Off the Rails Coffee Shop, adjacent to Queen Street Station (Glasgow)

 

A pleasant place to have a coffee while waiting for a train to the next destination. It has the aesthetic of a 1940s-1950s American coffeeshop, albeit with a heavy emphasis on British teas and treats. I enjoyed watching people walking in, having a coffee, perhaps a pastry, a check of their phone, or meeting someone before a journey. From Queen Street Station, trips can be a few minutes or several hours and this small coffee shop is where many of us are preparing for the day. As people get a takeaway coffee, or a sandwich, a woman next to me has a text conversation that brings a big smile to her face, maybe a grandchild or a long-lost friend. An elderly couple wander in, needing directions for how and what to order, as well as some assistance navigating the train system. There is communal help for the confused travelers before we all move on to our next task or adventure.

Travel Inconveniences

 “Pay your money and take your chances,” my friend Niel often says. Part of the art of travel is confronting and adapting to the unknown and the unexpected. It is not always easy, and often we become fatigued and frustrated.

My journey to Portland was not going to be easy to begin with. I anticipated arriving in Oregon tired, after a long flight that would get me to the hotel late at night. Little did I think how difficult the first leg of the trip would be. My departure was from Harrisburg, a regional airport where security and check in is easy. Calculating cost in the long run, the little more in airline fares is offset by the additional travel to airports further away, parking, gas, and time. The downside, of course, is then something goes wrong there are fewer options to rearrange travel plans than at a larger airport. A technical issue with the aircraft scheduled to take us to Chicago O’Hara necessitated a call to the mechanics. The flight would be delayed at least an hour. A change in plans: crabcakes at a restaurant in the airport in Harrisburg.

I returned to the gate. More bad news. The nearest mechanics were located at Washington Dulles, a two-hour drive from Harrisburg. Quickly, it became apparent that I would not going to make my connection to Portland. My rescheduled trip would now involve an overnight in Chicago, at the airline’s expense. But we still needed to get there. The gate crew started bringing out water and snacks, soon they promised to order pizza from a local place in Middletown. The talk shifted to bringing a replacement airplane up from Dulles to get us on the way. Gate B1 was becoming monotonous. Shops and restaurants were closing. Shortly afterwards, an announcement was made that the TSA Security checkpoint would be closing as well. The terminal shifted to nighttime work. Construction and cleaning workers started an overnight shift, something most of us do not see in a busy airport as we scurry to our destinations. While the bustle of the airport changed its focus, the automated announcements, such as “Welcome to Harrisburg International Airport…” and “Enhanced security procedures are in place…”, never stopped.

We finally boarded the airplane a full six hours after the scheduled departure and were in the air by a quarter to midnight. The flight was only half full because many people made alternative arrangements. The flight attendant seemed befuddled by the whole process and experience. After waiting in the terminal for so long, many people were exhausted. I was among them. I did ask for a water when she came by, but otherwise tried to doze. At twelve thirty, the flight attendant made a solicitation about the airline’s credit card – given the previous six hours that was a pointless act. I realize that people like the flight attendant are just trying to do a job, none of this was her faculty. I try to offer a kind word and express gratitude in situations like this. But this time it might have been a mistake. I was dozing when I was startled awake to find the flight attendant telling me she had just spoken to the co-pilot, and we were about 45 minutes from Chicago.

When you are tired, looking forward to a bed, knowing that your sleep time will be limited, everything is liable to go wrong. It is times like these, when I am tired, when I am most prone to make mistakes. I considered my options carefully and selected the hotel closest to the airport to minimize the travel time back and forth. I was told in Harrisburg that I would need to retrieve my luggage in Chicago and recheck it the next morning. Baggage claim was a long walk, obscured by confusing signs, and discovered that it was not true. My bags were going to Portland without me. Had I known, I would have bought toothpaste and a toothbrush in Harrisburg. After a short bus shuttle ride, it took fifteen minutes to check into the hotel. First, because I did not have a reservation, the airline just sent my name, the desk clerk had to create one for me. When filling out the reservation, the clerk inadvertently made the reservation for the following year. But it took quite a bit of time for everyone to figure out why the system would not allow me to be checked in (because my reservation was for a year hence). Then, of course, as if fate was aligned against me, there were no toothbrushes at the from desk. They would send someone to the room with one. A short delay, but I thought I should wait until it arrived before I got undressed. The nice gentleman who delivered it did make me feel good by saying, “there you are young man.”

