Zimagal Monthly Magazine - Volume One, Issue Nine

Introduction
I am more of an armchair traveler than anything. It's not that I don't enjoy traveling - it's just that the world is probably safer when I stay home! Seriously, I like being in foreign countries and different states; I just don't like getting there.

My first trip to Europe involved four airplanes (crossing the Atlantic) six trains and two ferries (crossing the English Channel to France) and countless cabs and buses. "Getting there is half the fun" is a LIE!

I really do not like flying much, especially long distances. It's more a comfort thing than a fear thing. But I feel the same way about train and bus travel. Cruise ships are another thing altogether - I can deal with the relative elbow room allowed in such a method of travel.

Intense Training
On my last jaunt to England, I flew into Gatwick and had a friend drive me to London. I stayed there a few days, getting to know their Underground system quite well before taking a train back to West Sussex to stay with this friend.

The return trip only required a taxi to Victoria Station and a train to Billingshurst. Easy as pie, right? Well, it would have been if I, the compulsive shopper, had less baggage to tote. I had purchased so many souvenirs in London that I was forced to buy another suitcase. Luckily, Marks and Spencer was open late that particular week night before my departure. So loaded down with two large suitcases, two plastic shopping bags, a tote and a purse, I embarked on my short but difficult journey.

Upon arriving at Victoria, I was accosted by a "porter" who nearly robbed me blind while pretending to be useful. As I closed the window of the train on his outstretched hand, I closed my eyes and prepared to relax during my 45-minute trip to the country.

As I observed the train's rapid stop-and-start at each station along the route, I became alarmed. How would I get myself AND all of my voluminous luggage out of the train before the train pulled out of the station? I left my compartment and stood in the aisle with my bags several stops ahead, in anticipation of the frantic exit I would have to make. When we arrived at my stop, I pushed open the door and hurriedly threw my luggage onto the platform, breathlessly jumping after it. As soon as the door closed behind me, the train pulled out of the station post-haste. I sighed in relief and looked for a porter. There didn't seem to be one, so I gathered my bags about me and set off towards the station building. An official-looking gentleman approached me. I thought he might help me with my baggage, but no, he merely wanted to see my ticket. I had to put all of my bags down to reach into my tote and hand him the ticket. Then he walked away. No gentleman he!

I realized that the station building was on the opposite side of the tracks from which I had exited the train. This meant that I had to carry everything over three sets of train tracks. My large case had small wheels and a strap with which to pull it along. The strap decided this was a good time to break off, and did just that. I was forced to pick up the case by the handle (oof!) and somehow carry the other five large items as well. I prayed that no train would come roaring through the station as I crossed the tracks.

Ten minutes later, I forlornly looked around the station to see that there were no cabs. I spotted a phone box about two blocks up the road and headed for it, baggage in tow. Being from the US, I didn't realize that my bags would have been perfectly safe left behind at the station. Once at the phone, I called my friend for a ride, then collapsed right there, on the corner, on my luggage, too weak to move.

June was prompt, and a long soak in a hot tub rejuvenated me enough to help her in the garden later that afternoon.

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