Soooo good to be here.
On arrival in Spain, I fell asleep, woke, vomited, and fell asleep again.
I spent the next week lying in the sun (sun! sun! how I’ve missed you dear sun!) and moaning. Fever, dizziness, achey body aside, it was great. I felt like a tuberculosis victim sent to an infimary on the spanish coast.
From the sofa I’d call “Call me Florence Alice Robins the Third, and fix me some chicken broth!”

Timshel took time off his programming work to care for Reuben whilst I got over what was probably a flu. Later in the week, when Reuben became ill and I wasn’t any better, we walked through cobblestoned lanes to the village Chemist. With phrasebook in hand (translations of vomit, fever, aching body) we began an impromptu pantomine of mime, smiles and vigirous nodding of the head. We left with some drugs.
Drugs, Sun, good friends to catch up with: I was happy.

Reuben loved the challenge of a new environment to explore and two new playmates. He even worked out how to open the blind (see picture). He had two days of ill health but then seemed to recover sufficiently to develop a fascination with wooden spoons. Between the blind and the spoons, he was happy.

Timshel rises to the challenge of a new language with unbridled enthusiasm. His spanish conversation partner was the lady who worked at the deli-counter of the local supermarket. He would return home with sausage, cheese, olives, and the spanish word for “camel”. He was happy.

It was lovely to see Chris and Claire. Friends from Melbourne, Australia, they had spent a year here in Comillas, screen-writing (Chris) and creating childrens books (Claire). They seemed healthy and well-occupied, and gave us a real education on spanish culture, food, and wine you could buy for 60 cents (euro). We boughts lots of wine and croissants. They were happy.

I like Spain.

We caught the plane to Spain!

We managed to make check-in JUST. The good fellow who checked us in was approached immediately after and asked “Haven’t you closed YET?”
I expect the good fellow took his supervisor aside and said
“Look, at these people. Look at them. Tormented by sleep deprivation, beset by ill-health, failed by our public transport system …how could I possibly deny them passage to the warm delights of Spain?”

We are not pushy people. Our motto is ‘happy to wait’. We are generally the type that stay for all of the credits of the movie and amble out when the cleaners come in.

We would not normally, for instance, rip our bags from the overhead shelf, storm down the stairs, madly disembowel the coach for our luggage and then plunge into an airport. You could say it was unusual for me to leave in such a rush as to not properly close my bag, thus prompting numerous articles to fall or flail from the bags opening. Even more unusual for my husband to yell “Don’t worry about it. Just RUN! run! Run!”

We arrived at Kings Cross station with shakey legs, flushed faces and no idea of where to catch our bus. We asked a busy lady at the station’s information booth for directions. Whilst giving us our instructions, she also directed a group of white-socked americans to the “ladies bathroom”. I half wondered if we would end up with a water closet and missed bus. But we found our bus stop.

Deserted. A little pole, a red bus sign and nothing but the woosh woosh of traffic. We had definitely missed the early airport bus and could only hope that we hadn’t missed the later one.

We laid down our luggage, fed Reuben a biscuit, and waited.
Had we missed our bus to the airport? Would we miss our flight to Spain?

Slowly, some luggage-laden foreigners approached us. Looking dubiously at the sign, they they then pointed at the ground saying “Stansted? Airport?”. They seemed to know less than we did. Poor souls.
The bus arrived. It would deliver us to the airport 45 minutes before our flight departed. The minimum check-in allowed was 45 minutes. The journey would give me a welcome chance to rest my (adrenlin-drenched) still sick body, but would we miss our flight?

The train, two stations before Kings Cross, stopped.
No explanation, no big loud bang, just a train that seemed to get tired and want a little rest. We passengers shifted uncomfortably in our orange sheets and looked at each other with raisied eyebrows.
Finally, with a fuzz of static, an announcement was made
“We apologise for the delay. Engineers are currently upgrading the software in our signalling system. All trains in the vicinity are being held at platforms. Service is expected to resume in 10 minutes.”
We couldn’t believe our misfortune! We had already been waiting for what seemed like ages.
10 minutes came, got sick of waiting, and left.
Another announcement 5 minutes later
“We apologise for the inconvenience, all services will resume in 5 minutes”.
5 minutes came, and left.
So did we. Seriously late for the bus to the airport, we couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
First step, we agreed, was to try and find a guard. After some scouting about in dark corners we found one (he also had suprisingly bushy eyebrows, must be part of the job). He gave us some bus numbers and directions to Kings Cross Station. We flew out of the tube like something distastefully spat out and RAN.

