Can one day be fifty hours Part 1

Recently I asked myself what can one day be fifty Hours? The concept seems obscure. Fifty hours, this is often someone’s workweek. This could also be recognized as two days and a little extra for good behaviour. Most of us do not see the world from this construct of time. Many see the day as a twenty-four-hour segment with time allocated for work-life, leisure activities, and with some luck, sleep. End day one and then start again. So what can be done in fifty hours?

Yesterday I opened an old bin with remnants of the past. Although I don’t feel that old- my agent says, “the 42- 50 segment will understand what I mean.” I hope. Either way, I came across a journal. If you have ever created them, you can better understand your life steps or make you feel very old in my case both. I realized that you can do more in fifty hours than you would have ever thought possible. Or can you?

A Modern Arthurian legend.

Checking my luggage at YYZ for those that don’t follow this blog, I reside in Toronto, Canada. Depending on who you are, you will either think this a good thing or the most disgusting thing you have ever heard. For many Canadians living outside of Toronto, this area is like seeing your parents have sex -not pleasant no matter who you are. 

Saying goodbye to the last of my local friends, walking through the security gates ( there will be no Covid 19 mentioned in this blog- I am tired of it as I am sure we all are.) I retain my personal belongings and begin to manage the long corridors that will eventually lead me to my departure gate.

Taking an overnight passage to London, United Kingdom, I had hoped to find a couple of hours of sleep on the flight across. Having drunk to my friends and family health leading up to my departure, the next logical thing was to search for another cocktail. Over-priced airport alcohol. I know I shouldn’t. Still, I was hoping to get some sleep on the crossing. Pulling up to an empty barstool- it seemed that many here also had the same idea as me. I started a friendly conversation with a young lady that was also going to London. We conversed on many subjects while waiting for our flight. As I would later find out, she was a professional athlete heading to England for a tournament.

Did you hear that?

Over the PA system, an announcement was made, “for those leaving for London, your flight will be boarding shortly, starting with row double U…Would Jon McEneany, please report to the check-in kiosk please, Jon McEneany.” 

“Wow, that is odd,” I said. I immediately went into panic mode. Was there an issue with my luggage, boarding pass? I honestly had no idea. I bid farewell, wished her all the best in having a successful tournament and left for the kiosk.

“Hi, I am Jon McEneany. You announced my name over the PA system?” Unfortunately, this summonsing sobered me up very quickly- my plan thwarted. 

“Yes,” the attendant replied. Her brown hair pulled back, wearing the blue uniform with the tiny, somewhat silly-looking fascinator moonlighting as a hat. “We seem to have an issue with seating on this flight, and we were wondering if it is not too inconvenient, can we bump you up to first class? However, please do not board until all the other passengers have done so.

“Regardless, I will get a seat?” I asked quizzically.

‘Yes, of course, sir,” replied the attendant.

“Then this will not be an issue, as long as I can cross this evening.” Now sober as a priest during confession, I began to hear the plane being called to board. Taking a seat in the lounge, I waited and watched as the rain started to pick up velocity and ricochet off of the windows before me.…

“Mr. McEneany, you can board now, heard a voice from behind me. Thank you for your patience in this matter. Have a good trip.” Suddenly a roar of thunder shook the terminal, followed by a bolt of lighting so large and bright that it could have been cast from Thor himself.

“Thanks,” I said hesitantly.

Four

Boarding, the door closed swiftly behind me, and I was ushered to my seat. While the rest of the passengers look at me as if I was the cause of some delay. I guess it was easier casting them down on me and avoiding the real issue- the hurricane-like weather conditions. Placing my bag over-head, the plane started to move. There was no room. An attendant took my bag and stowed it for me, and ushered me into my seat. The floor show was about to begin. Sitting down and buckling into my roomy seat. The plane lurched forward.

“It might be a rough ride until we get over the clouds,” I said to the person next to me. It was my friend from the airport lounge from less than an hour ago.

As the lights came down on the cabaret, the attendant buckled themselves in. The revving from the Rolls Royce engine began to increase. We were now underway along the runway. The aircraft picked up speed, and as it did, I felt a squeezing on my hand. I looked over at her. There was a look of genuine concern in her eyes, mixed with an unspoken apologetic tone. I squeezed back to reassure her and soon were above the low pressure heading into smooth flying. 

Rest your head.

We talked and drank and talked some more as the attendants filled our glasses as dinner was being served. As it turned out, she was a member of the LPGA (Ladies Professional Golf Association). Who was on her way to the UK to participate in some of the tournaments that were scheduled there. Before long, I found her head resting on my shoulder and my head resting on hers. I will not mention her name as I would not want to embarrass anyone. We must have both fallen asleep after dinner. Awakened by the bright sunshine that penetrated the cabin like a 5-kilowatt spotlight and immediately came back to life.

With the smell of hot coffee in the air, the passengers began to rise from their siesta. I nudged my golf pro friend. We were then handed our coffee, a light continental breakfast and a hot cloth to help get the reality to set in. It seemed like only minutes later that we felt the wheels’ thud as we hit the tarmac. A rousing round of applause suppressed the surrounding sounds—appreciation to our captain, the Arthur Fidler, of airport transportation.

