Victoria Station, 1 AM
On my way back from the Canary Islands, I landed at Gatwick around 11:30. Got the very last express train to Victoria, which still got me to the station too late to catch a train to Heathrow.
Which meant I was in for a taxi ride that cost 50 pounds. Oh, how nice to be on expenses.
Anyway, it was a Saturday night, and London had just changed the pub laws, so that there were no longer set closing times. This meant a considerable number of drunks running around, a considerable amount of stuff it's better not to think about on the sidewalk, and, perhaps, a later-night crowd than usual.
When I got into the taxi queue, it was about 1 AM. I was maybe fifty or sixty people back from the front of the line.
The train from Gatwick to Victoria had been crowded and very loud. The carriage I was in was invaded, right before the train pulled out, by a family of Spaniards, maybe a dozen in all, who had enough baggage to start their own circus, complete with tent. In the seats in front of me--I took advantage of my cane and sat in the handicapped and elderly seats--was a teenage boy and his girlfriend. All through the ride, he kept taking pictures of the two of them, holding the camera at arm's length and giving me a migraine with the flash. She was quite pretty in the kind of way teenage boys think is pretty; I did wonder, though, how she ever recognized him in a crowd, since to me he looked like every other teenage boy who is confused enough to think playing soccer is cool. He kept looking proudly at himself in the window reflection, flexing his muscles.
I really wanted to whack both of them with my cane.
At the far end of the car, actually in the space between cars, were a couple sitting quietly on their suitcases. They were probably in their mid-30s, looked like they were coming home from vacation. She had long, pretty blonde hair, and just a very kind face. And he looked like a nice guy.
Every now and then, they'd whisper something to each other, and then go back to their own thoughts. Obviously tired, obviously happy to be home, obviously happy to be sitting together.
As it turned out, they were about five people ahead of me in the taxi line.
The taxi line was a bit complicated, because, first of all, taxis were quite slow in appearing, and when they did appear, they frequently didn't want to go where ever it was the person in the front of the line wanted to be.
So it all took a while. And, having nothing else to do, I kept watching this couple between glances back over my shoulder to see if there were any taxis on the way in.
They told each other little jokes, they carried on a quiet conversation that probably would have meant nothing to anybody around them, because it was full of the language that couples speak, their own language. They held that last collapse at bay for each other with gentle touches and kind words to each other.
They got their cab about an hour after we all got in line. The man leaned in the window, told the driver where they wanted to go, driver nodded and popped the back door open. Woman climbed in, man handed her the suitcases--London taxi design is brilliant--they closed the door, the driver did what drivers do, and drove. The last I saw of them was a flash of her blonde hair as the cab rounded a corner.
Headed for home. They'd use their key, walk into a house where everything was familiar, where they could walk around in the dark, because they knew where everything was.
Lately I've been looking back at an attempt I made at a novel some years ago, and I think the single best line in it is "This is what marriage must be like, I thought: your whole world would have the happy smell of another person."
And when they reached their house, this pretty woman, this man who looked like a nice guy, that's what their world would be.
I got in my own cab about fifteen minutes later, took the long, expensive ride out to Heathrow, got to my hotel, got to my room, was in bed at close to 3 AM. That left me six or seven hours to toss and turn and curse my insomnia before I had to be back at the airport for the flight to the states.
And in that hotel room, thinking about the lovely trip I'd just been on, all the fantastic travel I'd had all year--the Canary Islands, Scotland, the arctic, the pink ruins of Petra--all the trips coming up, all I could think about was that couple, how calm they seemed, how perfectly at home in each other's company.
And all I could think was: I want their life.
Which meant I was in for a taxi ride that cost 50 pounds. Oh, how nice to be on expenses.
Anyway, it was a Saturday night, and London had just changed the pub laws, so that there were no longer set closing times. This meant a considerable number of drunks running around, a considerable amount of stuff it's better not to think about on the sidewalk, and, perhaps, a later-night crowd than usual.
When I got into the taxi queue, it was about 1 AM. I was maybe fifty or sixty people back from the front of the line.
The train from Gatwick to Victoria had been crowded and very loud. The carriage I was in was invaded, right before the train pulled out, by a family of Spaniards, maybe a dozen in all, who had enough baggage to start their own circus, complete with tent. In the seats in front of me--I took advantage of my cane and sat in the handicapped and elderly seats--was a teenage boy and his girlfriend. All through the ride, he kept taking pictures of the two of them, holding the camera at arm's length and giving me a migraine with the flash. She was quite pretty in the kind of way teenage boys think is pretty; I did wonder, though, how she ever recognized him in a crowd, since to me he looked like every other teenage boy who is confused enough to think playing soccer is cool. He kept looking proudly at himself in the window reflection, flexing his muscles.
I really wanted to whack both of them with my cane.
At the far end of the car, actually in the space between cars, were a couple sitting quietly on their suitcases. They were probably in their mid-30s, looked like they were coming home from vacation. She had long, pretty blonde hair, and just a very kind face. And he looked like a nice guy.
Every now and then, they'd whisper something to each other, and then go back to their own thoughts. Obviously tired, obviously happy to be home, obviously happy to be sitting together.
As it turned out, they were about five people ahead of me in the taxi line.
The taxi line was a bit complicated, because, first of all, taxis were quite slow in appearing, and when they did appear, they frequently didn't want to go where ever it was the person in the front of the line wanted to be.
So it all took a while. And, having nothing else to do, I kept watching this couple between glances back over my shoulder to see if there were any taxis on the way in.
They told each other little jokes, they carried on a quiet conversation that probably would have meant nothing to anybody around them, because it was full of the language that couples speak, their own language. They held that last collapse at bay for each other with gentle touches and kind words to each other.
They got their cab about an hour after we all got in line. The man leaned in the window, told the driver where they wanted to go, driver nodded and popped the back door open. Woman climbed in, man handed her the suitcases--London taxi design is brilliant--they closed the door, the driver did what drivers do, and drove. The last I saw of them was a flash of her blonde hair as the cab rounded a corner.
Headed for home. They'd use their key, walk into a house where everything was familiar, where they could walk around in the dark, because they knew where everything was.
Lately I've been looking back at an attempt I made at a novel some years ago, and I think the single best line in it is "This is what marriage must be like, I thought: your whole world would have the happy smell of another person."
And when they reached their house, this pretty woman, this man who looked like a nice guy, that's what their world would be.
I got in my own cab about fifteen minutes later, took the long, expensive ride out to Heathrow, got to my hotel, got to my room, was in bed at close to 3 AM. That left me six or seven hours to toss and turn and curse my insomnia before I had to be back at the airport for the flight to the states.
And in that hotel room, thinking about the lovely trip I'd just been on, all the fantastic travel I'd had all year--the Canary Islands, Scotland, the arctic, the pink ruins of Petra--all the trips coming up, all I could think about was that couple, how calm they seemed, how perfectly at home in each other's company.
And all I could think was: I want their life.
posted by e. Readicker-Henderson at 11:04 PM
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