RUN, Run, RUN, spot bus timetable on street. Check. puff puff. No bus. RUN.
Run, Run, spot next bus stop. Check for buses. None. RUN, run, RUN.
Stop for lights.
Me: puff puff “Do you know where we are going?”
Timshel: puff puff “I think so.”
Me: puff “How far away are we?”
Timshel: “A while yet I think.”
Me: “Should we get a Taxi?”
Timshel: “I don’t know, what do you think?”
Lights change. Run, RUN, Run, RUN, RUN, run run
As we run …
Me: “I don’t know. Taxi expensive.” puff puff.
Timshel: “Missing plane to Spain MORE expensive!” puff puff.
Me: “Would take too much time to find Taxi, flag Taxi down, load bags, fold down stroller …bettter to keep running.” puff puff.
Timshel: “Ok” puff puff.
Me: “Ok” puff puff.
Reuben: zzzzzzzzz (amazingly)

We are on our way to Kings Cross Station. Much relief.
As I sit pinched in between a pack and a stroller I reflect on the morning thus far.

It has been a morning of much nausea, confusion and train station closure. We had lost so much time in our tight schedule of buses, trains and planes that I had feared we would miss our flight to Spain. The night before we had calculated “mishap and misadventure” into our plans. Crouching over various timetables and schedules we played with sums
“We can miss two trains, possibly three, never four”.

No train missed = [lots of spare time + 9.00 am airport bus + spare time + plane to spain]

One train missed = [9.00 am airport bus + spare time + plane to spain]

Two trains missed = [9.30 am airport bus (just) + plane to spain (probably)]

Three trains missed = [10.00 am airport bus (hopefully) + plane to spain (maybe)]

Four trains missed = [no plane + misery]

As I watch the grey morning whizz past, I am doing more equations in my head

Very sick shelley (see picture)= 1 slight delay

Station closure = 1 slight delay

1 slight delay + 1 slignt delay = 2 slight delays

2 slight delays = two trains missed = [9.30 am airport bus (just) + plane to spain (probably)] = ARGGhh!

I hate maths.
Can’t this train go any faster?

The train we caught from Willesden station in London’s suburbs had carried us dutifully to our connecting station but there we were met with a beautifully decorative (but rather stern) iron grill. The line was CLOSED.

“Part of the tube might be closed …”
Sarah had woken up at 5am to see us off. Waving us off from the doorstep in her dressing-gown, she had reminded us again that delays and station closures are common on weekends.

NOW: with the clock ticking loudly in the background like a bad gameshow, we are winding our way through the wintry bowels of the tube. Adrenlin has kicked in so I am feeling less tired and nauseaus but the steep stairs have to be taken slowly due to wooziness.

How do we get to Kings Cross Station? FAST?

We find a guard with bushy eyebrows and an official-looking jacket. He gives directions that sound something like
“Depart west from Cyprus via East India, board at Canada Water, travel to Mudchute but not all the way to Tooting Broadway, alight at Shepherd’s Bush and board at St.John’s Wood avoiding St.James’ Park and St.Pauls, then get off at the Elephant and Castle near NutBushcitylimits.”
These directions make me want to cry. My heroic husband just narrows his eyes and squints at the little tube map. Reuben makes snoring sounds in his stroller. A man in red trousers walks past carrying a cello. The clock ticks on.
We need to get to Kings Cross Station to get the bus to the airport. If we miss our plane, we will miss our opportunity to go to Spain. I really want to go to Spain.

Sometimes you wake up and instantly know that you are SICK.
Feverish, weak and trembly, I croaked at Timshel “I think I’m dying.” As we fumbled about in darkness, picking up pieces of clothing and randomly stuffing them in our packs I whispered “Sorry. Can’t move very fast.”
Problem was, this was a morning that required swift movement. Getting to Spain necessitated a 20 minute walk, 2 train trips, a 50 minute bus ride, a two hour flight, and 40 minute car trip. Our schedule allowed very little time for dilly-dallying, dragging ones feet or vomiting.
Which was unfortunate, because, walking to the tube in the beautiful dawn light of Hanover Road, Willesden, London, I really felt like vomiting.

