sort of mix up? All the nightmare stories I’d ever heard of lost luggage flooded into my mind. What was I going to do? I had to have my bicycle. She was my transportation. My only friend in this strange place.
I left my pack on the floor and approached an airport employee. “Excuse me, sir, I had a big box that hasn’t come off the plane yet, and I was wondering if...”
“Oh, you mean that one?” He pointed to a side door. There it was, leaning against the wall, frayed and battle scarred.
“Oh, thank you so much!” As I hurried towards the door, I heard him say, “We unload the big stuff first, because it doesn’t fit on the belt, you see?”
My bike! I ran my hands over the cardboard. There were several gaping holes where it had been torn or worn away, but I didn’t care.
I dragged my pack over to the box, and began the task of unpacking. Thirty minutes later I was still unwrapping pieces. I had packed her myself before I left Texas, but I hadn’t remembered being so, well, thorough about it. I loved that bike, and had wanted to keep her safe, but this was turning into a royal pain in the ass.
Finally I had all the pieces laid out in front of me, and a big pile of packing material on the side. I dug into the box and pulled out my bag of bike tools. No wonder the box was so heavy.
I felt a knot start to form in my stomach, though I didn’t want to let my anxiety show to the slowly gathering crowd of maintenance men watching what I was doing. I’d only had my bike a short time—it was one of the first mountain bikes to hit the market—and despite my pride and enthusiasm, I was a novice when it came to bicycles. Sure I had taken her apart, but that had been two months ago. Besides, taking something apart and putting it back together are two very different activities.
I pushed the hair out of my eyes and began fitting the pieces together. It didn’t take long to realize it wasn't just the packing I'd overdone. I had been a bit overzealous in my disassembly, too. This was taking forever.
By then I had an audience. Didn’t these guys have anything better to do? It was starting to grate on my frazzled nerves, having all eyes on me. I mustered up all the bravado I could, and pretended this was just an average, run of the mill day. Yup, flying into foreign airports, sprawling out on baggage claim floors and piecing together bikes. Sure, I do it all the time.
Finally she was assembled except for the wheels. The rear wheel wasn’t too much of a problem, but when I went to put the front one on, I discovered one of the nuts was missing.
Heart pounding, I began rummaging through the box, thinking it might have fallen to the bottom. I pulled the remaining packing material and my panniers out, tipped the box over, ran my hands inside, everything I could think of, but to my mounting horror it just wasn’t there. After all this, now a piece was missing! Stay calm, I told myself. I started pulling through all the wrappings, feeling tears of frustration threatening to spill out. I didn’t know what to do, but I definitely didn’t want to start crying in front of all those men.
“Lose something?”
I looked up, startled. One of the maintenance men was talking to me. “What?”
“It looks like you lost something.”
I looked around at all the faces circled above me. They seemed concerned. I sighed. So much for my façade of nonchalance. “I lost the nut that holds the front wheel in place.” I detected a slight quaver in my voice, and willed myself not to cry.
The man who had addressed me bent down to look at my bike. “Maybe we have a nut in the tool room that will fit.”
My eyes widened. “Oh my god, really?” As he hurried off on his quest, I smiled broadly at the maintenance men. How could I have felt so annoyed by these kind-hearted souls, these angels of mercy, who had come to my rescue? The man returned holding a handful of nuts. He bent down and began trying each one out. I stood watching, my confidence soaring. Then I noticed the frown on his face.
“Hmm, I was afraid of that.” He straightened up and dusted off his pant legs.
“What? What? What’s wrong?” I felt a tremor of panic course through my body.
He looked around at his fellow workers. “It’s metric.” They all nodded.
“What do you mean?” I pleaded. What was going on? Why didn’t it work?
“Where was your bike made?”
“Japan. It’s Japanese.” I looked at him blankly.
“Ah. Metric.”
“You mean it doesn’t fit?”
He shook his head.
Oh no, what was I going to do? I clenched my fists. This was just too much.
“There’s a bike shop about a half kilometer from here,” one of the workers offered. “I’ll bet they have the part you need.”
I looked at him. “Really?” I asked.
The other men were nodding in agreement. I gave them a courageous smile, though I was feeling none too brave.
