All Aboard

1. “All Aboard!”

Listening to the howling wind and the murmuring London traffic from my hostel bed it suddenly occurred to me how quickly the last two years had passed me by. It seemed like only yesterday I’d arrived in London and made my way to The Fox and Goose, the pub where I’d planned to work behind a bar for a couple of months to earn some quick dosh so I could bum around Europe for a while.

On my arrival the manager had taken one look at me and relegated me to the restaurant, probably because he could see I had no hope of reaching the wine glasses on the rack above the bar.

Not that being a waiter prevented me from having accidents. If anything, this increased my chances for mishaps. At least if I’d been confined to the bar there was only the danger of spilt drinks and broken glass. Putting me to work in the restaurant meant there were the added perils of spilt gravy, mushy peas, bolognaise sauce and anything else that could leave lasting impressions on the clothes and bodies of unsuspecting patrons. One such incident left me covered in cream and my manager wearing hot, sticky apple pie. Needless to say he was not impressed. The customers however were overjoyed at the impromptu cabaret.

I’d planned to work at the pub for about three months before beginning my small tour of Europe, but I was so busy experiencing the relaxed antipodean London lifestyle that my plans quickly fell by the wayside. Not only did I stay at The Fox much longer than expected, but my travel plans were pushed aside indefinitely. At least until my two-year visa was about to expire.

Not that I spent the entire two years at The Fox. I may be clumsy, but I certainly am not crazy—okay, maybe a little. If I’d stayed at the pub for that long I definitely would’ve left London in a straightjacket and the only sightseeing I would’ve done is from the confines of a padded cell.

Working at The Fox wasn’t all bad, but after six months I was at the stage where if I’d had to eat yet another toasted sandwich and chips I would have gone stark raving mad.

Added to this was the fact that the staff house where I was staying, a mere ten-minute walk from the pub, made the Leaning Tower of Pisa look sturdy, and I’d been silly enough to choose the bed that sat directly under the leaky portion of the roof. That said, the roof leaked only when it rained; being London this meant there was enough water collected in the yellow bucket I’d placed there to fill Sydney’s Warragamba Dam. The food was similarly predictable. Breakfast was a choice of either cereal or fried eggs accompanied by some sort of pork by-product—whether it was bacon or sausages was anybody’s guess— while lunch was a little something I like to call ‘Leftover Surprise’.

Why? Because it was always a surprise what was left over from the lunchtime pub rush, and because it was a surprise if it was actually edible. While lunch gave most people indigestion, heartburn, the runs, or all of the above, dinner simply gave people the opportunity to swear profusely. It consisted mainly of toasted sandwiches and chips, soup and chips, and for the real adventurous who thought their heart—and stomach—could take it, there was melted cheese on chips. Obviously, this pub was in charge of keeping the country’s hot chips economy afloat.

Little wonder that after only a week of this I was pretty sick of toasted sandwiches and chips. Yet I watched with disbelief as the same people came into the pub day after day and ordered that same meal over and over. I soon began to wonder if the English had any idea about variety and if the only spice of life they ever got came courtesy of the local Indian takeaway.

That aside, I look back on my time spent at The Fox and Goose with fondness because in all honesty they were some of the best times of my life.

One memory that always brings a smile to my face is the time the staff got together to celebrate Australia Day. I was no longer working at the pub by this stage and had moved on to bigger and better things. According to the piece of paper I was handed just before leaving Australia, I was a qualified industrial chemist and I was eager to find out what that meant. My mates at The Fox weren’t too sure about my choice of career. They’d seen first-hand how uncoordinated I was with pub food and dreaded to think how I’d behave with much more dangerous substances. I guess they were waiting for the headline, Clumsy Anglo-Indian Causes Right Royal Mess! Nevertheless, I finally found a company brave enough to hire me and was soon embroiled in the thrilling world of automotive coatings. It was as fun as it sounds and before long I could proudly say I was actually being paid to watch paint dry.

Anyway, when Australia Day finally arrived—something I’d been looking forward to for quite some time—I left work early and quickly made my way to the pub.

