soooo i went to austria and it was nice
mirabelle gardens - lace and fountain
Originally uploaded by miss_lace. day one: Sleeping in Airports, or How I learned to stop worrying and missed my flight
I got up at 3:30 a.m. Thursday to be out of the dorm by 4:00. I was a model of efficient packing - only a backpack and a purse for the entire trip. I was off in good time to take the first train to Stansted Airport at 5:00 a.m. I walk down King’s Road to the bus stop.
Five minutes of waiting and a quick perusal of the bus schedule reveals that, although they are called “night buses,” that does not mean they run ALL night. I maintain that not knowing this was not my fault, as I very rarely am up in time to catch the bus at 4 o’clock in the morning. I made a mad dash down King’s Road to the first taxi I saw. The taxi driver was sleeping, but his light was on. I decided this meant he was available, and began to knock loudly on the window.
I breathlessly explained that I needed to go to Liverpool Street Station, now. We sped off. I arrived at the station on time, redeemed my pre-purchased ticket, and boarded the Stansted Express. Found a seat, turned on the iPod, and relaxed for the next 20 minutes.
And then the train stopped. And then there was some yelling. Apparently there was a scuffle over some guy who refused to buy a ticket, yet wouldn’t leave the train. Then the train sat there on the tracks for HALF AN HOUR.
At which point I begin to freak out. This is a 30-minute train ride. 45 minutes, max. I read it on the Web site. Finally the train starts again, and we arrive at Stansted at 6:05 for my 6:40 flight. I sprint through the terminal, even though I know that running in airports is generally a bad idea in these days of such tight security. I get to the desk at 6:10.
My plane has just boarded. I’m not on it. I’m told there’s no way I can GET on it. I am half an hour early. I throw a small fit, but only a small fit because I used to watch “Airline” on A&E and have learned that throwing a fit at the airport just gets you strip-searched and then yelled at. RyanAir directs me to the ticket desk.
The nice lady at the ticket desk, tells me that I can re-route my flight through Graz at 11:30, and it’ll be a 1-hour train ride from Graz to Salzburg. Two hours, max, she tells me. I desperately wish I had some concept of world geography. I blindly agree.
I take my belongings over to a seat in the freezing cold waiting area. I put my stuff on the seat next to me, bundle up in my coat, scarf and gloves, and curl myself around my belongings in a way that pickpockets can’t get to them. I sleep like this blissfully for two hours.
The flight to Graz is uneventful; around 2 hours plus a 1-hour time difference. I take a short taxi ride to Graz’s Hauptbahnhof (main train station), where I am informed that my train ride to Salzburg is actually THREE HOURS LONG. I scan my brain for logical alternatives. Taxi? Would probably cost more than I have in my checking account. Car rental? I don’t really think I should try to drive in foreign countries after dark, especially not through the foothills of the Alps without a map. I buy the train ticket, purchase a slice of pizza and a copy of The Economist, and settle in for a long train ride.
The train ride lasted four hours, but really wasn’t that bad. I slept for about two hours. After I woke up, an adorable blonde little toddler approached me. She smiled happily and raised her arms at me. I waved at her. She waved back and then started trying to crawl onto my seat. I picked her up and sat her with me while her mom smiled on and shook her head. We played pat-a-cake.
Arrived in Salzburg, took a taxi to my hotel, slept like a rock.