Fifteen minutes later, armed with forty dollars’ worth of pound notes I’d exchanged and directions to the bike shop, I wheeled my bike, baggage strapped to the rear rack and front wheel held on by luck and gravity, to the exit. When I finally maneuvered my way out the doors I took a look around me and stopped short.
Nothing but miles and miles of pastureland, with only an occasional cow to break the monotony. I’d thought I was flying into London, but this was absolutely the boondocks. I took a breath and began pushing my bike along the road the maintenance men had indicated, the pungent aroma of cow dung filling the air. It took about ten minutes to find the shop. The shopkeeper took one look at my problem, reached under the counter, and handed me a nut. After all the trouble I’d gone through, it would have felt more appropriate if he’d pulled out boxes and boxes of nuts and bolts, searching for that one special fit. He charged me ten pence for the nut. All that heartache I suffered for a measly 10p?
I decided to buy a front rack and panniers while I was there. The short trip from the airport showed me I had way too much stuff to fit into my rear panniers. Seventeen pounds poorer and I was on my way.
I was officially on the road. My bike felt great. A little on the heavy side perhaps, but it was wonderful to be outside, and riding her again. The sky was a cloudless blue. It was a perfect day for cycling. I pedaled along the serpentine country road, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
I was dazed from lack of sleep, so it was some time before the first hint of doubt entered the fog of my consciousness. I had yet to see a road sign or any other indication that I was heading in the direction of London, though I had faithfully followed the road the shopkeeper had indicated. In fact, I had seen no signs whatsoever. Just miles and miles of farmland. I came to a turnoff in the road just as a woman pulled up in a little blue car. I waved, hoping she'd stop. She pulled up alongside me and rolled her window down.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me how to get to London?” I would ask that same question of everyone I met that day. Motorists who slowed down enough for me to catch their attention, shopkeepers in the tiny villages I came across, children playing by the side of the road. Generally the responses were promising. “You are on the right road, just continue on. You’re doing fine.” Occasionally I would get a: “You don’t expect to ride there on a bicycle, do you?” When I gave a somewhat meek and muted reply that, yes, I did intend to do just that, these well-wishers would assure me this was an impossible undertaking, that it was far too lengthy of a journey.
These people’s sentiments magnified the concern first manifested in the Gatwick Airport parking lot: Where on earth was London? How far could it possibly be? Would I even make it that day? As the hours passed and my excited energy from the trip started to wear off, my fears began to be overshadowed by the exhaustion in my legs, and by my desperate need for sleep.
Finally, the cows and open spaces began to give way to houses. I passed a young man washing his car on the street, and once again stopped to ask the question of the day.
“London!” he cried as he dropped his sponge into a pail of sudsy water. “This is London.” His hands made a sweeping gesture and he smiled expansively, white teeth accentuated by ebony skin. His smile was infectious, and despite my weariness I smiled in return. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Cale Street. It’s in Chelsea.”
I had visited London the year before with a friend from the housing co-op where I'd lived during my first year in college. Jim and I had come for a two-week adventure back in the first days of People Express Airlines, when a round trip ticket to London was less than a month’s rent. We had stayed for a week in a London hostel. Since I knew of nowhere else to stay, Cale Street was my destination.
“Oh, that’s a long way from here,” he said. He then proceeded to give me directions on how to get there. After the first few lefts and rights my mind went blank and I just looked at him with an interested expression, nodding occasionally as my mind wandered.
When he finished, I thanked him and somehow convinced my legs to start peddling. After that brief respite they felt like lead weights. I pushed along, and within a few minutes I noticed the light seemed different. I looked up and saw ominous clouds gathering directly above me. Where did those come from? I wondered. Where was my beautiful, sunny day? As I rode on the skies grew darker and more menacing. I was so tired I could barely pedal, and now it was going to rain.
Just as the thought passed through my mind, the sky opened up, and water showered down in great sheets. I had stopped to wait for a traffic light when the torrent began. I looked up at the sky, rain washing my tired face, and started laughing. The traffic light changed and I just sat there, feeling fine, not caring a bit that I was getting soaked.
I was startled out of my reverie by a voice beside me.
“What are you doing? Do you have somewhere to go?”