I arrived as the self-titled ‘Bar Boys’ were closing up for the night. There was Toby, a tall blond larrikin who once talked me out of buying a T-shirt just so he could buy it (and yes, you’re right in thinking he’s a bastard!), Robert “don’t fuckin’ call me Ronald” Macdonald who loved all things Bon Jovi and was adamant that everyone at the Fox kept the faith, and finally Lincoln, a lanky Kiwi who was the most high-tech backpacker I’d ever seen. While others were content with just a camera or two, Lincoln turned up at the staff house armed with a video camera, a laptop and plans to turn our room into a high-tech Mecca. In the space of a week he’d outfitted his laptop with a CD burner, the house with an Internet connection and there was even talk of installing a collapsible satellite dish before the month was out.

Once the boys had closed the bar the four of us and a few other workmates walked to the staff house. The place hadn’t changed much since I’d left. Eleven people were still crammed in there and it still

looked like it was about to collapse any minute—the fence had already done so—and the roof over my old bed still leaked.

While Lincoln fired up the laptop and streamed Triple J, the first beers were cracked open and celebrations began and continued well into the next day. Admittedly, there was a short break at around four in the morning when pretty much everybody, overcome by copious amounts of beer consumption, crashed and burned.

Australia Day in London was not at all like Australia Day back home. The weather had a lot to do with that. Grey, miserable and reflecting the state of English cricket—shithouse!

But being the Australian pioneers that we were, Rob, Toby and I weren’t going to let a little drop of rain stop us and we waded into the backyard to fire up the barby. With the rain streaming and the wind blustering, you can imagine this proved quite difficult. Using our extensive knowledge of engineering and building practices, along with some old ladders and clear plastic sheeting we spotted in the shed, we built a pergola. Okay, that’s not exactly true. When I say we built a pergola what we actually did was prop ladders up against one another and hoped for the best. Even then it took us the better part of twenty minutes to settle on a design that successfully stood up of its own accord for longer than two seconds.

Finally, wiping the rain from our brows, the three of us stepped back and congratulated ourselves before a small breeze whistled through the backyard and sent the whole thing crashing to the ground and us scrambling for cover.

As a result, the barbecue—the smallest I’d ever seen at one and a half times the length of a loaf of bread and about two times its width —was moved into the shed. Looking at it, I wondered if it would even hold the weight of a sausage, let alone a few chunky rissoles.

Lunch was followed by a game of backyard cricket, which unfortunately didn’t last as long as we hoped. First, the light began to fade at about three o’clock, which was typical of a London winter, and second, Toby gave into the urge to smash the ball into the canal that

flowed behind the houses on the other side of the street. This left us with little else to do but pop open more drinks and play drinking games until we all passed out.

For this most of us were glad because in the room directly above us the head housekeeper and her husband, both illegal immigrants, were again giving the bed springs a work-out—they were notorious for it. It was a similar situation where I was staying at the time. I’d moved out of the staff house and into a bed-sit in West London when I’d started the job at the paint company and while the roof wasn’t leaking the other residents seemed to be forever bonking. If it wasn’t the couple in the room next to mine it was the son of the landlord and his girlfriend. It therefore came as no great shock when I came home from work one day to find someone delivering a brand new bed.

Thankfully, Scotland wasn’t as bad. After I’d finished watching paint dry I moved up north to see how life was in the land of coos— hairy cows—and kilts. Instead of spending my time in Edinburgh or Glasgow I ventured into the Highlands, which turned out to be a great decision. The scenery was beautiful, like something out of The Lord of the Rings, the air was fresh and the people, well, let’s just say they were different. While they didn’t feel the need to shag around me like bunnies on Viagra—in itself a good thing—I did find a few of the locals a quid short of a fiver. It was a couple of weeks after I’d started work at a Scottish pub when the bar manager told me very casually that a girl had slashed his back with a knife.

“Why?” I asked him.

Apparently he supported the wrong soccer team.

At that point I made a mental note: When chatting to girls in Scotland (a) do not mention soccer and (b) make sure they’re not carrying concealed weapons of any kind. It was a mantra I would follow forever.

One day I was picking up a roll of developed film when the guy behind the counter casually asked me where I was from. I told him.

“Aye,” he said as his eyes glazed over. “Yeenaw, arv alwees want’d ta visit Awstreelya.”

“What’s stopping you?” I asked.

“Jist ma crim’nal reick’d.”