Even though not quite six hours of sleep, waking up meant a new day. After a quick shower, an email check, and a perusal of the news, I was back at the airport. Rather than waiting in line at a fast-food place and trying to find a corner to stand and juggle coffee in a paper cup with an overly sweet bakery item, I opted for a sit-down breakfast. I deserved it after the previous night. It was a decidedly American breakfast, even though the café touted itself as Tuscan. The server, a woman about my age, had a distinctly German accent, while Ella Fitzgerald’s version of “Ain’t Misbehavin” was playing in the background. Deciding when it is proper to remove one’s mask while eating is still weird. Nevertheless, coffee in a proper mug portends a new beginning. Optimism restored.

Isolation

Art is an integral part of any society. It defines us, explains our values, and what is important. It also helps us to celebrate, as well as provides solace in times of trouble. Art is often relegated to the back pages of most newspaper. Politics, business and finance take centerstage, helping to shift our focus. Yet, art endures. At first, you might think that art is only in museums, yet it our music, television, films. It is the rainbows drawn by children, the verses we jot down, and the items we make.

How many countries regularly published poetry on the front pages of their national newspapers? With the onset of the COVID-19 in Ireland, the Irish Times published on its front page a poem by Gerard Smyth, reflecting on the isolation that many people felt as a result of social distancing. We are not alone in our feelings, and it is a time for reflection. 

Food at the airport

Waiting for my backpack to be scanned at the San Juan Airport, I took a few furtive glances at an older woman who had been pulled to the side for additional screening. Prior to me walking through the metal detector, the security personnel held those of us waiting for a delay, without explanation. The agents just simply put their hands up and refused to allow any one through in our line until all passengers had cleared the x-ray and metal detectors. Evidently, the delay was cause by this poor woman who had made some food dish that was now being closely inspected by the two screeners. The serious-faced male and female inspectors, with the baby blue rubber gloves, were handling what appeared to be enchiladas, inserting their fingers into each one to make sure nothing was dangerous or malicious in the woman’s recipe. The woman remained stoic and cooperative, but I could not but feel sorry for her. She had worked very hard to make someone at her destination a good meal and it was, at least the aesthetic quality, being ruined.

Wouldn’t it have been nice, rather than ruining this meal, if there was a way in which some of us could have avoided the processed, commercialized food typical at airports to enjoy this woman’s endeavors? I hope that the object of her love, who she doubtlessly worked to please, enjoyed it. But at a time when many people do not enjoy the pleasures of real food, or companionship during a meal, to have the opportunity so that people could enjoy a homecooked meal before hours cramped in airplane would be nice. Of course, we would have to get over our fears of something different, of trying new things, and talking to others. But it would be worth it, I think. 

Nice Toys

On a flight from Sydney to Hobart I shared a row with two other passengers. While I occupied the aisle seat, a Chinese student returning for university studies in Hobart occupied the middle seat and an unaccompanied boy, about eight-years old, was in the window seat. The flight attendants checked on him several times prior to takeoff, asking if he needed anything. He expressed the hope that he could have an iPad so that he could watch “shows” during the flight. During the flight, one of the attendants gently scolded him for not eating his apples because, “they are good for you.” The student kindly asked about the rather large stuffed border collie that occupied most of his legroom space. The student duly studied it very carefully, graciously commenting on how nice it was, to which the boy replied: “Every time we get toys, I always get the most expensive one. My mom says that I have expensive taste.”

