How Not to Arrive in London

When we came up the steps from the Piccadilly Underground station, my eyes were greeted with wall-to-wall traffic and old buildings—quite striking, really, even when you’re lugging a suitcase and had fewer than three hours sleep on a plane. I felt dizzy with those elaborate old buildings coming into view. Many streets intersect and go off in all directions at Piccadilly Circus, and that traffic was crazy, even at about seven am. I got out the London map and thought I had it figured out more or less which way to go for Sherwood Street, where the Piccadilly Backpackers Hotel is located. So we set off, with all this luggage, only to find we were going in the opposite direction we should have been going. We backtracked to Piccadilly Circus and eventually ended up at a street that connects with Sherwood—it’s Glasshouse Street. Oddly, I saw no street signs in the sense that I’m used to—placards were on the sides of buildings, rather than signs on poles. I don’t know, these are perhaps normal street signs elsewhere.

Brat’s grumbling accompanied all this wandering. I had noticed at the airports that many people had suitcases that they pulled along with a handle and wheels; I’m thinking I’d better get one before I go to Germany next summer.

Anyway, we went up Glasshouse Street, only to discover we were at the cross street of Air Street, not Sherwood, which meant we were a little too far over. We ended up, interestingly, --at this point with a woman who had a Brit accent but was also looking for the same hostel, but to buy tickets to an event.

So, along with her (and she was smart enough to ask people for directions), ultimately we stumbled upon the correct street, and the bright yellow door to the hostel. We entered the lobby, a minimalist hall-like room with no furniture except the counter, and the guy behind the counter could not find my name on his list, but sent us up to the reception desk on the fourth floor. It is a popular floor, and a plethera of young people from all kinds of countries were coming and going. The people behind the desk upstairs couldn’t find my registration either, even though I gave my name (and figured my name was enough), but they needed a confirmation number. Finally, they asked how I made the reservation, and I said I did it on the Internet, but I couldn’t remember the exact website and hadn’t brought the printout. I mentioned that it was not their website but a website that had numerous hostels on it. That’s when I really started wishing I’d made the reservations on their website instead.

They gave us fifteen minutes to use their Internet access. My foul-tempered evil stepsister checked her hotmail account to see the e-mail I’d sent about the hostel confirmation, an e-mail that she had never gotten around to reading. It turned out that, despite the alleged $96.95 deposit, there was a notice saying that this only confirms that you made a reservation with this website—it doesn’t confirm that it was arranged with the hostel itself. Either I didn’t read that part, or I didn’t take it seriously enough and promptly forgot about it—I think it was more like the latter: it didn’t register with me. It wasn’t until much later—about a week or two before the trip–that I finally thought to do a keyword search for Piccadilly Backpackers Hotel, getting details like what it looked like on the outside. That explained why they couldn’t find my reservation. I felt extremely stupid, and my obnoxious sister’s foul temper, impatience, and snide comments were not making me feel better—quite the opposite. I wanted to shove her down an elevator shaft.

I made a mistake, and I apologized to the Brat. She, in contrast, has been deliberately vicious and verbally abusive and contemptuous. Just what I need two months after two verbally abusive aunts gave me a mental breakdown; at the same time I finally stopped being in denial about my mother's side of the family. I must have been very confused as a child, since I was constantly being told one thing--that this family is so wonderful--while constantly witnessing a completely different story and being brought up to not believe my own eyes or my own emotions.

I returned to the reception desk and asked if they had anything for two people for the next eleven nights. They were all booked up. I asked if they knew of any other hostels nearby, and the guy behind the counter (I think he was French—he was quite young and had big eyes, a big nose, and Crazy Tim Burton Hair) gave me the names and addresses to two other hostels. He added, “Be nice to them.”

I don’t know whether I was giving off intense vibes because I was reacting to my sister, or whether she was the only one giving off bad vibes. I certainly hope that her inexcusable behavior wasn’t rubbing off on me. Perhaps he just assumed it was both of us rather than just her.

I didn’t know what to say: my evil stepsister was displaying her foul temper in public and embarrassing me with her inexcusable behavior, right there in front of people who didn’t mean us any harm, and I felt downright ashamed to be her sister. I also felt like it reflected on me—her attitude affected me, and I may not have been as patient and polite as I would have been without the brat. When you are in a foreign country, you are a diplomat, and you should be on your very best behavior. The impression you make is also an impression people get of your country, not just the individual standing in front of them.