Deciding not to pry, I simply nodded.

“Yissee, in ma young’r dees, ah wa a wee bit sillay an kill’d sum people ata fitba match.”

“Oh – okay.” What else could I say?

“That’s the thin with us Scawttish,” he sighed. “We’re lurvely people, ba we’re aw fuckin’ nuts!”

I certainly was not going to argue.

Despite this Scotland was a place of amazing and rugged beauty and I was sad to leave. But I had a whole other continent waiting to be explored and the following evening would find me in Paris. I could not wait.

To make sure I didn’t miss my bus the next morning I’d set my alarm for six. So when one started going off in the middle of the night I instinctively reached for mine. It didn’t occur to me that my alarm clock, which made less noise than a buzzing housefly but was still as annoying, had been hooked up to an amplifier of concert proportions.

Many unsuccessful attempts to kill it and a string of swear words later, I realised the alarm that was blaring wasn’t in fact mine; it was the hostel’s.

Instead of making my way to the nearest exit in an orderly fashion, I spent many minutes trying to find my glasses. Not that they were of any help because the room was pitch-black and I ended up tripping over my bag and sliding head-first along the floor.

Finally I reached the door, flung it open and found the corridor completely empty. Everyone else in the hostel, so it seemed, had ignored the alarm, preferring the warmth of their beds to London’s chilly night air. I could not fault their reasoning, so I too wormed back into bed. Eventually the alarm was switched off and I was soon asleep.

While some would say going on a tour with a company such as Busabout is not really backpacking because everything is taken care of, I would disagree. While Busabout offers a great alternative to Europe’s rail and bus network bussing people from city to city with guides giving the odd bit of advice along the way, I still spent many hours planning journeys, deciding how long I would stay in each spot and booking my own accommodation. I’d heard great things about Busabout and with the arrival of the bus the next day, found them all to be true. The ride was comfortable and our guide was friendly, laid-back and informative. The season was still early for tourists, which meant the bus was by no means full and finding a seat wasn’t a problem. Before long we were out of the city and weaving through green hills towards Dover.

This was the first place I chose to visit outside of London. Why? No particular reason. I just wanted to get out of London and the first place that popped into my mind was Dover with its white cliffs.

Compared to Brighton—the quintessential weekend getaway for Londoners—this town was both quaint and quiet. Not to say it was boring. A few locals definitely knew how to make their own fun.

Pouring dishwashing detergent into the fountain in the town square, for example. What resulted was the perfect impromptu foam party and left me wondering what the scene would look like if something similar happened at the fountain in Trafalgar Square.

Unlike the town, Dover port was a hive of activity. Being the main gateway to Europe the port was in a constant state of motion with ferries and cargo ships arriving and leaving with remarkable efficiency. When our bus arrived into port we were marshalled accordingly and our passports checked before the bus was driven onto the ferry and we shuffled out onto the deck.

While my fellow backpackers chose to find seats somewhere in the concourse I decided to walk past the shops and restaurants that were already doing a roaring trade and headed onto the observation area at the stern of the boat to grab a parting look at the UK.

It was a stunning sight. The wide expanse of the chalky British coastline extended endlessly in both directions and perched near the cliff’s edge was the Gateway of England—Dover Castle. By this stage I’d seen more than enough castles to last me a lifetime, having found out castles were to England like Starbucks were to street corners— they were everywhere. But I must admit, of all the castles I’d seen Dover’s remained one of my favourites. Not because of its imposing ramparts, keep and rounded medieval towers, but because running underneath its foundations was a vast network of underground tunnels that served as a crucial and strategic outpost during World War Two. After an uneventful journey across the English Channel we arrived on French soil and our guide picked up the microphone and greeted us with a chirpy “Bonjour” before dumping bucket-loads of information on us about Paris. Once she’d given us the run-down of what to see in the City of Lights she returned to her seat and, like the rest of us, was quickly taken up by the passing scenery.

Not that I blamed her. Unlike the typical dreary weather on the other side of the channel, the skies over France were clear and the sun literally glowed. The drive to Paris was made even more pleasant by the view of the lush countryside and green meadows that flanked the bus on both sides. I wish I could say the same for driving in Paris.