Matthew Flinders and His Cat

Lucie ready for a picnic

The arrival of three kittens in our household this past spring has altered our lives: it has changed routines, conversations and, perhaps, improved our moods. While spending time with our clowder, not a day goes by without a laugh or a chuckle generated from out furry ersatz children. Lately our conversations have focused on the prospect of Lucie, Pip and Coco traveling as they get older. Will they join us on vacation? How will we arrange the car when they travel? What destinations would be feline-friendly? To that end, we have begun to introduce evening excursions around town. Upon returning, the kittens are praised for their bravery and limited vocal complaints emanating from the backseat. We assure ourselves that they will be good at traveling. 

The Statue of Trim at the State Library of New South Wales

The clowder appears to be off to a good start, but no matter how well the three do, it is doubtful that they will ever that they will ever travel even ten percent of the distances covered by Flinders’s cat. Trim is memorialized with a statue on Macquarie Street at the State Library of New South Wales in Sydney. He accompanied his human, Matthew Flinders on an exploration from Britain to Australia, and then in a survey of the continent. Flinders was the first to refer to Australia as a continent and his subsequent book and atlas were lauded.  His story is interesting as well, but a statue of a cat, among the pantheon or monuments of colonial leaders in Australia’s largest city, draws interest and imagination. 

Flinders with Trim in the background

Flinders wrote a loving tribute to his feline companion upon his death, which is recorded on a plaque at the library: “The best and most illustrious of his race. The most affectionate of friends, faithful of servants, and best of creatures. He made the tour of the globe, and a voyage to Australia, which he circumnavigated, and was ever the delightful and pleasure of his fellow voyagers.” 

Even after just a few months, we have grown completely smitten with LPC. As I write this, they are less than six months old; their curiosity knows no bounds, and they are hardly the picture of a calm demeanor and stateliness that are often associated with cats. Nevertheless, Trim is an example of why we value cats in our lives. They are good companions, wanting to share our home and time, they make us laugh, and the reciprocate our affection with theirs.

Paw prints on the railing leading to Trim's location

The Tooth Fairy in Portugal

On the hotel shuttle bus to Dublin Airport there are trips that are beginning and others that are ending. Mine was ending; however, across the aisle from me, sat an Irish family whose trip was just beginning. The father was preoccupied with the latest news on his phone. The mother, even though claiming fatigue, was engaged in a lively conversation with her two daughters, aged five and two. When the mother asked, the five-year-old claimed that she wanted to ride a train when they arrived in Portugal and buy earrings. The mother reminded her that she had ridden a rain before to Croke Park. The daughter then told her to pull up her blouse because, apparently, she was revealing too much. There was an exasperation of a teenager from the mother, who glanced over at her husband still solely focused on his phone. Mom then asked if there was something wrong with her lip and the daughter indicated that she had a loose tooth. "Ah," she replied with an Irish lilt, "does the tooth fairy come to Portugal?" The father did not respond. She gave her daughter a wink, "I will text the tooth fairy the address in Portugal...My goodness ten euros, I don't think so."

Cobh, the Titanic, and the Lusitania

Because it sits near the entrance to Cork harbor, Cobh’s history is intimately tied to a history of shipping. Two famous ship disasters loom large in its history. The connection between the Titanic and Ireland is substantial. Built in the dockyards of Belfast, its last port of call was Cobh (then known as Queenstown) just four days before striking an iceberg and sinking. It is difficult to comprehend how large the ship was and how monumental the disaster. Today in the shipyards of Belfast, you can walk around an outline of where the ship was built; a walk around the decks would have provided good exercise for the passengers. So large was the ship, that the loss of life was substantial and trying. Well over a century later, in order to make a comparison, it is tempting to say that a major airline disaster might be equivalent. Yet, the size of the ship meant that it would mean ten aircrafts crashing to equal the number people affected. The passengers included both the super-wealthy and people desperate to migrate to the United States to start a new life. Certainly, there are many of us who travel across the Atlantic that cannot imagine the level of service or quality of food available to the passengers, even in second and third class. Traveling in coach class in airplanes in the twenty-first century is not the equivalent of traveling third class on the Titanic.

