Another Month Gone By
In the Underground Adventure.

Dispatch Number Twelve

The Travelcard
As Landmark.

DATELINE:
Wednesday, February 7, 2001, at 1200 hours CDT.

By Mickey Miles
Living in London.
SPECIAL to CornDancer.com

EDITOR'S NOTE: Mr. Miles is a professional journalist and political operative who moved to London in summer, 2000, to explore a new line of endeavour.

Sometimes our (formerly) fair-haired boy celebrates the small things as he struggles to get by in this wonderful beastly city they call London, England.

Travelcards are passes you buy that permit one to move about the city on the Underground and bus system. A monthly card costs 58 pounds or about $75. In our case, we buy a card for District One — the inner city in London. As you move further out from the heart of the City, the price of the card gets higher. District Two cards cost about five pounds more a month and so on.

You buy the cards at London Transport stations. A passport-sized photo is required to buy a Travelcard. The clerk takes your address, looks over your identification, makes notes in a ledger, and after you pay for the card, issues you a small black plastic billfold, similar to a credit-card holder. The pass billfold holds your photo and your monthly card. You are required to display the photo and the Travelcard on demand. It is a ten-pound fine if you don't.

I buy the card for a month because that it is the most efficient way to purchase one. The start and expiration dates are listed on the front of the Travelcard. You learn very quickly how to use the card to get through the turnstile, which leads to the Underground.

Hurried and harried fellow travellers do not suffer fools gladly when it comes time to use the Travelcard to gain access to the subway. Smart and seasoned travellers ready their cards in advance of passing through the turnstiles at the beginning and ending of each journey. You insert the card into a waist-high slot on your right at the entrance to the turnstile, and stepping into the turnstile, your card immediately pops up on top. You retrieve your card and the black turnstile barriers immediately swing open, permitting you to pass through. It takes about three seconds from entrance to egress.

Be Ready to Go
When You Hit the Turnstile.

But woe be the confused newbie who doesn't know how to use the system. If you pause or hesitate and fumble around, a good dozen or so people behind you are wondering just what the hell you are doing. And they will let you know it. Trust me on this.

These people are tired and angry. They are either going to a job they hate and in a bad mood, or they are going home for the day and you stand between them and a cold beer and a nice sandwich.

Not to worry. There are friendly folks in blue jackets standing to one side of the row of turnstiles, who will help you — and they really are friendly and helpful. Stupid, yes, but they are service people. Trained and paid to help those in need.

But we digress. As I said, we celebrate small victories here, or as it were, minor landmarks on life's adventure road. One landmark, I suppose, is buying our monthly Travelcard. We mark another month gone by.

Why? I wonder. Why celebrate a month gone in our too, too short life? At some point won't one wish they had the month back? Am I a prisoner marking the days on the wall of my cell with a Number Two pencil?

But celebrate we did when we paid cash for our February Travelcard. Oh, you have to buy your card at the same place each time. At least I think you do because the same man in the Liverpool Street Station who has sold me each card asks for my photo picture and dutifully makes notes in his ledger when he finds my name.

The celebration itself is rather small in keeping with the tenor of the moment. I buy a tuna fish sandwich at Marks and Spencer. Of course I am in a hurry to get back to work, so I return to the workplace and get some chips and a Coke. Munching on the sandwich, I look at the two cards, the old one for the month of January and a new one for the month of February, and think, well.... okay.

And Another Small Victory.

My days begin at 5:15 a.m. when I rise, shower, and head out from Knightsbridge. Through darkened and rainy streets I head to the tube stop. I walk near this cavalry unit based on the edge of Hyde Park — and believe it or not, I slow my journey to inhale the faint perfume of horse manure. It smells a bit like my beloved Arkansas to me. A couple of hits of meadow muffin sets you right!

The grouchy, grizzled newspaper stand salesman has finally started to speak to me now. It has taken months for me to wear him down. For six months, five times a week our conversation has gone like this:

"Good morning. Times please."

"Thirty five."

"Have a nice day."

Nothing.

I enter the Underground to begin my day.

Now he says "You too" when I say have a nice day. And the other day, he let me have a newspaper on credit. All I had was a 20-pound note. He gave me my Times and said, "Pay me tomorrow." And so I did and gave him a 20-pence tip. He seemed embarrassed!

The Preferred Method.

Since I do not have a car here, I depend on the public transport system and my own two feet to get around. Cars give you freedom, but they are also enormously expensive. I make no car payments, pay no car insurance, license, gasoline, or maintenance. And here in London, space is at such a premium, some people pay $500 to $600 a month just to have place to park their cars.

Trains are my preferred mode of travel anyway. I hop on trains and go out into the English countryside on weekends. Bath, Stonehenge, Canterbury, Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Edinburgh, and Glasgow — all have been weekend destinations. Grab a great cup of coffee, get your copy of The Times or The Economist or International Herald Tribune, settle back and enjoy the ride.

And so, life goes on.