I looked around and saw a florid, middle-aged woman in a bright yellow slicker carrying an oversized umbrella, eyeing me with a motherly, concerned expression.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’m going to a youth hostel.” There was pride in my voice. I did have somewhere to go. My first day alone in a foreign country, and I had a plan.
“Come on with me, lovey. I often help travelers, young people, when they need a place to stay. My name is Foxy. Come on, quickly now, before we’re both washed away by this storm.” Then she was rushing off across the street, before I had a chance to respond. I hurried after her, pushing my bike. The rain was really coming down in buckets, and she was walking so fast there was no time for discussion. Two blocks later we arrived at her flat, and she had me pull my bike in through the foyer to the back garden and under an awning.
“Come in the kitchen. I imagine you must be hungry.”
At the thought of food I realized I was ravenous. I hadn’t had anything to eat since the plane, a couple of sandwiches I had prepared for the trip. One thing about People Express Airlines was in order to keep costs down you were expected to bring your own food. In any case, the standard airline cuisine generally wasn’t particularly appetizing, especially for a vegetarian, and I had been thankful for my peanut butter. But that was many hours and many miles ago. “Yeah, I am, thanks.” I realized I should tell her I didn’t eat meat, though I hated to seem ungrateful and hoped I wouldn’t insult her. But I hadn’t eaten meat since I was 16, so I said, “I’m a vegetarian.”
“How about these then?” she asked, holding out a can of chickpeas for my inspection and not missing a beat.
I had never cared for them particularly, but I said quickly, “Oh, those would be great! Thank you so much.”
By the time I got the words out she had already opened the can and was pouring the contents into a saucepan. She put the pan on the stove and began heating up the beans. In a few minutes the pan was steaming, and she poured the food into a bowl and handed it to me, rummaging in the dish drain for a spoon. She sat me down at a tiny table in the corner of the kitchen. I was famished, and thought it was the best food I had ever tasted in my life. As I shoveled food into my mouth, she bustled out of the kitchen and into the next room. I could hear her speaking loudly to someone. When I finished my meal, I quickly washed my dishes, and set them in the dish drain. I walked out to where the voices were emanating and Foxy interrupted her tirade.
“Lovey, this is Sonny.” She gestured toward an older black man sitting in an easy chair.
“Hi.” I smiled at him.
“Hello,” he replied, giving me a friendly look. The TV was on and so I sat down on the couch next to Foxy. Some Disney movie about aliens was playing, so we all sat and watched. I was feeling very tired indeed. When the movie finished, Foxy told me I could sleep there on the couch.
“Okay.” I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. “Thank you.” I went out to get my sleeping bag and a change of clothes from my bike, and when I returned Foxy and Sonny were arguing enthusiastically. Actually Foxy was arguing, Sonny merely sat passively and listened to her diatribe. I saw they both were drinking. I laid out my sleeping bag on the couch, noting with relief that no water had soaked through the stuff sack. I changed out of my wet clothes in the tiny bathroom just off the kitchen, and hung them on the shower curtain rod to dry. Finally, utterly spent, I crawled into my sleeping bag. I shut my eyes and images of the day flashed through my mind: the endless miles of road, the maintenance men at the airport, the customs lady, meeting Foxy in the downpour… I was so tired I just wanted to sleep. Foxy was still talking, and her voice had escalated. She was becoming more and more animated by the minute. I wished I could close my ears to the din. I pulled my sleeping bag over my head. At one point I heard the sound of glass breaking. I stayed wrapped in the safety of my sleeping bag cocoon, wishing these people would go to bed. Earlier that evening I had overheard Foxy telling Sonny that she needed to leave early the next morning to catch her train for Paris, and I found myself praying that morning would come so she would go away. She was so loud. Finally, after what seemed like hours, I heard them both shuffle out of the room. I poked my head out to find I was perfectly alone, enveloped in darkness and, more importantly, silence.
Next thing I knew sunlight was streaming in through the partially drawn shades of the living room. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and somehow, in my myopic state, managed to locate the glasses I had stashed under the couch the night before. After a brief stop in the bathroom to relieve my aching bladder, I found my way to the kitchen and found Sonny sitting at the little table, wreathed in cigarette smoke and drinking a cup of tea.