The Titanic captures our imagination because of the stories involved. Certainly, because it was so big, so luxurious, we remember the opulence of a time gone by. There are not many of photographs of the ship. The Cobh Heritage Centre contains a few photographs from Frank Brown, who was among the seven who disembarked from the Titanic at Queenstown. His photographs give us a peek into a place where few experienced; a ship being used, rather than architectural photographs of a completed project. The final set of 123 passengers boarded in Queenstown. The Titanic would only sail once, and most of the people on board would face a harrowing experience, many losing their lives. Like many dramatic events, the loss of the Titanic is often reduced to statistical numbers in order to demonstrate the scale of the tragedy. But these numbers rob the victims of their stories, which reminds us that these were actual people. For instance, boarding at Queenstown was Dennis Lennon and Mary Mullen, who were eloping to America. Jeremiah Burke, during his final minutes, would write a message of farewell to his family and friends and place it in a bottle, which came ashore in Dunkettle. There were also backstories to the Titanic that reflect national identities yesterday and today. Built by Irish laborers, at the time some expressed concerns about the quality of workmanship of those who worked on the great ship.  A t-shirt available in the local tourist shops in Belfast reads: “Titanic – built by Irishmen. Sunk by an Englishman.”

Titanic Memorial Park, Cobh, Ireland

I began a walk in Cobh under mostly sunny skies, yet by the time I got to the Titanic Memorial Gardens pesky sprinkles had begun. While exploring the area, the rain turned to a downpour and I sought shelter under a narrow arch. The rapidly changing weather prompted a resident to use an oft repeated and apt saying. As the rain became heavier and more persistent, a grandfather who had been enjoying a stroll while his grandson was ineffectually throwing a boomerang. I wondered if it was a gift from a relative who had emigrated to Australia after the financial crisis. The gentleman, seemingly kind and patient, called to his charge to hurry along, “Come on. It's raining, lad.” He sighed, as if he lamented the interruption of his walk saying, “Aye. Four seasons in one day again.”

While you might consider the sinking of the Titanic a disaster borne of hubris, the sinking of RMS Lusitania is more directly related to humans’ inability to get along. The Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat off old Head of Kinsdale, 25 miles west of Queenstown. Nearly 1200 people died when the ship was sunk and the event had a dramatic effect on propaganda, public opinion, and the course of World War I. Survivors and bodies from the Lusitania were brought to Queenstown. Completely overwhelmed some of the survivors were taken in by local residents. It was the year before the Easter Rising and Queenstown, the name of Cobh prior to Irish independence, was to remain a part of the British Empire for the next seven years.

Lusitania Memorial (Cobh)

In the local museum, a letter from Winifred Hull, a thirty-three-year-old British survivor, living in Winnipeg, to the Swanton family who housed her in the aftermath of the sinking is illuminating and distressing. In it she expresses deep regret for not writing sooner; however, it is clear to the reader she has been traumatized by the events. Hull counts herself lucky because her friends lost family members during the incident. She writes that every time she cogitates about the events her hands begin to shake. When she does compose the letter, eighteen days afterwards, she writes: “Will any of us ever forget, I wonder, I think not. But neither, I am sure, shall we ever forget the wondrous kindness shown to us, who survived that awful experience by the people of Queenstown, and by yourselves particularly to my friends and myself.” I was struck, in the middle of such tragedy, people often remember the most mundane things. Hull agonizes about not returning Mrs. Swanton’s coat sooner.

