“You must be crazy!”
Those
four words was the automatic reaction from family members and close friends.
Nothing else was said but judging by their horrified expressions, the
apocalypse could very well be knocking on our doors. It was either that or I
was doomed to meet a tragic end in a Hitchcock thriller. And all I did was to
announce my month-long solo backpacking trip across the United Kingdom and
Europe!
To
them, I was probably a marble short for wanting to travel alone. Well, I may be
petite but my marbles are definitely intact. So much so that when an uncle remarked
that I was still too young and I will be bored out of my wits for not having a
travel companion, I offered my thoughts. At 29 years of age (this is not an attempt to hide my current age. I know I've turned 30 since then), my peers are
already having school-going kids. If they’re old enough to have children, surely
I’m old enough to choose my flight of freedom. As for travel companions, there
are those whose existence is no better than an overweight baggage that comes
with high tax and serves absolutely no purpose. I’d rather take my chances in
striking up conversations with the locals, even if I’ve to resort to violent
hand gestures and comic facial expressions.
When
28 March 2013 came, I was one of the many passengers waiting to board Malaysia
Airlines flight MH 004 bound for London Heathrow. With a backpack half my size
as hand-carry, I was extremely grateful that my economy-class seat was on the
A380’s Upper Deck. Having seen the long queue of fellow economy class
passengers on the Lower Deck, I imagined myself as somewhat a celebrity
(although what I wore could hardly be described as ‘airport fashion’) leisurely
sauntering to my seat. Well, that daydream quickly vanished when I saw what it
meant to be in the A380’s First and Business Classes. If I thought my seat’s
legroom was enviable, it was incomparable to what the privileged few will enjoy
as they dine using fine china in ample comfort, thousands of feet above sea
level. In the meantime, I should just feel thankful that the seat next to mine
was empty (for the time being, at least!).
The
neighbour did turn up and just as I silently hoped he was a dashing young man,
traces of greying hair along a receding hairline silently removed my hope.
While not a smile or “hello!” was
exchanged, our hands did find themselves
briefly clasped together when the plane was rocked by air turbulence. That
moment of solidarity was quickly replaced by the occasional battle of wills
over the center armrest! A Hollywood flight romance was clearly not on the
cards.
My
adventure started the moment I landed in London Heathrow. The initial euphoria
of being back in London was dampened when I realized that I had placed my return
flight ticket in my checked-in luggage! Seeing that many fellow passengers were
holding their passports and unused flight tickets in their hands, stories of
strict British immigration officers deporting suspicious travellers came to
mind! As I inched my way closer to the immigration counter, sweat began
trickling down my spine (it could be my nervousness. It could also be that
wearing a winter jacket in a heated area was not such a good idea). While the
British officer was scrutinizing my passport, I began to mentally recite a list
of reasons as to why I should not board the next plane back to Kuala Lumpur. If
necessary, I was also prepared to squeeze those tears out (no handy feat,
considering I had no onions with me!). For all the mental exhaustion I was
subjected to, it came as a surprise when the British officer merely looked at
me and asked, “Girl, are you travelling
alone in the United Kingdom?”. My ‘yes’
seemed to have left him very amused that no mention was made about when I will
return to Malaysia. I guessed he has not seen enough pint-sized Asian female
travellers with courage (or craziness, depending on one’s point of view) to
actually travel alone.
I
was not only travelling alone, I was a traveller on an extremely tight budget
and schedule. Having wrangled invitations to spend my nights abroad with kind
friends, a major bulk of my fund was already spent on securing cheap train and
domestic flight tickets for advance travels in United Kingdom and Europe. Left
with little spending money and even lesser contingency fund (I brought those
plastic cards along but will try to resist them, as long as possible), I’ve to
be wise in choosing my battles. With a Nottingham-bound train to catch the next
morning from Paddington, I chose to spend my first London night in Heathrow
Airport itself! I saved a couple of British pounds and became what Tom Hanks
was in ‘The Terminal’. Indeed, that night taught me a few lessons. First, the
airport is not a hotel. The metal seats are no replacement for our comfortable
beds (some were desperate, they slept on the floors). Second, when I actually
managed to secure a padded bench next to the Belgium Airline check-in counter,
there will always be someone else who wants it too. I had to leave my warm
refuge (together with my luggage in tow) to answer nature’s call at midnight
(and everybody knows, the cold weather only helps to increase the urge to
pee!). I was gone only for a matter of seconds and a man was now sleeping
comfortably in my place. Not to be defeated in this game, I steeled my bottoms
on the metal seats across his bench and waited. After what seemed to be an
eternity (it was one hour, but hey, try braving the winter chills yourself and
see whether you can keep track of time!), he finally got up and left. I did a
happy jig and rushed to reclaim my throne. Was blessed with a couple of
sleeping hours before Heathrow came alive with cleaning machines zooming past
and I woke up to see a steady stream of Belgium Airlines’ passengers queuing.