He smiled up at me. “Sleep okay?”
“Oh, yes!” I replied, the grueling night already fading. “I was really tired. Where’s Foxy?”
“She's off to Paris. She won’t be back for a few days. You’re welcome to stay here, though, if you’d like,” he added.
“Thanks,” I said, sitting down across from him. “I’m actually on my way to a youth hostel. I was trying to get there last night when it started to rain and Foxy came along and brought me here.”
“They have any vacancies?”
“Wow, I don’t know.”
“I’ll call them if you like.” He took a sip of his tea. “What’s it called?”
“Cale Street Youth Hostel.”
He found a phone book and dialed a number. After speaking a moment into the phone he paused to look at me.
“You're in luck,” he said, treating me to another of his radiant smiles. “And we're not too far from there.” He replaced the receiver on the phone, picked up his cigarette, took a long drag, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Look, I’ll draw you a map.” He took out pen and paper and sketched the route I could take, starting from their house.
“Thanks,” I said, for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. I put the piece of paper in my pocket and got up.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Sonny asked.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll just get going.” I was looking forward to being on my own, independent. I packed up my sleeping bag, retrieved my still damp clothes from the bathroom, and, with Sonny’s help, wheeled my bike outside.
“If you need anything, just come on back,” he said as I mounted my bike and started pedaling.
Suddenly something caught in my throat and I felt my eyes fill with tears. I tried to thank him again, but only managed a slight wave and a smile.
Not twenty minutes later I turned into the drive of Cale Street Youth Hostel, delighted to finally be in a familiar place. I locked my bike to a post, and hauled my bags to the reception area. The receptionist took one look at my smiling face and announced, “We’re full.”
My smile faded. “But,” I stammered, “I just called, and…”
“There’s another hostel just down the road a ways,” he interrupted. “They have space.”
“But, I rode my bike,” I held up the panniers as proof.
“Oh, it’s not far, you can ride there easily.”
He didn’t understand. Of course I could ride there. Hadn’t I ridden all the way from the airport? It was just that Cale Street Hostel was the one thing I had been sure of about this entire adventure, the one facet I knew, or thought I knew, I could count on. And it didn't help that my emotions had been on a rollercoaster and I was suffering from jet lag. I opened my mouth to utter another protest when four guys walked in, dressed in biking clothes and wearing helmets.
“We’re full,” the receptionist informed them. “But there’s a hostel down the street.”
I stared at the backs of these four muscular athletes. My first close up view of bike travelers. Or actually, my first sighting ever, period. Since I’d never seen anyone who was doing what I intended to do, close up or otherwise.
“Hey,” I heard the receptionist say, and looked up to see his gaze on me. “Follow these blokes. They have bikes, too, and you can follow them to Lancaster Gate Hostel.”
I glanced shyly at the cyclists, who hadn’t even acknowledged my existence, and quickly followed them outside, strapping on my bags quickly and unlocking my bike as they stood in a tight group, discussing their options. When they pedaled away I was right behind them, doing my best to keep up. Luckily the hostel was, as the receptionist had said, only a few blocks away.
When I walked into Lancaster Gate Hostel, I stormed up to the counter and announced, “The receptionist at Cale Street Hostel said there were vacancies here.” I eyed the receptionist and crossed my arms.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, oblivious to my aggressive stance. “Sign here.” He pushed a ledger towards me. “It’s two pounds fifty per night.”
I dug in my money belt and examined the bills carefully, settling on a five pound note. He gave me some change from the till and directed me to my room. As I walked through the lobby my mind registered a sign on the counter: “receptionist needed.”
My “room" turned out to be a big dormitory, with four bunk beds on one wall, and three on the opposite. I dumped my bags on a free bed. After a warm shower and a change of clothes, I went to the dining room. I was almost too late for the complementary continental breakfast the hostel offered. I sure didn’t want to miss that. I had about six-hundred and fifty dollars in traveler’s checks, plus a few pound notes, but I had the idea in the back my mind that I would be away from the United States for a very long time, and I wanted to be careful about how I spent my limited supply of funds. I don’t know what I expected a continental breakfast to be, but I was very disappointed. One white roll, jam, and weak tea with milk. This wasn’t my idea of a substantial meal. Despite the sign in bold letters informing us “only one breakfast per hosteller,” I wondered if the woman serving would notice I had already been through the line. I had finished my roll by then, and decided to give it a try.
