Upon arriving at London Stansted Airport, my first task was to find a means of getting to Brighton, where Kristy had kindly offered me her kitchen to sleep in and her services as a tour guide. I had made no transportation plans from across the Atlantic, as I wasn’t sure what sort of fees my credit card company was likely to charge for the service of buying a pound-denominated ticket. It turns out that I was too late for trains (unless I relished a 3:30 am walk across the London Bridge to make a connection between Liverpool St Station and Victoria Station in London--actually I did slightly relish this, but not enough to actually do it), so I decided to take the bus.
I went to the National Express counter and purchased a ticket on a 01:35 bus to Brighton for £32. I had a 04:25 connection at Gatwick airport, and was meant to leave there for Brighton at 04:55 and arrive at 05:35. This worried me slightly, as I knew that this should have been a four-hour trip.
Did you do the math? Then you think me a fool! But you have failed to account for the fact that DST began on the very night that I arrived in England, not a few weeks ago, as in America. Do you now see my worry? Let this be a lesson to you: do not assume that the English do things on the same day as we do! I made this mistake, when Kristy mentioned sending something to her mother for Mother’s Day. I, horrified, assumed I had missed the day, but apparently it comes like two months earlier in Britain. The British may celebrate Bastille Day in February, and flock to synagogues on Monday evening; I would have no way of knowing! Note: Somebody please remind me when Mother’s Day is approaching. Seriously.
When my bus finally arrived at Gatwick (after stopping at all terminals of Heathrow), it was 05:15 new time, an hour later than I had expected to arrive. This would have been all right, except the departure board didn’t list any bus to Brighton for 05:45, so I surmised that National Express had bungled the time change and sold me an impossible connection. I therefore wandered about the airport for twenty minutes in a state of righteous anger looking for a National Express ticket agent. They apparently are all asleep at that hour. Finally, I found an automated ticket machine, and asked it if I could buy a 05:45 ticket for Brighton. It said I could, and then my connecting bus arrived, so that was all right. So I arrived in Brighton
at 06:30.I had received advice on how to get from the train station to the University of Brighton Campus at Falmer; I was to take the 25 bus. I had not, however, received any advice on how to get from the bus station at the pier to the campus. I had printed off a couple of maps, so I decided to walk the approximately three-mile journey. It was a lovely morning, and my bag was very light (thank you, Ryanair carry-on policies).
Three hours later, after, for example, climbing this hill:
and hanging with these sheep:
I saw the town of Falmer:
wherein lies the campus of the University of Brighton. After another 45 minutes of exasperated wandering, I found myself in Kristy’s kitchen. It turns out I had overestimated the degree to which Falmer was east of Brighton, and underestimated the degree to which it was north. I slept for 17 out of the next 24 hours.
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