The
drawn itinerary was packed, featuring cities like Nottingham, Edinburgh,
Glasgow and Durham for my first week. The next stop was Cambridge for some
scholar-ish escapade. Although I could never rely on my intelligence to be a
Cambridge student, having a friend who actually studies there was a plus point.
Even when the colleges were closed for mid-term examinations, I was allowed to
walk on the hallowed grounds of King’s, Trinity and St. John’s. Despite being
awestruck by the colleges’ scholastic history, the sight of their many
signboards demanding visitors to ‘Keep Off the Grass!’ only gave me the
perpetual itch to run on their precious green grass! Needless to say, I did not
attempt such risky action out of respect to my friend (and fear of the
military-styled porters). Realising my super huge sacrifice, my friend took me out
for a morning of punting. As the guide regaled us with facts and myths of the
famed university, I spotted many others who came, saw the dastardly signboards and unlike
me, chose to conquer the grass by running all over it! At that moment, I could
only sigh and lamented “If only I did it…”.
I
then moved on to Cardiff and was the happiest when my train finally arrived at
Cardiff’s Central Station. It was a
homecoming to visit familiar places and old family friends. I came thinking I
would immediately recognize the city I last visited 15 years ago. What I didn’t
expect was how much Cardiff had developed beyond the train station’s compound.
Some of the old landmarks had been replaced by modern shopping outlets and
roads which used to have heavy vehicle presence are now pedestrian-access only.
Just as I was feeling overwhelmed, that was when I saw the quaint ‘Hayes Snack
Island’ tuck shop in front of St. David’s Hall. It was where my family and I
used to have our morning breakfast and tea in the late 90’s. Undoubtedly, the
old faces that manned the counter would have been long gone but luckily, their
sandwiches and yes, the occasional whiff from the nearby underground restroom
remained true as I remembered them! Even the walk to my friend’s house on
Redmond Road was nostalgic as it was just a street away from where my family
used to live. As I pulled my trusty luggage along the cobbled pathway, I passed
the much-loved Queen Street and pretended that my family was waiting for my
return to Bedford Street. By now, I think I must sound crazy but I guess it
can’t be helped.
Not
all was gloom and doom though. I met up with Dad’s old family friends and had a
nice day out with them at the famed ‘Big Pit’ in Blanaevon. For a day, I was a
Welsh coal miner, complete with the head protector and the weighty oxygen tank.
From going down to the underground shaft to walking along long winding tunnels
(at times, in pitch darkness), the experience left me humbled at the difficulty
these men had to undergo for a living. We ended our lovely meeting with a nice
dinner at a gorgeous family run tavern somewhere in the Vale of Glamorgan. The
next day, I went to explore Cardiff Bay and again, I was so taken aback by the
development that had taken place. While I visited the Welsh Parliament (known
as the Senedd), I was asked by the Welsh guide as to why someone from Malaysia
would go all the way to visit Cardiff (he must have assumed that it was my
first trip to Wales). I honestly answered that “when I came here years ago, it was an instant first love for a smitten
teenager. But now that I’ve returned as an adult, I felt sad that so many
changes had taken place until I’m no longer linked to the past”.
With
these mixed emotions, I left for London for a four night stay. There was
nothing extraordinary to tell about my days in London, except that it coincided
with Baroness Thatcher’s funeral. Even then, I chose to avoid central London on
the funeral day and opted for a day at Windsor Castle and Eton College. My
nights were all at Shaftesbury Avenue where I found myself in different
theatres each night for different West End performances. To tell more about
London would just be to repeat paragraphs out of a well sought tourist guide
book.