I felt my stomach flutter as I stood in line once again, waiting for a tray. I tried not to make eye contact with the woman, but to my dismay she recognized me right away.
“Only one breakfast per person.”
I was caught. “Oh, I didn’t know,” I lied. “It’s my first day here.”
“Go ahead and take it this time.” She turned her attention to the next hosteller.
“Thanks,” I said, and I walked back to my seat, smiling. A minor victory.
After breakfast I went outside to sit and think about what I wanted to do with myself. I had brought out my map and the Let’s Go! Europe had purchased in New York City before I left, and sat on the steps, weighing my options. I looked at the map of Britain, probably for the first time in my life, and tried to get an idea of what the land was like. I found Loch Ness in Scotland, and thought, heck, I could ride my bike there and maybe see the Loch Ness Monster. Loch Ness pretty much covered the extent of my knowledge of Great Britain. I figured I should see things while I was traveling, that this was what I was supposed to be spending my time doing. Nessie seemed like a good choice.
Over the course of the morning several people stopped to talk to me. In this first introduction to the world of travelers I learned the standard questions nearly every traveler I met asked, and later would find myself asking: Where are you from, Where are you going, How long have you been traveling? There was an almost ritualistic aspect to the exchange; it was as if, by participating, you proved yourself to be in the arcane society of travelers. The codes of behavior and ethics would become second nature to me as I became more seasoned. That first day, though, I knew nothing of this. My gratitude toward this handful of strangers who stopped to exchange words with me was heartfelt and deep. Their presence and light banter helped me to feel a little less alone.
By the afternoon I had both a plan and an alternate. I had thought about the "help wanted" sign, and decided I would do my best to convince whoever was in charge to hire me. Since I was already worried about my financial situation, I figured a job would be the best alternative. Then I could save some money and feel more secure about traveling later. If I couldn’t get work, I thought, I would ride up to Scotland. I felt much more grounded having a plan of action.
I went inside and asked about the sign. The receptionist told me that they were hiring at Cale Street hostel, and that I should inquire there. So I got my bicycle and rode over.
When I arrived at the hostel I met Michael, the manager, who told me yes, there was a job available, but that I should come back the next day. Perhaps Cale Street and I were intertwined in the vicissitudes of destiny after all.
I was determined to have that receptionist position. After a lifetime of near hermitage, I had finally succeeded in breaking out of my shell. The transition from the introspective, quiet wallflower to boisterous, outgoing socialite occurred the day I left home to go to college. I had always possessed a powerful sense of independence, and in my eagerness to be on my own I moved out of my parents’ house just two days after my last day of high school. I didn’t bother with attending graduation ceremonies. It felt like a big waste of time to me.
By graduation day, I was living in a dorm in Austin and having the time of my life. My cloak of timidity disappeared as I threw myself into the life of a bohemian. I was still, after a year, riding high on this crest, and felt a receptionist position at a youth hostel would be the perfect job for me.
When I returned to Cale Street the following day, I found Michael waiting for me at the front desk. He told me the job I wanted was no longer being offered. My smile faded. Michael cleared his throat. “Well, we do have a cleaning position available. You could start tomorrow if you wanted it. It would be less money, but…” his voice trailed off.
“How much does it pay?”
“Thirty pounds a week plus room and two meals a day.”
Any job was better than none. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“You can start tomorrow. Be here around nine. Just bring all your things in the morning and I’ll have someone show you the cleaning staff room.”
“Okay, thanks,” I replied, smiling. “Thanks, really.”
I walked outside, deep in thought. Despite my disappointment, I felt excitement well up as I rode to Lancaster Gate. I was going to work in a youth hostel in London. I had a job in a foreign country!
By eight-thirty the next morning I was on my way to Cale Street. Michael was at the reception desk when I walked in, and he showed me to the cleaners’ room. I had just enough time to dump my bags on an empty bunk before going to the dining room for breakfast. The routine was similar to Lancaster Gate, except that the dining room was big and open, with high ceilings and huge windows. After I’d had the usual roll and tea, Jack, the head cleaner, found me, and assigned me to work with Jenna, making up beds.