Mass grave marker for Lusitania victims

I walked to the Old Church Cemetery, just outside of Cobh, where there are 169 victims from the Lusitania buried. By the afternoon the weather had cleared up and it was a pleasant walk. This was the area of town where several local residents would do their shopping. Several boys were jumping the fence across the small path that separated the cemetery and their local football (soccer) practice field. Otherwise, I saw very few people. Most of the Lusitania victims are buried in mass graves at the west end of the cemetery. Three mounds are each marked by four Irish yew trees. As the centenary of the sinking and the First World War passes, I found myself wandering about the relevance of the events and memories to future generations. Among the other graves in the Old Church Cemetery was the British doctor who had administered to Napoleon during his exile on St. Helena. The Battle of Waterloo, which led to Napoleon’s exile, took place a hundred years prior to the sinking of the Lusitania. Yet, to most people today Napoleon is a footnote of history. A hundred years on, the Lusitania and the First World War will likely become the same. 

Overheard at the Edinburgh Airport

The four women behind me in the security line at Edinburgh airport were discussing having their carry-on luggage inspected. One woman commented, “I make sure I have all my liquids, and anything else they might be concerned about, out of my bag because I don't want them going through me knickers.” One of her companions retorted, “I just have new ones that I have taken out of the package yet, so they won’t.”

Kindness

Standing atop Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh a few weeks ago, I met Tam and Jan. The three of us struck up a conversation after Tam was enthusiastically asking everyone who was their favorite NFL team. He was an American football enthusiast and there were plenty of Americans at the summit that morning. I am not sure how Jan got into this conversation since he was leading a group of Dutch high school students to Edinburgh, but this is the nature of unexpected encounters. Tam was a life-long resident of Edinburgh and, clearly, very proud of his city. He said he had not been to the top of Arthur’s Seat since he was a boy and that he promised himself that once he retired he would again walk up to the top.

Tam was musing about being on the top of Arthur’s seat and all the different people, from all over the world were there sharing in the moment, taking photographs, meeting each other, and having a good time. It made him very proud that people would come to Edinburgh and share in this experience. It was very different from what people saw on the news about people. Jan and I agreed that wherever we traveled people tended to be nice, friendly and considerate. I commented that it was a very few people who made it difficult for the rest of us.

It seems to be universal that most people are kind to travelers. The kindness and generosity of people has been in great evidence on the trip this year. In Leigh Fermor’s account of walking across Europe in the 1930s, he found people were incredibly kind and generous. For example, a gift of eggs from a young girl, offers of a place to stay, food, parties, tours, and encouragement of all types were a theme in his books. The most intriguing events, however, were the times when he would misplace, leave behind, or lose his journal. When this would happen people invariably kept the notebooks where he recorded his thoughts, musings, ideas, and the languages he was trying to learn. In one case, a lost journal reappeared thirty years later. During the turbulent times that would come after his journey across Europe, a world war occurred, the onset of communist regimes made communication difficult, and deaths, births and marriages all occurred. Life happened, ‘twas ever thus.

On this trip, I have had similar stories, although nothing as dramatic as Leigh Fermor. At Newark Airport, before leaving on my flight to Europe, I had dinner at Chinese dumpling restaurant. Toward the end of my dinner I was interrupted by a student’s inquiry. Thirty minutes into the flight I looked for my notebook to continue making notes. I could not find it and had a sinking feeling that I left it behind in the airport restaurant. At the first opportunity, I looked in my rucksack in the overhead bin – no luck. Obviously, that early in the trip, the journal did not have many entries, but I had made several research notes, notations and plans. Certainly, a loss; but not a disaster.

Fate intervened. Two and a half hours into the flight, as we neared St. Johns, Newfoundland, the pilot announced that one of the guidance systems for the airplane was not was working. Because regulations require a backup when flying across the Atlantic, we would have to fly back to Newark for a replacement. Although an inconvenience, it was serendipitous in terms of my notebook. I returned to the restaurant to be told by a server it was closing; I explained that I was looking for my journal. A young woman came forward and said she wondered if someone would return for it. I handed her a small reward, which she initially refused, but accepted it after I said the least I could do was to buy her a drink or a cup of coffee.