I struggled with my first experience using a payphone in England, and one of the hostels was booked, located on Oxford Street, and the other one had a constantly busy line for reservations so that I was with the receptionist, put on hold, and the pay phone wasn’t helpful—I believe it cut me off. After the first attempt with them, I called the hostel on Oxford St and found out they were booked. So I called the other one again, the International Student Housing, and got the same receptionist, and under the circumstances (since the lines were still very busy) he said he could check if two beds were available, but he couldn’t reserve them, so I agreed to that. He put me on hold briefly, and he got back and said there were two beds available, and I asked where the Tube station was located—Great Portland Street.

I led the way exhausted and frustrated, not to mention utterly disgusted with my foul tempered sister, back to Piccadilly Station, where I went to a booth and said to the tall, blonde and very English-looking guy behind the counter, “We’re new in town. Can you tell us how to get to Great Portland Street?” He very politely recommended taking Regent’s Park Station, because it was more convenient and in almost the same spot. It was only two Tube stops away, and after we wandered up to a street corner and found Regent Street (with Sally grumbling because we had no idea where we were, and with me wishing she’d vanish in thin air), we only had to cross one narrow street (please tell me it was one-way—it was that narrow), and we turned, and it was Great Portland Street.

As we started walking along Great Portland Street, Brat said, “Whoa! That’s it!” and there it was—the International Student Hostel, right there on the corner, marked in big bold black letters over the glass doors. That was a welcome sight, I thought. So we got reservations with this hostel instead—we have a double up to July 7, and after that (for the final two nights) we’re in separate single rooms that cost a little more. But at least we have rooms. Well, hopefully—check in is at 12:30, and we have about fifteen minutes left, and then we’ll actually be staying at a building that’s a ten-minute walk away from this building, but this is the one with the Internet café and the cafeteria.

Through this whole thing, Brat was foul-tempered and biting my head off, just making me angry and stupid and nervous and flustered and resentful. No wonder my mother thinks she’s a bad traveler. I was going to ask her if she wanted to go with me to Germany next year, but not so much. I’m reluctant to tell her that her behavior is insufferable and unacceptable, since I want this trip to go as smoothly as possible and don’t want to make things ugly with confrontation and argument, especially argument in public for all to hear. Who am I kidding? The brat already has made things ugly. OK, I don’t want to make things uglier.

In any case, I’ve learned from my mistake: instead of ordering reservations from a general website on hostels, do a keyword search for the specific hostel and order the reservations directly through that website. The same of course goes for stuff like ordering tickets. I’ve also learned that choosing this brat for a traveling companion was a really bad idea, and I shall never do so again.

Now that we’ve been chilling out in the cafeteria for over an hour, I finally used the restroom after more than 24 hours without--I get that way while traveling sometimes. I remember that back when I went with a high school group to the continent, I never used the restroom during the flight, not till we got to the hotel, and that in spite of all the delays and whatnot.

Who is this insufferable brat and what has she done with my sister? After we got a room for sure, we got to the other building, following the little directions and map that the woman behind the counter gave us with our keys. The brat grumbled along the way, because we had some trouble finding our way to the hostel. Of course, keeping calm and trying to find the hostel wouldn’t be a better idea than having a temper tantrum like an unusually vocal two-year-old.

Finally, we got to the building, and we were supposed to speak with the receptionist there, but they were out for lunch, and we got impatient waiting and finally used our keys to get into the hallway and headed for our room, which is on the third floor. We got up to the third floor and didn’t know at which end the room was, and of course we were still carrying heavy luggage, and I was feeling exhausted and disgusted in the brat but glad we were there and had a room. Suddenly the brat dropped her suitcase and marched forward down the long hallway, and I had no idea what she was doing. I decided against leaving her suitcase there, so I tried to carry it while I struggled forward. The evil spawn came back and screamed at me--yes, screamed--for not staying behind and waiting. What an evil spawn. Do excuse me for not reading your horrid little evil mind. I hate this monster and I want her to fall down an elevator shaft. I was so shocked by her inexcusable, arrogant, and evil behavior, I did not know what to say—shocked into silence.

I can’t believe I’m going to spend the next two weeks with this monster. This was supposed to be a wonderful vacation.