It seemed every single vehicle was practising for a demolition derby. I watched in amazement as cars, trucks and buses veered this way and that, moved sideways through traffic, occasionally bent all known laws of physics, and still managed to cause damage to all objects within a ten-metre radius. Anything beyond that, suitable weaponry was employed. In spite of this, our ever-resourceful driver managed to deliver us to Rue Montmarte in one piece by avoiding lethal stares, death rays and the occasional grenade/projectile/Surface to Air Missile lobbed in our direction.

As the bus pulled into the front of the hotel our guide reminded us of the dangers of pickpockets and bag snatchers. We warily picked

up our bags and eyed every French man, woman and poodle with paranoid suspicion.

Unlike everyone else who walked into the hotel to check in, I’d planned to leave the Busabout circuit for a few days and do my own thing. Standing nearby and eagerly awaiting my arrival were two long-time family friends, the petite Halcyon and her husband Fabrice, who

looked

remarkably

like

Gerard

Depardieu.

After

they’d

customarily kissed my face four times each, we paused for a drink at a local cafe before we bundled into Fabrice’s car and drove back to their place for a traditional meal of pork chops and mashed potatoes.

Not understanding how pork chops and mashed potatoes are traditionally French, I asked Halcyon. She said it wasn’t because the pig was French, but more because the chops were both marinated and cooked in wine.

“Are you any good at bowling, Darren?” Halcyon asked.

“It depends on your definition of good,” I responded.

She smiled. “Would you like to go?”

The bowling alley was unlike any other I’d seen.

“You look shocked, Darren,” Halcyon said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really. It’s just that I never expected the bowling alley to be so – classy.”

“What do you mean?” Fabrice asked. “What do they look like in Australia?”

“Well, for one thing we don’t sit on wraparound leather lounges sipping cocktails while we wait for our turn.”

“Would you like a cocktail?”

“Love one.”

While Halcyon organised the drinks Fabrice and I collected our shoes. As I was getting into mine a guy in the far lane scored his third strike in a row. Almost immediately an announcement came over the speakers and he ran up to the bar to claim his prize. France must be

the only place in the world where champagne is awarded for a good performance without a moment’s hesitation.

We found our lane and Fabrice, looking every inch the professional, effortlessly picked up his bowling ball, assumed the position and sized up the pins at the end of the lane. He then hurled the ball so fast that I’m sure the pins weren’t even struck, but fell over out of sheer fright.

Looking pretty chuffed with himself, Fabrice rubbed his hands together, smiled smugly at me and said, “Your turn, Darren.”

As I picked up my eight-kilogram ball I swear I heard the pins at the other end say, “weakling”. Naturally, that fired me up. With all my might, I sent the ball spiralling down the lane and straight into the gutter.

Halcyon smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, Darren. I’m sure you’ll do better with your spare.”

I grabbed the ball again and stared down the lane. The pins sneered back. I knew my pride was at stake. Taking a deep breath, I let loose and as the ball tumbled down the lane I thought for at least a second I’d bowled a strike. Ah, revenge would be mine and the pins would come crashing down. But reality landed with an almighty thud as I watched the ball in painfully slow motion curve at the last minute.

I turned around and shuffled back to my seat, ignoring the chuckling of the pins. “Hey, monsieur,” one called after me, “the only way you could ever get a strike is if we laugh so hard we cannot help but topple over!”

“Darren, it’s all right,” Halycon told me as I slumped back down.

“Two pins are better than none. I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”

She picked up her ball, knocked down six pins with her first bowl and then proceeded to pick up the spare.

Oh yeah, I was good at bowling, but only in my dreams!

The next day was Sunday, Easter Sunday to be exact. I celebrated with relatives in the very traditional sense; by stuffing

myself silly with chocolate and food, and in that order. It also happened to be my birthday so there was the added bonus of a great big cake. I decided to make the most of it, knowing it would be quite some time before I would eat this well again.

I wasn’t going to begin my tour of Europe in Paris but in Lourdes, a town situated at the base of the Pyrenees and made famous by the mysterious appearances of the Virgin Mary. Needing only one day to visit the spring and go for a hike up a mountain, I did not think it was necessary to lug my monstrous backpack there and back. Neither did Halcyon, who promptly arranged for my bag to be stored at the hotel where I was going stay when I returned to Paris.