London Town

Being rustled through English customs was as cheerful as a customs inspection can be. My travel companion had to make a connecting flight to Birmingham. Wishing each other much success, we went our own ways. She, as it turned out, would go on to have a very successful career. Me, I found my way to the top side at Gatwick airport during a public transit strike. Looking around, all the private transports were either full or booked. It was a transportation frenzy. I am not sure if I was still drunk or tired or both, but the entire circumstance I found amusing.

Ahead of me, I heard shouting. “You, are you looking for a cab to London?” The man inside the black taxi said.

“Honestly, I don’t think I can afford one,” I replied. From what I understood it would cost about 30 euros from Gatwick to the City centre.

“What ya got?” said the cab driver in an Andy Capp accent- Cockney.

“Ten,” I responded sheepishly. 

“Look,” he says. “I have to go back, and I don’t want to hang about with no fare. Pay me a tenner and buy me a pint of Bitter in town. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.” I dropped my things in the cab, and now I was off to London Town with my new friend- Archie, who was turning out to be a great tour guide. What a stroke of luck.

Sightseeing

He pointed out many of the sights that I had only heard of. The Brixton Market, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, just to name a few. I explained my plan that I would meet a friend on the continent in a few days. As it turns out, he is on the road, with no way to contact him. I had intended to take a bus to Dover and cross to Calais. Now I have to go to London to find a passage. He took me to Victoria station, the hub for all London transportation. Parking the cab, we went for a pint, actually two at the Travellers pub. From here, he said I could find a private bus to Dover and make the crossing.

Years after the Blitz

London’s downtown was settled in chaos. I had only read about “the Blitz” but had to think that it was a great deal calmer than it was now. Finding a bus station, I enquired about movement. There was none. The 4pm bus to Dover was sold, as was the 6. There was room on the 730. Can one day be fifty hours, I was beginning to think so. There was time to kill and armageddon around. Taking a cue from a Simon Pegg film, I went back to the pub and tried to assess what my next steps should be. Locals that were frustrated channelled into the pub. Travellers that were lost and seeking direction funnelled into the pub as well. I stepped outside for some air and elbow room to enjoy my glass of libation.

That’s Odd first Aid!

A woman was passed out in the middle of the pavement while her acquaintance was trying to revive her. They both looked like they had come from a punk rock revival concert. He seemed to be caring, yet his version of emergency health care was far different from what I was taught. I was making my way toward the collapsed woman when I literally bumped into Chris, sending my beer in the air and crashing down on me like Niagara Falls. As I looked down to see my soaked clothes, the emergency teams had arrived to tend to the incapacitated woman lying on the street.

Splash

“Let me buy you another,” said the man dressed in commando fatigues while wearing a black beret with a red band around it, he said with an American accent. Confused by the turmoil with the potential dead woman and being very wet. Now in front of me was a tall military person offering to replace my beer. We clung onto the railing as the throngs of customers came and went, making idle conversation with many of them. Most travellers were trying to find their way to the coast and across the channel to France. While the locals just got pissed.

Not at my Best

While the summer sun was becoming low in the sky, the 730 bus to Dover was beckoning me. My clothes were only damp. Chris and I made our way to the bus depot and began to push our way onto the bus. Here, again there was no order. It was survival of the fittest. Making my way onto the coach, where there were only single seats available. I took the first open seat. Asking: “Is this seat available?” The red-haired woman that occupied the other chair, grudgingly she said it was. After all, I had beer spilt all over me and hanging out in the sun sweating and not bathing for what seemed like fifty hours or an eternity. Under the circumstances, I could understand her reservations. I was not presented as I would have liked. Chris, too, caught the same bus, seated a few rows back- thankfully.

Blue Birds Over

A coach ride from London to Dover should take about 3 hours. This last bus would have to be on time. It was the link to the last crossing that evening. Finally, I was sitting in air-conditioned comfort. She asked if I was from America. It was then that I noticed her striking green eyes and slender features. Mari was a nursing student, and a native to Dover going home to visit her parents’. I explained what I was doing, and while in her company, I began to ask myself why. The white cliffs of Dover may be the right place to settle down. We spoke and laughed, and it was finally nice to have a conversation with those from this planet- I wish I had a breath mint! The time passed much too quickly, and now I clung to the lyric of an old Vera Lynn song.

Time for goodbyes

Leaving London late and the travel time taking longer than anticipated, we were hustled on the ferry so that departure could commence. Now seated, we waited. With London’s transportation issues, the bus company added a second bus to correspond to this crossing. Minutes later, a second busload of travellers were on the seas of the English channel. Bye England, Bye Marigold.

As Lou Said.

There is still much to explain, with twenty-five hours gone and still intent on making it to Luxembourg. The best portion of this saga is still yet to occur. You may be thinking, this is not a conventional story that you usually read in a travel blog. Where are the closing times? The costs? How much to tip? The cheapest ale etc. Sadly very little of that will be touched upon. Here you can witness a first-hand account of what you can do in fifty hours in a Jason Bourne-like tale. I guarantee the ride will be one that you soon will not forget. The next 25 hours offer so much more.

Have you ever experienced a whirlwind of activity that you had to live each moment simply by instinct? Dropped into a shark cage and the largest of all sharks grins at you as it passes by, and you hope that it finds the person next to you more delectable than yourself? If so, we definitely want to know.

Stay safe and be prepared. You can never anticipate what happens next.

As always, it is our privilege to help you with your next adventure.

Your Vacation, Your Escape.

VTE