Drift Reality > London, England > The Passport 3

It was not long until I spotted a building on the corner of the block with a large sign that read, "Coach Station."

Mary was waiting in front with a bewildered look on her face.

"Where have you been," she asked, to which I responded with an incoherent deluge of words:

"Train station. Ticket. Airport."

"You thought the coach station was in the main train station, waited in front of the ticket counter for fifteen minutes before finally realizing the coach station was located outside the original train station, and are now nervous we aren't going to make it to the airport on time?" she asked.

I nodded and we headed into the coach station.

The ticket salesperson directed us to a corner down the street, where a bus left for Luton airport every fifteen minutes.

Rushing to the stop, I asked a group of British travelers, "Is this the bus to Luton airport?"

"Yeah," one of them responded. "It should be here any minute now."

As if on cue, a bus turned the corner and began heading towards our stop. I looked down at my watch. It was 6:30 PM and our flight left at 7:30 PM. As long as we were there by 7:00 PM, we would be fine.

It was then that I noticed Mary was staring down the street at a bus containing the word, "Express." The same look that she had given me when I had initially told her I forgot my passport - 75% amusement and 25% fear - reappeared on her face.

"What is it," I asked.

"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing," she answered confidently. "But…"

And that is the point at which I knew we would never make it to the airport on time.

For me, the word "but" is the bridge between truth and pretense and more often than not, confidence is the sound that demarcates which side of the fence pretense is on.

For instance, when someone spends thirty minutes struggling to find the perfect sequence of words to describe how irritating someone is, and then concludes by saying, "but I love him/her," or " but he/she is a great guy" in a confident and conclusive tone of voice, I always feel like answering, "then why the hell did you just spend thirty minutes talking crap about them?"

At any rate, it was not long until we found out that the bus we were actually waiting for was to take an hour to arrive at the airport, which would, for anyone keeping track, get us there at 7:30 PM - the same time the place was destined to depart. The last express bus to Luton airport, the bus that only took thirty minutes, had left at 4:30 PM.

In other words, we were fucked.

"What do we do now?" Mary asked, looking totally flabbergasted. The tide had turned and her look was now 75% fear and 25% amusement.

There were really two options at this point in time - gamble that a cab could get us there in thirty minutes, which would give us sufficient time to board the plane, or try to grab the Eurostar.

"How much is the Eurostar?" I asked.

After thinking for a few moments, she responded, "About 35 pounds each."

Not too bad, considering the circumstances. If we could get out of this only having to spend 70 pounds, I would be happy.

Hailing down a cab, I found that the driver estimated the trip to the airport to be about 80 pounds. Not only was this more expensive than the Eurostar, but we would be taking a gamble with time, which as I've already mentioned, is no friend of mine.

I could almost see time lacing up its track shoes: ready to start racing the moment we entered the cab.

"It's cheaper to take the Eurostar," I muttered and we headed off to find our fate at Waterloo station.

We arrived with no further mishap on our way to Waterloo and made our way to the Eurostar ticket counter. The departure screen indicated there was one more train heading to Paris in about fifteen minutes.

"Two to Paris," I told the woman standing behind the ticket counter.

"Well, you just made it," she said as relief flooded through my body.

"Passports please," she beckoned. "Are you both younger than twenty-six?"

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