It was obvious the hotel management had no recollection that this conversation ever took place. Bad move on their part. When you first meet Halcyon it’s easy to be fooled by her sweet porcelain face and soft nature. It’s only when she releases what I describe as her ‘fire breathing, arse kicking, start praying for your mama’ beast within that you realise how wrong you were. The guy at reception made this mistake. By the time Halcyon had finished with him he was handing over the key to the luggage lockers plus the contents of his wallet. He then turned to his manager—who at this point had taken a step back —and began sobbing uncontrollably.

Once my bag was safely locked away Fabrice and Halcyon kindly took me on a night tour of Paris. We drove the length of Rue Montmarte, Paris’s famous red light district before turning towards the city. After a loop of the Arc de Triomphe, Fabrice cruised down the neon swamped Champs Elysées, continued on to Notre Dame, traced the contours of the Seine until finally he whizzed past the glittering brilliance of the Eiffel Tower. Looking every bit as incredible as the night sky itself, it was easy to see why Paris is known as the City of Lights.

We arrived at Gare d'Austerlitz and after farewelling my hosts I climbed aboard the Train à Grande Vitesse. On the dot of ten the train

rumbled to life, pulled out of the station and took me into the dark French countryside.

When travelling on a train I usually curl up in a ball, make a funny sort of purring noise and collapse in an unconscious heap. In fact I’ve been blessed with a remarkable gift. I can close my eyes and go to sleep anywhere anytime——on a train, on a bus, sitting in a lecture theatre during the delivery of an important piece of information about an upcoming exam. But on this train I wasn’t about to let that happen. Not because the seats on the TGV were uncomfortable, far from it, but because I couldn’t see anything through the windows and was afraid of missing my stop and ending up in the middle of the countryside only to be taken in by a farmer and made to milk his goat. Not only that, I was plagued with worry about my bag. I’d heard the trains in France were notorious for pickpockets and bag snatchers and the last thing I wanted was to wake up to find my stuff had been pinched.

In an effort to stay awake I pulled out a bottle of Coke from my backpack, took a large sip and began to write in my journal about my exciting night of bowling. But it didn’t take long to find myself being strangely lured by the softness of the seats. I needed something more to keep me awake, so I put my journal away, pulled out my Discman, played some rock music and took another swig of Coke. Who would think that the sound of a blaring electric guitar could be so soothing because before I knew it the CD had finished and a full hour had passed. I tried another CD, more Coke, walking up and down the aisle, all to no avail because again I was soon nodding off.

The train pulled into Lourdes as the sun crested the distant peaks of the Pyrenees Mountains. I spent the morning wandering around the Grotto by the spring before later climbing to the top of the nearest mountain to take in the view of the valley below, a panorama of quaint towns and winding roads set against snow-capped mountains.

It was a little past ten that night when the train back to Paris pulled into the station. Unlike the TGV to Lourdes, this train was neither sleek nor empty. Most seats were taken with people jammed in the aisles and vestibules at the ends of the carriage. It was like India where cattle lumber down the aisles at will. But this was France, so rather than opting for the roof I squeezed down the aisle towards my seat and found someone sitting in it. This was the last thing I needed.

I could say hello and goodbye and a few other basic phrases in French, but when it came to politely telling someone to get out of my seat, I was at a loss. What made it worse was that the man was asleep.

I pulled out my ticket, not relishing the task ahead. No doubt the guy would not want to be woken and subjected to some tourist gesticulating wildly and pointing at a ticket while repeating in very bad French, “Hello, my name is Darren!” I was sure he would be left with the distinct impression that I was either a very happy tourist or someone trying to pick him up.

Nonetheless, it had to be done because I did not want to stand all the way to Paris, a journey that from Lourdes takes seven hours.

I reached across the seat and tapped the gentleman’s shoulder.

He mumbled something and brushed my hand away. Undeterred, I again reached across and gently shook his arm. This time he begrudgingly opened his eyes and gawked at me.

“E-e-excusez-em-moi, m-m-monsieur,” I stuttered, “you,” I gestured at him, “are in my seat.” I pointed to the seat.

He looked at me and muttered something in French.

“Pardon, monsieur,” I said again, “you are in my seat.” I pointed to the ticket then at the seat as well as the number above the seat.