Four weeks later, I was taking a bus to Mousa to see the famous broch. At the small history and information point near the dock, I reached for my notebook to jot down some interesting points. After a few minutes of searching my pockets and backpack, I came to the realization that I must have left it on the bus after I had been jotting down observations and places I would like to visit during the trip. On the boat, I was stewing about my forgetfulness, especially considering my adventures at Newark. This time, even though it was my second notebook of the trip, the loss of notes would be more substantial. I was giving myself a pep talk, see the broch, take notes on your phone, when we arrived at the island of Mousa, and I will inquire about the notebook later. The son, and assistant captain, came out on deck and said, “Those of you who rode the bus down today, someone left a pad of paper and pen…” I confessed it was me. “Good,” he said. I’ll give you the bus driver’s name and number and you can decide where to meet him. I had a wonderful time on Mousa, occasionally concerned that I might have written something that would have been taken out of context. When the excursion returned to the mainland I called Robbie, the bus driver. He asked where I was staying and he told me to meet him at a bus stop near my hotel at about a quarter to six. He warned that he was on the return trip from the airport in Sumburgh, and that he may be a few minutes late, depending on how many people were getting on the bus at the airport. Nevertheless, the number 6 bus arrived right on time. Even as the bus was rolling to a stop, Robbie was reaching under his seat to retrieve my notebook. I handed him a £10 note and said I wanted to him to have a pint or a cup of coffee on me. He smiled, thanked me, and said, “it was no bother.”

Cultural Differences

We see differences in cultural expectations when traveling quite often. I once heard Martha Nussbaum say that Americans wander through the world as if they already knew all about it. They are blind to the hopes, needs, and desires of others. My observation is that Americans tend to be friendly, outgoing, and, on the surface, polite. But there is a tendency to temporarily claim ownership over various pieces of public property. Often not meaning to be so, the effect is rude. There is a tendency for Americans, particularly young Americans, to drape their feet over the arms of chairs, put their feet upon couches, and to take up as much room in public spaces as they wish. It is difficult for them to fathom that others would prefer not to sit in seats with the residuals of their shoes on their nice, clean clothes. I have observed Americans as incredulous that anyone would suggest seats, and adjacent seats, be treated as public space. As far as some are concerned, sitting in the seat renders it their property for the duration of their stay.

It would be unfair to think only young people engage in such behavior. Sitting at breakfast, in Belfast, I shared the dining area with a group of American students who greeted their Irish guide, one by one, with a cheerful, “Good morning Shane!” As with many university trips, there were some adults in the group as well. Shane was seated at the common table with me, drinking a cup of tea and checking his messages before the day’s activities. A middle-aged man from the group walked up to Shane and pulled his metal tea infuser from his tea cup and asked, “Why do you have a paperclip in your cup?” Obviously, he thought this was funny, but it was overly familiar. Shane was more polite and good-humored about the situation than I would have been; he patiently explained that he liked a special type of tea, but he was cut off by the man who began inquiring about the itinerary for the day. Within a few minutes the same man pulled out a chair and joined a group of students, but completely blocked in people on my side of the common table. When I went to get a refill of coffee, his wife called his attention to his inconvenience and he looked at me and said that I could squeeze through.

Kalervo Oberg described culture shock as what happens when you travel and find that things are not as you expect. Perhaps I just think people should be on their best behavior when traveling and am surprised when they are not. 

The Indignities of Air Travel #3

I was flying out of Panama city airport. What I like about small airports, the relative ease, local flavor, and fewer people, were seemingly mitigated this day. Nevertheless, I had secured a window seat, a rarity for me, and gazed out the window as the asphalt slowly fell away from the wheels of the airplane. As we slowly rose over surrounding wilderness, I was contemplating the beauty of the area. Forests of slash pines, dotted with small crystal blue ponds and meandering creeks caught my eyes. Incredibly straight roads, no doubt to facilitate logging, made me wonder about the accessibility of the area for those who wanted to walk commune with nature.  I found myself thinking about woodpeckers and who would play on a baseball diamond carved into the middle of a thicket of pine trees. Just then, the man in the seat behind me leaned forward and blew his nose in my ear. 