Jenna was from Lubbock, Texas. She’d been working in the hostel about a month, and knew the cleaning routine, so I followed her lead. We worked well together, changing the sheets on eighty-four beds that day, and making another fifty or so. She explained to me that the hostel had over 300 beds, well over the legal limit. “It’s because the owners are really greedy,” she told me, “and put double the number of beds in each room. I swear someday the city is going to close this place down!”
I looked at her in alarm. I had only just gotten the job. From the way she described it, I imagined the shutdown was imminent.
“Anyway, that’s why they hire us, since we’re not allowed to work legally they can pay us crappy wages.”
As we worked, Jenna filled me in on some of the ins and outs of working at Cale Street. Mainly she warned me about Jack, explaining he was a Viet Nam vet and would go into rages at the drop of a hat. Something about Agent Orange exposure, she said. I decided to keep my distance if I could and try not to provoke him. By four in the afternoon we’d made the last bed and I was worn out and grimy. I went back to the dank little cleaners’ room and got my things to take a shower. Refreshed, I went up to the lobby to see if anything interesting was happening.
No one was there except the receptionist. I’d never seen him before so I introduced myself.
He said his name was Brent, and the moment he looked at me, I felt my heart skip a beat. He had golden, tightly curled hair that hung past his shoulders, deep blue eyes, and an impish grin. He was South African, he told me. He had been traveling for thirteen and a half months and had been to sixteen different countries. I was entranced. When I discovered that he was a vegetarian, too, I was hooked.
Six o’clock was dinnertime, and, since I was a cleaner, dinner was part of my pay. I left Brent with the promise I would return when he got off at eight, and went for my first dinner at Cale Street.
To my utter disbelief, a sign was posted on the cafeteria wall announcing two entrees that evening, one regular and one vegetarian. Breakfast seemed a very long time ago. The food was a feast, mushroom crepes. I was so pleased I forgot about all those beds I had changed that day. I’m going to like it here, I thought. In fact I already did.
Brent had just gotten off when I returned to the lobby. “Hey Susan,” he greeted me with his soft South African accent, and I felt my stomach jump. “Come upstairs with me.” He lowered his voice. “Some friends of mine have some hash we’re going to smoke.”
I hadn’t done much in the way of drugs since I left my parents’ house. An occasional mushroom trip, even more rarely pot, but mainly I had just been enjoying life itself. By then I’d almost completely lost interest in recreational drugs, but what the heck, I though, I was on an adventure.
We went up to the third floor and into one of the rooms. It was smaller than the cleaners’ room; only four beds, and unlike the cleaners’ room, it had windows. Two women were sitting on one of the beds. One pulled out a pipe from her pocket. I watched as she loaded it with sticky brown hash, lit it, took a drag, and handed it to Brent. He took a hit, and handed it to me, along with the lighter. Hash was definitely hard to keep lit. I filled my lungs with smoke and held it there, then passed the pipe on, remembering to relax so I wouldn’t go into a coughing spasm as the smoke expanded in my lungs. After a while I started to feel high, and we sat and talked for a few hours. I didn’t add much to the conversation, though. Getting stoned tended to put me into a state of intense introspection.
Finally Brent got up to go, and I followed. I felt terribly sleepy, so I said “see you later,” and wandered off to my new domicile.
“Miss Sue! Time to get up!”
What was that obnoxious voice? I had slept on a top bunk, and I opened my eyes to see Jack’s face not twelve inches from my own, a sardonic grin on his face. I was exhausted. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, listening to Jack make his rounds to all the bunks. My roommates all looked as bleary-eyed as I felt, and no one seemed particularly enamored with Jack’s presence. We each stumbled out of bed and into our clothes.
A small, sturdy woman with long, shining dark hair and an olive complexion befriended me, taking me with her to the dining room for breakfast. Her name was Sonja, and she was Yugoslavian. We ended up working together all day. Only fifty beds to change, plus that many again to make up, so we were finished by two-thirty.
The next day I was what was called “special,” which meant I didn’t do regular cleaners’ work, but special assignments invented by Jack. He gave me a list of things to clean, and I went at it. I worked fast, and completed the list by two in the afternoon.