But
I’ve to share my adventure upon leaving London’s St. Pancras International on
the Brussels-bound Eurostar. Having known that I will reach Brussels’ train
station at 10 p.m. and catching the ICE train for Berlin at 6.30 a.m. the next
day, I planned to repeat the Heathrow episode i.e. spend the night at the train
station in order to save a couple of Euros. What I didn’t expect (and may this
be a lesson for any of you who are planning to do the same!) was that Heathrow
is nowhere near to what Brussels had to offer. By comparison, Heathrow is a
five-star hotel whereas Brussels is, well, a refugee centre after a great war
(purely based on my imagination. Not that I’ve experienced or observed the
effects of refugees escaping a great war). The minute I alighted from the
Eurostar, I was slapped by the extremely chilly winds. I walked around the
station, hoping to find a spot that was spared from the dreadful wind. There
was none, save for dark corners which I was not brave enough to explore. As I
mulled over my (lack of) options in the station’s main hall, a lady came to sit
nearby. Judging that she could be spoken to, I smiled and cautiously asked “Mademoiselle, parlez vous Anglais?”
(Madame, can you speak English?). Luckily, she said yes and I asked whether
there was any waiting area in the station for travellers to spend the night.
She shook her head. When I told her that I’ve to stay at the station for the
night, she exclaimed “Goodness, you can’t
do that! The station is not safe for tourists.”. She left soon after and I
moved to another part of the station. For the next 8 hours, I came to realize
what she meant. Chilly wintery nights in Brussels meant that the station is a
heaven for local drunkards and homeless people. There were of course, other
fatigued travellers who were just wearied of me as I was of them. A station
guard came with his huge Alsatian and started to chase off the drunkards and homeless
people as the station is closed from 12 a.m. onwards (the stubborn men would
return each time, if only to catch minutes of sleep). I was spared only because
I showed him my Berlin-bound train ticket and said I have nowhere else to go. He was very kind, advising me to take care of
my belongings and be very careful after the station reopens at 4 a.m. Perhaps
he felt sorry for me as he would continuously make his rounds around my seating
area. Even with the security guard, I couldn’t afford to sleep or even go to
the toilet. Once I’ve strapped my luggage to the metal seats, I began writing
in my journal for time to pass. When I got bored, I did what I think scared the
drunkards and homeless men around me. I practiced my dance steps, oblivious to
eyes that peeked from slumber and saw a crazy Asian girl dancing cha-cha-cha
alone in the open! I survived the night and was only thankful when my train to
Berlin finally made its arrival.
Berlin
offered me other forms of adventure. I climbed up Berlin’s Victory Column in
Tiergarten, all 285 steps, when I was so sure that I could drop dead with every
step I take. Needless to say, the feeling when I completed the climb was one of
exhilaration! The view of Berlin was well-worth every creak of my lower limbs.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about my kind host. He climbed with me
until the top, not saying a word about his fear of heights until I asked him to
go nearer to the railings for a photo! He looked as if he could pass out there
and then. My only regret was not taking a shot of him at that moment. It would
have been a good snapshot for collection. Thanks to his recommendation, I even
took a guided bike tour of Berlin and in those 4 tiring hours, I saw more than
remnants of the Berlin Wall as a tourist would usually do. I actually felt like one of the Berliners
zooming in and out of the streets, passing and stopping in front of tourist
haunts (Bradenburger Tor, Holocaust Memorial and Topography of Terror remain as
favourites), honking our way to warn unsuspecting pedestrians and catching our
breath by their famous Reichstag. My stay in Berlin was made complete when I
purchased my own original (kid size!) German football jersey. I didn’t have
time to get the name ‘Klose’ sewn at
the back but who am I to complain?
My
last stop was Paris. And just as the words of ABBA’s ‘Our Last Summer’, I spent
my time walking along the River Seine with few glances at the majestic Tour de
Eiffel and munching croissants that only the French can make. By this time, I
was sad that my trip was coming to an end. Obviously there are always lists of
things to do, places to visit, people to meet before hitting the bucket and
still, I never thought the things I did or experienced during my travels were
even possible in my lifetime. In this memorable journey of my youth, I
travelled between 6 countries, moved from one place to another using trains,
buses and flights that departed on time like a fine tuned clock (at times,
leaving me flustered as I had to navigate flights of stairs with my monster of
a luggage), mustered enough courage to converse with the locals in deeply
accented English, Welsh, German and French and as you’ve read earlier, received
many wonderful memories in return.
I
bid adieu to this brief respite from life as I caught the Rossy bus to Charles
de Gaulle Airport on 26 April 2013. And with even better seats onboard Malaysia
Airlines flight MH 021, I was heading home with one realization. I may have had
a crazy journey but this travel had enriched me in so many ways. And if I may
add to Lao Tzu’s wisdom that the journey of a lifetime begins with a single
step, I don’t mind repeating that step, again and again.
*I've been warned that a travelogue is incomplete without photos. Am still trying to find courage to sift through the photos fit for public consumption without perpetually going 'OMG. What was I thinking?!*
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