“Oh shit.” I’d mixed up the seats. Mine was actually the one in front of this man I’d woken and by all accounts, it was empty.

“Pardon, monsieur, pardon,” I said, smiling sheepishly.

He sneered at me, said something that was obviously not particularly flattering and went back to sleep.

My seat was empty, but it was quite a difficult task to get into it, even for someone with my vertically challenged dimensions. It was bad enough that the leg room was practically non-existent, but adding to my predicament was the fact that the person in front of me felt the need to put his seat so far back that I could’ve rubbed his bald head with my nose and made a wish. Naturally, I did what anyone else in my situation would have done. I raised my legs, pushed my knees through the back of his seat and gently nudged. After a few minutes of this he turned around and glared at me. In the dim light of the carriage I’m certain I saw steam come out his ears, his pale European complexion turn a lovely shade of red and the top of his bald head ooze a shimmer of heat. I shifted slightly, gave the seat another push and dodged the daggers that were shot at me while he let loose a deep growl that would cause a grizzly bear to get all hot and bothered during mating season.

I yawned and feigned innocence, all the while shrugging my shoulders and flashing a cheesy grin as if to say, What am I doing? I’m just a stupid tourist. His seat went up. Not all the way, just enough so my ribs had room to move, allowing me a few shallow breaths. The small consolation of the journey was there was no fear of me sleeping past my stop because the train terminated in Paris. This, however, did not make it any easier for me to get any sleep.

I expected a night train to be quiet, but I was surprised to find this was not the case. The loudest noise didn’t come from snorers— and there were plenty of those—but from the woman next to me who seemed to have a love for opera. Not just any type of opera. She loved the far from soothing tones of the Chinese variety. I wouldn’t have minded so much if she’d been using headphones, but that wasn’t the case. She was in fact using a radio cassette player and insisted on playing her opera in volumes that were far from subdued. I’m not a huge fan of opera. Spending all that money on watching a show I can’t understand to me is absurd, but if others want to do it that’s their choice and I’m not going to stand in their way. But having to put up

with opera, especially Chinese opera, on a train at eleven o’clock at night was enough to push me over the edge. I was about to give the woman a piece of my mind when she began to pull out all forms of plastic bags and proceeded to rustle them in ways some might describe as rhythmic. I on the other hand would describe it as infuriating. By this stage I’d had enough and judging by other people’s scowls I was not alone. In the next second every passenger within a ten-seat radius of this woman turned and cried as one for her to shut up or else she would be the main attraction in a very public lynching.

Instead of apologising and lowering the volume of her music she scowled at us, picked up her plastic bags, turned up the volume on her stereo and stormed off to another part of the carriage. Not that I was complaining. At least now I had some semblance of peace.

Finally, with only the distant clickety-clack of wheels and the odd snore, I began to nod off, only to be woken yet again. This time it was not Chinese opera that roused me, but a man reaching over me with both hands. I initially thought he was the train conductor needing to check my ticket, so I began to reach into my pocket. If I’d been more alert it would’ve occurred to me that train conductors usually wear some sort of uniform and walk around as if they own the place. They don’t look unshaven and wear ill-fitting denim jackets and pants with holes at the knee. But I was half asleep and to speed up the process I pulled out my ticket. This startled him and sent him scurrying off down the aisle. It was only then that I realised he was a pickpocket and while my legs instinctively curled around my bag, my hand went to the safety pouch I’d hung around my neck. Thankfully, it was still there. Burying the pouch deeper inside my shirt, I wrapped my legs even tighter around my bag and spent the next two hours trying to get back to sleep. It was difficult to relax. Mainly because I was nervous about thieves, but also because I was too excited. I couldn’t believe I was on a train racing through the French countryside and for the next couple of months would be traipsing through Europe.

It was one of those surreal experiences where I thought I was dreaming even though I knew I wasn’t. With the silhouettes of trees and farmhouses melting into the shadow-filled countryside my mind filled with questions. What would Paris be like? Who would I meet?

Will my room-mates be cool? Would I have fun? Would my plans work out or would they all go pear-shaped to the point where I’d have to go home early?

While the questions came easily the answers didn’t. But I was definitely looking forward to finding them out.