Drift Reality > London, England >The Passport

Although Mary had consolidated a flight from London to Paris for the preposterously low fee of 6 pounds sterling per ticket, her catch would be dissolved by a simple five-word question, asked two minutes before arriving at the Victoria Station tube stop.

"Did you remember your passport?"

Instead of responding to her question, my eyes darted to my watch, in order to determine if we would have enough time to go back to her flat near Goodge Street for the passport, return to Victoria station, and take the hour-long bus to Luton airport in time to catch our 7:30 PM flight.

It was 4:30 PM - we had time.

A small sense of relief seeped into me, soon dwarfed by a greater self-awareness of how stupid I could sometimes be.

"I forgot my passport," I responded and she gave me a look that was 75% amusement and 25% fear.

"You're joking, right?" she responded.

"It's still early," I responded. "We can go back to your flat, pick up the passport, and still make the flight."

"You're not joking," she answered gravely

"I wish I was," I shot back. Looking down at the God-forsaken suitcase I had been struggling with for the past twenty minutes, I made a feeble attempt to be optimistic, "If one of us stays here, at least we don't have to lug this thing back and forth."

"That's true," she responded with an exasperated sigh as she handed me her monthly tube pass, which would save me the trouble of having to purchase an additional ticket.

After spending any length of time with me, most people grew to know my thriftiness.

"Do you remember how to get to my flat from the tube station," she asked with a sense of genuine concern in her voice.

I've always thought that there are two types of girls as far as relationships are concerned, and both types will love you for being the man you are.

The only difference is that the first type will love you for the man you actually are and the second type will love you for the man they manipulate you into becoming.

Mary is certainly the first type and has a sort of loving resignation of the fact that I am a complete moron when it comes to direction.

I stared at her blankly for a few moments as my brain attempted to visualize the route.

"Okay," she began, realizing that I most certainly did not know how to get to her flat from the tube station.

She began giving me directions and it was not long until her words became an incomprehensible jumble of directions, streets, and landmarks. A flood of memories began entering my mind: me at age six, getting lost at a playground that was two blocks away from my house; me at age thirteen, getting lost walking home from school - an epic voyage that encompassed all of one mile; me at age 18, getting lost driving home to Cleveland from DC and almost ending up in Detroit.

"Here," I said handing the pass back to her as the tube stopped at Victoria. "Maybe it's better if you get it."

She nodded in mutual acknowledgment of my dreadful sense of direction and stepped off the tube.

"Where should I meet you?" I asked.

"Meet me at the coach station, where the coach buses depart," she said and with that, headed off to catch the tube heading in the opposite direction.

"Okay," I said as I watched her depart.

Tugging at our suitcase, I headed towards the tube station exit, scanning every sign for the word, "coach."

After a few minutes, my eyes alit upon a sign that read, "Coach Station." Following the signs, I found myself in a small gallery across from the main train station. Although there were a few buses passing through, this certainly did not seem like much of a departure area.

In a state of confusion, I did what I had told myself thousands of times not to do, and followed my instincts. Heading back towards the main station, I decided to position myself near the information desk, which lay across from the ticket counter.

My theory was that the area where I had exited from was in fact, the coach station. At some point in time, although she had told me to meet her at the coach station, Mary would realize what I had - that the coach station looked dreadfully inadequate and it made much more sense to wait in the main train station. Then she would realize, as I had, that we obviously needed to get tickets. Walking towards the ticket counter, she would see me, waiting for her at the information desk.

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