Thinking I was finished for the day, I changed out of my work clothes, and just as I was heading out the door to do some sightseeing, Jack caught me.
“Miss Sue, where are you going?”
I glanced over at Brent, who was working at reception, then back at Jack. “I finished everything on the list, so I’m going to the Tate Gallery.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
“But,” I hesitated, feeling the blood rush to my face. “I thought I was done for the day.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” He glowered at me. “You’re on special, which means that you do what I tell you to do all day, and if you finish a job you come find me and I’ll give you another one. Understand?”
I wondered why I bothered to bust my ass and finish quickly for such abuse. I looked again at Brent. His eyes were full of sympathy.
“Come with me.” Jack strode down the hall. I followed him, anger burning in my stomach. He stopped at the stairs and pointed. “I want these spotless.”
“Fine.” I glared at him. He left me alone and I ran downstairs to change back into my work clothes, and, after gathering a pail and brush from the storeroom, I headed back to scrub the stairs. I finally made it to the bottom few.
Just then a man walked up to where I was kneeling, scrubbing away.
“Sorry I have to walk on your clean stairs,” he said.
I smiled at him. “Well, they are for walking on, go ahead.”
He smiled back and leaned against the banister. “I’m David.”
“Hi, I’m Susan. Nice to meet you.” I pushed my sweaty hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand.
David was thin and lanky, with shaggy, light brown hair, warm blue eyes and a wide, disarming smile. We talked for several minutes, then he told me he was the kitchen manager, and wondered if perhaps I would be interested in a job in the kitchen. I told him I was definitely interested.
“Stop by my office when you finish.” He gave me directions to his office, and continued up the stairs, looking back apologetically as he did so.
Ten minutes later the stairs were sparkling and I found David sitting in his office.
“Um, I was finished with the stairs, so I just came here.” I stood in the doorframe, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“Come on in. Have a seat.” David smiled, gesturing to the empty seat next to his desk. “I’m just doing some paperwork,” he explained, a wry note in his voice.
“I really like that they have vegetarian food here at the hostel,” I said, saying the first thing that popped into my head. He was the kitchen manager after all.
“So you’re a vegetarian?” His expression was warm.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“Actually, I was a vegetarian for a while. I don’t know what happened, I just started eating meat again a few years ago. I feel bad about it, really. But being a vegetarian is a great thing, it helps heal our sick planet.”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned forward slightly in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “You know, what’s so crazy about this world is that humans decided that we are the most important species. Like with eating meat, people don’t even care that they are eating another being, this animal that was alive, that had feelings just like you and me.” He paused. “Of course, I shouldn’t talk because I’m not a vegetarian anymore.”
I smiled.
“But we’re all missing the point of life, you know?” he went on, warming to the subject. “So many people don’t even think about the spiritual side of not only animals but plants, everything in nature.” He sat up. “I mean, here we are, cutting down trees in the rain forests, cutting down the lungs of the planet, and why? Only for money, for greed.”
David sighed audibly, then continued. “Our society is sick and self-centered, and capitalism is this big machine, like some kind of religion almost. It’s a religion that is destroying everything with greed. It’s just a fucked power trip, and it’s what’s determining the future of our planet.” He glanced over at me, a sheepish look on his face. “I’ve been ranting , and you’ve been listening so patiently.”
“Oh no, really, it’s okay,” I said quickly. I realized I had been sitting on the edge of my seat, hanging on his every word.
“It’s just that I’m so angry with the way the world is being mistreated. As far as I see, the only hope is to try and raise people’s awareness. People need to see that the planet is alive, not some big dead rock we can fuck up as we please.”
I sat quietly, overwhelmed by this man who could speak the language of my own soul so eloquently.
“But you know,” he continued, his voice softer, “as much as we’ve abused the planet, I think it can heal itself, if we would only stop all the destruction and take care of it. We’re poisoning ourselves with all this pollution and chemicals we keep dumping into the water. It’s insanity.” He leaned back in his chair. “We have to see it’s all interconnected, life, everything. It’s those things that humans can’t create that are really the most amazing things about life and living, and those are the things we have to protect—”
The door burst open. We both jumped in surprise. Jack’s angry voice filled the room.