Despite the vivid imaginings of my inner drama-queen (“I’m going to vomit all over this path, I feeeell ssssoooooo sick, ooh look there’s a bush I could vomit in that bush”), I stumbled my way to Willesden tube station vomit-free. We were roughly on schedule*.

*Please note that being ‘roughly on schedule’ wouldn’t have presented any problems if the tube had been running as normal BUT…

2 am, LONDON.
They are still at it. I can’t believe they are still at it. I am two storeys above them but I can still hear them. They must have all the windows and door open. It’s freezing out there, how can they have all the doors and windows open? These people are mad. Or drunk. There neighbours must hate them.

3 am
Please Stop. Please Please stop. Go to Bed.

3.30 am
IF I GO TO SLEEP NOW I will have 1 and a half hours sleep before I have to get up, pack and leave for the airport.
I went to bed at 9.30 pm. I had wanted to socialise, but fetl exhausted after a full day of travelling, and had the kind of heavy-body feeling that indicates the beginning of a cold. Reuben had been reluctant to sleep in an improvised bed (a sleeping mat between a pack and wall) and new environment, so I was glad to get him settled and fall into bed.
At 10 am Reuben and I were woken with a request to move from Sarah and Tony’s bedroom on the second floor to a new bedroom on the third floor so that Sarah and Tony’s housemates could “play music” on the first floor. I got the feeling that Sarah, who had offered the use of her own room for us, was mortified to ask this but was stuck between a hard place and 8 housemates. So we moved our packs, bedding, and a very grumpy baby up to the third floor. I was very cross at aforementioned housemates.

NOW, AT 3.30AM, I AM ROPABLE.
I have a sore throat and pounding head, and just want to get out of this place.

WE KNOW WE HAVE FOUND Tony and Sarah’s home when we spot a house with the green and gold kangaroo flag draped across the front window. Sarah and Tony are both at work when we arrive but we are warmly welcomed by their housemates. In the bewildering breadth of London and her suburbs, it is sooo good to be warmly recieved.

When Tony and Sarah arrive, we are given a tour of the house. There are 10 Australians living in this white, three-storey home. To accomodate everyone the dining room has been converted into a bedroom, there is a bungalow in the backyard and rooms are mostly shared: I am a little disconcerted to realise that most bedrooms have two double beds in them, the mind boggles. So begins our introduction to the world of “young Australians living in London’.

YOUNG AUSTRALIANS IN LONDON:

As Sarah and Tony explain over a yummy London curry, many Australians living in London are working low-paid jobs in a bid to save money to travel further. In an effort to escape the high rentals and cost of living in London, groups of Aussies share rooms, convert living spaces into bedrooms, and eat a good deal of pasta. They also embrace the use of credit-cards. It is not uncommon for travellers in their 20′s to return home oweing thousands of dollars to credit card companies. Sarah and Tony know some Australians who owe tens of thousands of POUNDS. The pattern of life is to work hard during the week and then spend the weekend partying with other Australians. Londoners are generally regarded as unfriendly and cold. Little effort is made to establish contact with ‘the locals.’

AS WE WALK HOME FROM THE CURRY HOUSE through drizzly streets, I reflect on how tiring it is to live in a foreign country, and how comforting it is to meet/live with other Australians. When you are struggling to interpret all the subtle nuances and differences of a new country, it is so nice to come home to your own culture. But as Sarah and Tony point out “What’s the point of travelling half-way across the world only to spend all of your time with other Aussies?”

LONDON IS BIG. It is a cold and echoey place in which to live and work. The housemates of Sarah and Tony have created a little piece of community that they can come home to at night. It means that, exhausted by work, they do not have to face the challenge of showing up at the nearest community centre and asking “Which room is ‘latin dance’ held in?” They eat together once a week. It’s not a lot of community to feed on, but if your priorities are saving money and moving on, it is enough to survive on. just.

As I look out at the London skyline through grey fog, I am reminded of the scene from Oliver in which Oliver holds up his bowl and pleads “Please sir, I’d like some more”.
I turn to Timshel and say “I don’t ever want to live in London.”