Thinking about Holmes and Experiences

As this year’s sojourn to Europe comes to an end, I refer back to my old literary friend Sherlock Holmes. In The Adventure of the Red Circle, Holmes reminds his friend that, “Education never ends, Watson.” With that I am reminded that in each new travel experience we are exposed to new things and increase our knowledge and understanding of the world. Perhaps this is why I (and many others) enjoy travel so much, because it is a high dosage of education. Why else navigate alternative transportation options to spend less than twenty-four hours in Malmö?  Because it is an opportunity to see something new, to experience other things, to learn something.

At the airport in Copenhagen, there is a commemorative display to Danish writer, and national hero, Hans Christian Andersen. The display notes that Anderson made more than thirty trips outside Denmark in his life. This had a profound effect on Andersen and he wrote that travel enriched him and made him happy. In The Fairy Tale of My Life (1855), he concluded, “To travel is to live.”

These nineteenth century literary references tells us of the importance of discovery, experience and knowledge. While phenomena of travel and discovery has substantially changed from the nineteenth century, the basic human need to learn and explore has not. Yet, we would do well to remember that the act of travelling does not require us to go far. It is a state of mind. Any journey, even as short as fifteen minutes, can be a travel experience. It depends on the sojourner’s attitude: Are we willing to see something new? Willing to explore? To learn something?

It is also worth noting that Doyle has Holmes quote Shakespeare near the end of the Red Circle: “Journeys end in lovers meeting.”

Copenhagen Central Train Station

A train station is an interesting crossroad of people on the move, especially in Europe. Travelers and commuters converge at stations. All types of people walk through, from the young girl in her early teens in full makeup, carrying a soccer ball and cleats, to the elderly man who meanders from shop to shop, occasionally checking the departure board, in no particular hurry. Watching people in a train station is always fun and interesting and there is no telling who and what you are likely to see. 

When it is close and my hotel has an overpriced breakfast, I sometimes duck into a train station to have a coffee and croissant for breakfast. This was the case on a recent Saturday morning in Copenhagen. Sitting in a coffee shop at a window seat, I watched travelers meet, search, shop and hurry off to catch trains to their destinations. As my previous posts have indicated, I like train stations: It is a place of waiting, and a place of rendezvous.

Train stations contain symbols of, and information about, the city and culture they inhabit. Copenhagen Central Station is one of the busiest I have experienced.  I have heard more than one person say that there is always a line for tickets. Yet, most people are helpful and patient. Even though the majority of passengers are people, it is also a place for dogs. Sometimes the canine passengers seem more excited about their travels than their human companions. Yet, the dogs are seemingly always well behaved; human, on the other hand, are not always as well behaved.  

Opened in 1911, the main Copenhagen station is composed of brick, steel painted brown and a brownish red tile for flooring. The ceiling has slats that appear to be made of wood. It gives the station a surprisingly dark effect.

An interesting note: A smoking ban on the platforms will not come into effect until 1 July 2014 (it is surprising how many people were smoking). 

Riding Bus 20

The bus that runs between Dublin and Galway for Bus Eireann is designated Route 20. There is an express bus (X20), which only stops in a few major destinations; however, the regular service winds through many small towns and back roads. These buses are well used, but not overly crowded. A few years ago, as I was riding Bus 20, I began writing down notes on each town, what was there, facilities, hotels, and pubs to help me select a town to spend a few days exploring and relaxing. It has become a way to gauge the economic health of the midsection of Ireland. From one year to the next, I can note the prominence of restaurants, cafes and pubs.

This year my ride from Dublin to Athlone was on a bus that was about half full, on a Friday during the mid-to-late morning. We left Busáras (the main station) at 10:30 and made our way along the docks before turning into the tunnel heading to the airport. As we approached the terminal, there was a good sized protest march by Aer Lingus cabin crews, supported by the pilots. The cabin crew were striking for better working conditions and formed a long line marching to the airport. The strike disrupted many flights that day.