“There you are, Miss Sue.” His voice was menacing. “Get out here right now and get your ass back to those stairs.”
After feeling such an amazing connection to David’s words, Jack's harshness hit me like a slap in the face. David and I looked at each other, my eyes full of tired resignation, his of compassion.
“I’m finished with the stairs, Jack,” I said, my voice calm. I was not yet willing to pull myself from the bottomless oceans of David’s eyes.
“Well, I don’t believe you could have done a decent job that fast, so get your ass out here now.”
That pissed me off. I had worked hard for him, and he was making some pretty insulting insinuations. I turned in my seat and stared at him, thinking, Okay, Jack, you think you’re so tough, but my will is stronger than yours, and besides that, I’m right.
David’s voice cut through our icy stare-down. “I invited Susan in here to speak with me, Jack, and I accept full responsibility for taking her away from her work. We just need a few more minutes to finish up, if that’s okay.”
Jack looked at me and hissed, “When you’re finished here, come to the stairs and we’ll see what kind of job you did.”
“Fine,” I answered.
He walked out, closing the door behind him with a thud. David gave me a kind smile. “I know you did a good job, Susan. I saw you on your knees scrubbing.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess I better go. He’s waiting.” I stood up to go. “It was really nice talking to you,” I said, folding myself back into the safe armor of politeness, which, after having felt so open to him, seemed heavy and awkward.
“Hey, we’ll talk some more, Susan, and don’t let Jack get you down.”
I smiled wryly and turned to go, still carrying a little bit of David’s magic.
Jack was waiting at the stairs for me. He made me stand there while he inspected each stair, every crack and crevice. I could see he was looking for even a speck of dirt, something to find fault with. My stomach was churning as I stood passively, arms folded across my chest. The stairs, banister, and walls were absolutely spotless. We stood there for a full five minutes, then he broke the silence with, “Okay, take off till five-thirty, then you can sweep the reception area.”
“Look, Jack.” I made my voice kind and soft. “You don’t have to yell at me. I’m a really hard worker, and I will do any job you tell me to, and do a good job, too, okay?” I wanted so much for him to know he didn’t need to worry that I was slacking off.
He just looked at me, an expression of deep dislike forming on his face.
I sighed, and walked in the direction of the front desk to see if Brent was still there, thinking I could chat him up a bit. Michael passed me in the hall and, on impulse, I stopped him. “Michael, I don’t want to work as a cleaner anymore. I think it’s slave labor.” I noticed Jack, who had been behind me as I walked, heard my remark. I didn’t feel like I was criticizing him exactly, just the position, and hoped he wouldn’t get any angrier.
Michael looked at me as though he agreed. “Okay, sorry you feel that way.”
Oh well, I sighed to myself. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I didn’t want to be treated like dirt anymore. I would figure something out.
I went to the reception, and sat on the window ledge, talking to Brent, Jack forgotten. I felt free, finally I was on my own, my future lay in my hands alone. I was in truly uncharted territory. The old rules didn’t apply to me any longer.
So I sat and listened, mesmerized, while Brent talked about himself. He loved the attention, I could tell.
A little while later a man came up to me, asking if I was Susan. I had never seen him before, but I smiled and said yes.
“I’m Todd, the bar manager. I hear you’re looking for a job.”
“Uh huh.” I nodded my head and swung my legs, kicking the wall behind me with my heels.
“Well, there’s a bar maid job opening up, are you interested?”
“Oh wow, yeah! That would be great.” I sat up straighter.
“I have to think about it,” Todd said, “but I’ll let you know. Come to the bar after dinner and find me.”
“Cool, thanks so much.” I smiled again. He was a nice looking man, in his mid-twenties, curly dark hair and beard, and soft brown eyes. I liked him immediately. As he walked away I turned to Brent, with a huge grin on my face.
“Sounds like things are looking up for you.” Brent smiled, his eyes shining.
“Yeah, how cool.”
By then it was five-thirty, so I started sweeping the lobby. My last cleaning task! I was almost finished when David walked up.
“So Susan, did my friend Todd talk to you?” David asked.
“Yeah, he told me about a job at the bar.”
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