Lost in London

By Grace Holmes | Memoir

I should’ve known something would happen that day, the morning was going almost a little too smoothly. Amidst the chaos that had been the past few weeks, travelling to new locations, new countries, new cities every couple of days, I should’ve been more skeptical of an orderly morning.

I had woken up to my first (of many) alarms — truly an impressive feat for me, unfortunately — I actually had time to do my makeup and get ready for the day before joining my fellow travel companions in the dining room for breakfast. We could all feel the anticipation in the air, along with the scent of bacon, grilled tomatoes, and baked beans — in traditional English fashion. The first day in a new city was always exciting, the breakfast table buzzing with plans, lists, things to see, restaurants to eat at, attractions to go to, etc. But this time the sparkling new adventure was none other than London, England. And while the “What to see in London” guides were endless, the days we had there were numbered. The stakes were high.

We started our day as we did most other days: with a group meeting. Susan, our professor, gave us the rundown of what our day was going to look like while we listened, our eyes still droopy with morning sleepiness, but our minds in preparation of the new day. She talked us through riding The Tube and going to the British Library, and how much free time we would have — her most important message being “Remember your Oyster cards or you will not be able to ride The Tube!”

She, of course, made us check that we had them on us; I, of course, left mine in my room.

My first thought was to just leave the meeting right then and there and run upstairs, grab it, and come back, but I was worried about missing some sort of information I would need. So plan B was to leave immediately after the meeting and book it back down before anyone notices I’m gone.

Plan B it was. The second the meeting was finished, everyone was chattering, standing up, and gathering their things to make the trek to the Tube station. Part of me felt as though I should say something to someone, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t make it back in time. It’s just a few stairs after all.

“But what if they leave without me?” I think to myself as I tackle the first flight of stairs, a creak following every footfall.

“They’re not going to leave without you, ya twit. You’ll only be gone for 30 seconds.”

Floor 2.

“I just have to go into my room and grab it. I left it on my bed, right?”

Floor 3. Starting to breathe a little heavier now.

“What floor is my room on again?”

Floor 4.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Floor 5.

“Why didn’t I just tell Susan I forgot my card?”

Floor 6.

I made it. I burst into my room like I had a warrant and grab my card that I left on my. . . bed? No. Where is it? Under the bed? No. Uh, dresser? Yes! Grab it. Run.

The descent felt more like falling than running. I could feel my heartrate starting to normalize and the adrenaline decrease. Everything’s fine. They’ve got to still be in the lobby, just barely out the door at the most.

Well, I may have miscalculated a bit.

“But someone’s bound to notice I’m missing, someone would say something if they started leaving without me, right?”

Wrong.

I bolt through the aged wooden door of the hotel into the busy streets of London. I had only seen this street in the hazy dark of the night before, and stepping out this morning I try my best to soak it in while my eyes darted up and down the sidewalk. It’s the best kind of morning, a crisp blue sky, a slight chill in the air, warm sunshine on my skin. The only thing that would have made the scene better would have been finding my group waiting for me. But alas.

The adrenaline from before began creeping back up. My heartrate rose, both from slight panic, and maybe a bit of excitement mixed with fierce independent determination. I look to my left and right hoping to find my awkward little band of Americans, but to no avail. I’m only met with hurried, British business people with coffee in one hand and a phone in the other.

I ran up and down the street, keeping time with the taxis beeping and weaving through traffic, before rushing back inside to seek some kind of direction from the little old woman at the desk. She was petite, but she had a weathered face that communicated she would absolutely fight you if she had to. And she would win.

Frantically, I tried to ask her which way my group went, but I think my words may have sounded more like heavy, pained breathing, so the fact that English was not her first language was not the only reason she didn’t understand me.

She said “No.”

Helpful.

I figured that was all I would be getting out of her, and I had already wasted enough of my time, so I thanked her and ran back outside. I tried to remember as much as I could from the meeting just before, but I was drawing a blank. Good thing I waited until it was over to get my card.

Then I remembered! The train station! It was just on the other side of the block! Susan had shown it to us the night before.

I ran down the street again, turned the corner past the sidewall of our hotel, past the bold, black, hand-painted letters “Celtic Hotel,” I nearly knocked the coffee out of the hand of a hurried, British businesswoman. Heavily British curse words faded into the background as I ran.

Swerving to avoid people and the iron lamposts while speeding down the sidewalk, past a pub which was simply too busy for this early in the morning. I round the final corner before coming to the street with the train station. I can see it’s crowded, maybe that means they haven’t made it that far. It hasn’t been that long, after all. I push my way through the crowd like I know what I’m doing and where I’m going. Straight faced and serious. Like a true Londoner. An experience I may not have had any chance of pulling off within my group of painfully blatant tourists (that is, assuming I pulled it off anyway, which I’m sure I wasn’t convincing).

I scan my card to get myself into the station and shove my way to the overpacked, industrial elevator. I’ve totally got this, I think, what was I even worried about? I get off when everyone else does, and follow the crowd down the tunnels to the nearest train, all the while scanning for my Americans.

I get to a platform, not exactly aware that there are actually more than one, and I look up and down the train for familiar faces. None.

Whether it be out of confidence, adrenaline, spite, or all three, I nearly board the train. That is, until a bit of basic common sense hit me. You don’t even know what stop to get off at. What will you do if it’s the wrong train?

But can’t you at least try to remember what stop she mentioned? Where they were going? Anything? But no. I remembered nothing.

Oh, what I would give just for the name of the station they were headed to! The last thing I wanted to do was ask for help. What if I just started scanning every street in London until I found them? Seemed like a better option than giving up.

I could feel the clock ticking. I knew I was out of options.

My moment of common sense informed me that I could not do this on my own. It’s like I returned to my body for just long enough to realize that I may have made a mistake. I need to get back to the hotel. Back to wifi so I can text Susan. Now. Run. So I turn and I run, (or rather, fast walk with a determined face on in order to fool the locals that I am not lost, simply in a hurry).

My frantic, adrenaline-induced daze returns as I’m packed in a line of sweaty Londoners with coffee-breath waiting to load the elevator back to the surface. I don’t have time for this! The only people in this country that I know are Lord knows where and probably don’t even know I’m not with them. I have to go NOW.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a sign indicating stairs. Perfect! I’m young and agile, I can conquer these stairs, no problem, right? All these other people are clearly just lazy!

I start to climb the grimey, cracked, tile spiral staircase. My adrenaline even makes me a little cocky and I start skipping steps, taking them as fast as I possibly can. Every turn I make I assume to be the last, only to be met with even more stairs.

My anxiety rises while I wonder if the graffiti covered steps were actually the best option. It’s safe to assume that they were not the fastest.

Now look at all the time you’ve wasted. They’re long gone now.

After what felt like hours of running with no end in sight, I started to realize that there must be some kind of reason that no one takes the stairs.

By the time I get to the top I start to wonder if I have some sort of asthma.

That was a mistake.

Catching my breath feels like a waste of time, so I run back to the hotel and wait years for the wifi to connect, and I text Susan to let her know that I was left behind and what she recommends I do next.

After a while, she texts back telling me to sit tight, her assistant, Isaac, is on his way to help me navigate the Tube and catch up with everyone else.

Defeated, I slump on the front steps of our hotel and watch the traffic go by, waiting to be rescued.

After a while, Isaac shows up.

“You get left behind?”

I nod, pitifully.

“It’s alright, come on.”