As we departed Busáras there were two elderly men sitting at the back of the bus having a lively conversation. As the bus got underway in earnest, the conversation was muffled by the sound of the highway. I could hear the men talking, but I had no idea what was being said. But in their Irish accents it was as if the two mean, with worn faces had stepped off a movie screen.

After a few stops at intersections and a school, the bus came into Enfield. The town has many well-kept houses with nice gardens. The bus stop is at the Street Side Café, a seemingly inviting place to enjoy a sandwich and a tea after a bus ride. The town also has a canal or river with a walking path that runs on the western edge of town, as well as a train station.

Kilbeggan has a whisky distillery on the edge of town that is a tempting tourist destination. As we pulled into town, the bus sounds die down enough so that I can once again understand the conversation between the two men at the back of the bus:

“How old is she now?”

[I could not understand the answer]

“I don’t believe it… (long pause) …she’s a pretty girl.”

The bus made its way through Moate, an old market town, and then onto Athlone. As we pulled into the bus station, the conversation once again was audible. One of the men was lamenting the changes in the world: “It’s a different way of life…they don’t take the time to talk.”

Renewed Manifesto

I was sitting in my office inadvertently listening to my colleague have a conversation with two female undergraduate students. It is a common occurrence; these conversations tend not to be private or sensitive. I am usually adept at tuning out such a conversation, but as the conversation continued I began to become astonished. The two young women were complaining that their lives were boring. My colleague reminded them that is was odd for a woman in her forties to give women in their twenties advice on how to have a more exciting life.  

The very next day I was driving in town and listening to the 80s radio station on Sirius/XM. One of my favorite, but rarely played, songs from the decade, Joe Jackson’s “Steppin’ Out” came on. Jackson soon sang a favorite stanza: “We – are young but getting old before our time / We’ll leave the T.V. and the radio behind / Don’t you wonder what we’ll find / Steppin’ out tonight.” My mind immediately raced back to the overheard conversation of the previous day. Perhaps replace the word radio with internet, but essentially it was the same message. The young women were not adventuresome enough to go out and live life. It is almost as if they expected an interesting life to come, knock on their dorm room door, and invite them out.

Life is a series of explorations. We must seek our own adventures and destinations. At the beginning of each year I consider what I will do, where I will go, and what goals I will attempt. Not doing so would result in an atrophy. It is difficult to understand how people become bored for long periods of time. Exploration can be done in our own backyard. Just walking down a street. Carefully examining the world is exploration. Travelling is a state of mind.

We are too polite to tell those young women that humans are all on a quest to find meaning, self-fulfillment and excitement. Perhaps that is something we find out on our own; however, no one does it for us. 

Traveling Well

Two recent articles in the New York Times attest to the lure of traveling, especially in the United States. First, Rebecca Flint Marx’s article on exploring the Lincoln Highway is particularly interesting to me because it follows one of the methods that I enjoy, mainly taking a back road for a long journey to experience America on the road less traveled.  Marx and her companion traveled US30, the Lincoln Highway, to find the out of the way and the interesting. It was a relatively short piece for such a big subject. Nevertheless, it is a fun and inspiring read.

A second article, which is really a conversation between two travel writers, Philip Caputo and William Least Heat-Moon, takes a more philosophical approach to the act of travel. Like Marx, both men consider the benefits of travel on the two lane roads of America, but perhaps the more interesting portion of the conversation was the difference between a tourist and a traveler. While both men were kinder to the tourist than I might have been, I nonetheless think their analysis is correct. I might add that the distance traveled is not what makes a tourist or a traveler. Yet, my retort is that traveling to a place where English is not spoken reveals truths about yourself and provides lessons to learn for the traveler. It is true that it does not matter how travel occurs or where; however, a level of unfamiliarity reveals more than a standard tourist route.