I contemplated my fate while I waited on platform seven with my four bags and no wheels. It was nine a.m. I was jet lagged and wouldn’t arrive at my final destination until five p.m.
The train was five-minutes away and I was still operating on plan A. Plan A, like the suitcases, needed discarding. Dragging the bags was clearly something I wasn’t going to be able to escape. That was just a cross I was going to have to bare. Nevertheless, the tube station still needed skirting and the only feasible way in which I could foresee that happening was by doling out money for a taxi. Plan B would now read train, taxi, train, train.
Moments before the idea of pushing my bags onto the tracks entered my mind, the train arrived. It was go time. I grabbed my insufferable bags and started hauling them towards the train door. Up and until this point the dragging of the bags had been a relatively quiet procedure, other than my sour mutterings. This time things had changed. Whenever I pulled, my bags produced a loud screeching sound. Fantastic! Not only did I look like an asshole pulling stupid bags around, but now anyone who hadn’t already noticed would be alerted to the fact that there was an asshole dragging stupid bags around.
With my heart rate pumping at maximum capacity, I reached the lip of the train door. I paused there for a moment trying to conjure up enough strength for the final pull. Just as I was about to make the all-important yank a very nice woman offered a helping hand. As I pulled, she pushed and together the cases made it onto the train with only seconds to spare before the door slammed shut and the train sped towards London. Unable to say thank you I gave a feeble wave that I don’t think the woman saw.
I squished the suitcases into the corner by the door and collapsed into a seat. Exhausted from the three-minutes of hardcore exertion and jet lag, I shut my eyes and waited for my vital signs to enter a normal range. When I opened my eyes, I admittedly was a little taken aback. What the dickens? Am I in Jamaica? I counted ten family members spanning what I believe was three generations. I also counted only twelve seats. Whether this Jamaican family liked it or not I would be joining their family outing right into London. They didn’t seem to mind my presence and merrily went about their business with a strange white girl sitting amongst them.
When the train arrived in London, I lugged the incorrigible bags through Victoria Station in search of a trolley. Victoria Station, I feel, is a very nice and very busy place. It’s not the sort of place were one would wish to pull around eighty-pounds worth of screeching luggage. Luggage that was now leaving behind a trail of black streaks.
I paid one-pound for a trolley and immediately tried to load it. Tried being the operative word. Each time I managed to lift a portion of the two tethered bags and aimed them towards the trolley, the trolley inched away. Around and around I went like a farm animal stricken with circling disease. At first, my anger was only directed towards the luggage, but after the spinning trolley situation, my rage fanned out to include not only the trolley but also to the people that passed by and watched me struggle. Perhaps my foul language had turned people away, or possibly, they weren’t nice people. Either way by the time I managed to circle the trolley and the bags into a wall I was spent.
My next chore was to find a toilet, which turned out to be one of the easier tasks of the day. However, once I reached the bathroom area, I noticed trolleys were not allowed in. Disgruntled, I moved along to the phone store so that I could buy a phone. The purchasing of said phone went surprisingly well. I asked the nice phone salesman if I could leave my bags in the store while I nipped to the loo. He said no. I’m guessing he thought I had tightly packed my bags with bombs, and I was fleeing the scene before I flipped the switch. I walked past the bathroom area one more time and noticed there was a luggage entrance. Brilliant! I approached the gated toilet community and asked the nice man guarding it if I could please come in. He too said no. What? Was this a joke? A modern day Billy Goats Gruff? Fondly remembering the tale, I felt that ramming the guard with my trolley would not be in my best interest. Instead, I asked why I wasn’t allowed through.
“Your luggage.”
Oh, the goddamn luggage. “But you’re standing behind the luggage gate. Surely I’m allowed to come in through there.”
“No! You have too many bags.”
“So I can’t come in?”
“No!”
“But I really need to go to the bathroom.”
“Sorry, you have too many bags.”
“Why is there a gate that clearly reads luggage with a picture of luggage on it, if someone like myself, with luggage is not allowed through the gate that says luggage?”
“Sorry.”
He wasn’t sorry.
To be continued…
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