Money, Phones, and the most patient man in the world.

I ventured out exploring yesterday afternoon. My first objective was to find the Green Line Station, where I will be meeting my traveling companion tonight. I wanted to be sure I could find the bus and be there when she arrives.

I knew the station as alongside the Victoria Rail Station, so I headed there and after a brief walk around the wrong half of the building, I ducked inside and looked for an information booth were I could acquire directions to the elusive station.

Inside, I discovered an odd sight. At the point where Victoria Rail Station allows entry to one of the two banks of platforms for departing trains, there is a giant multi-screen times listing that allows you to see all the train departures and arrival times. Around this were scattered maybe 250+ people, all staring at the signs and attempting to discern where they were headed, I suppose. They all had an air of waiting and expectancy, but you could tell that they weren't all waiting for the same thing, because when the British all wait for the same thing, they instinctively form queues. In fact, the British, as far as I can tell, queue better and more patiently than any other culture on earth. It's impressive to watch.

Sitting facing this giant display, near the back of the crowd, is a small information desk, at which sits the most patient man in the world. If you are ever in London, I recommend you go to visit him.

He's maybe late 30s, with a dogged sense of humour and a patient voice that immediately conjures up images of Tom Baker's indefatigable Puddleglum.

When I found him, he was answering a series of questions posed by a scattered and frizzy-haired lady in her fifties.

"I need to get to Cork."
"Yes, the twenty-two and fifty-two."
"What?"
"Trains depart for Cork at twenty-two minutes after the hour and fifty two minutes after the hour."
"Ah. Is it possible to get to Birmingham?"
"It is possible to do just about anything in this world, love, but yes, we have trains to Birmingham."
"What about Oxford?"
"A train goes there as well, but you'll have to make a change. . .You're really going for the full house here. Sure you haven't got to get to Manchester as well?"

And so on. And so I met the most patient man in the world.

"I've got an easier one for you. Green Line Bus Station?"
"Ah, yes. Just back out these doors, down the street to the traffic lights, then a left, and it starts on your left there."
"Thanks."

I didn't bother him anymore. After all, he's a busy, patient man.

After I found the bus lines and bay five (which is, of course, NOT around the corner from Bay 6, which I discovered first), I attempted to withdraw a little cash and discovered that my bank card and the Visa based ATMs are not on speaking terms.

Not having access to a computer, or my bank's phone number, I decided to attempt to call home.

From this point on I began to wish I was the most patient man in the world, instead of having just met him.

I called home. Let me note that I am required to dial 10+10+12+10 for a total of fourty-two digits, just to get a line on a number in the US. Even if that number is busy.

As was my home number.

Three times.

I began entertaining myself by wandering in what I thought was the general direction of my hostel, and stopping at each telephone booth I saw and attempting to call again. To mix it up I'd occasionally stop and try an ATM, which continued to mock me and refuse me any money. After two additional busy signals and three blocks, I finally got a connection!

To the answering machine. [Insert your choice of mumbled curses here].

Two messages and four blocks later, I stopped getting the answering machine!

And started getting a busy signal again! [insert yeti-esque ululation of anguish and visualize the phone booth shaking like a Tardis in need of a tune-up preparing for takeoff.]

After that I stopped trying the phones for a while and began to stomp in the direction I was headed in earnest. Interesting, there's a bar named the Elusive Camel. Nice name for a meeting place.

This is all very pleasant, except that my hostel is north of Hyde Park. . . and at this point I was approaching a bridge over the Thames.

Hang on a minute. . . cue confused glance at bus map (thank heavens for bus maps) and discovery that I'm two miles south of where I started out at the bus station!

Cue change of course, passing by Westminster and getting completely turned around on a side road. Cue entry of the Elusive Camel again, from a different angle. Not very elusive, I say, it's popping up every time I get lost. I think "The Homing Camel" might be a better name for it.

A few minutes and some determined trudging later I found myself in a square (hell if I know which one though) and surrendered myself entirely to the bus system. I found a bus map and line-listing and simply got on the next bus that I knew was heading towards my neighborhood (W2).

Ten minutes later I chose the wrong stop and got off three stops earlier than I should have, which is where I discovered the inverse rule of phonebooth call success and hospitability.

I decided, upon seeing a (from the outside) welcoming old red phonebooth that I'd try the number just once more.

And so of course the number could work, inside a dingy, scary phonebooth that had obviously been recently used as a not-so-private piss-point for some drunk stumbling home, where the only surface available to take down my bank's phone number would be a 3x5 card with the words HOT TRANSVESTITE and a phone number scrawled on it in felt-tip pen.

So I took down the number, held my breath as best I could, and suffered through it. After that I went back to the hostel, changed up my gear a bit, and headed out on another exploratory run.

My second trip was a great deal more successful, featuring positive navigation of the London Underground, acquired money, and good food. But telling about it is a lot less entertaining, and I'm running out of minutes on this computer.

Until next time. . .