Too Loud a Solitude...Travel Edition

The title of this post is, yet again, filled with duality. First, as most of you are aware, it is the title of a most excellent novel by one Bohumil Hrabal. Being a trifle lighter to the touch than the works of Uncle Walt, I chose to favor Hrabal for my most recent train riding and plane flying reading pleasures. Whilst in the midst of my excursion to London this past week, rereading TLAS along the way, I also discovered my own isolation to be so audible at times as to risk causing my own premature deafness. And yet, at each turn, events would unfold to prove to me yet again that my solitude is, in fact, most heavily populated.

The first souls to visit my harum-scarum Infinity and Eternity were met by chance or design in Zurich airport, though it was a lonely struggle to get that far.

Last Sunday morning I was packed with bus and train and plane tickets at the ready, but all I could think about was how sick I felt and how much I didn't want to move an inch more than necessary. But, as I am me, I told no one this, said my goodbyes to Chrigl and the kids, and began the first leg of one of the longest travel days of my entire life. Completely alone. I was hopeful, but scared shitless at the same time. That, and coughing up parts of my lungs every few minutes. But off I went, trepidation clearly visible upon my lower-lip biting face.
The first part was not so hard. Trudge down the hill to the AutoPost and wait for the bus that goes to Chur. check.
Get self, plus baggage, onto said bus without causing major delays to fellow travelers and/or looking like a complete idiot....well, I managed.
Get off of said bus at the appropriate point, retain all belongings, locate signs that say "Bahn" and follow with single-minded diligence. ok.
Navigate smoke-filled train station (thus further agitating two already overworked lungs) in order to find the correctly labeled bright red train, board, stow luggage, and proceed to an empty second-class carriage where one's inevitable coughing fits will be least disruptive. Done and done.
Remain on train number 1 for about an hour, then alight at station with unpronounceably long German name, regain travel stance of focused and purposeful composure and hasten to search out the proper platform for the next leg of the journey. check.
Repeat this process once more. check.
Arrive in Zurich in one piece: hell yes!

Once inside Zurich main station I had a little bit of a hard time figuring out which "check in" I was meant to use, as there are three total, and no apparent reason why one aught to use this one or that one. And each one is, of course, in a completely different wing of the complex. Which is one of the largest in Europe. And the whole world.
But after a little trial and error, plus a game of "that guy has an English accent--follow him!" I made it beyond security and safely into my terminal--where I proceeded to find the first available seat and a bottle of "silent" water and tried in vain to stop the pounding in my head by counting the smudges on the tile floor.
(Interjection of internal monologue:  Do you ever sit and people watch and wonder if people are watching you? I had actually never done this, as I never assume I am worth wondering about, but that day in my chair in the Zurich airport I discovered that I was the subject of someone else's "person watch." I discovered this by catching a few words of Spanish that amounted to something like "...maybe get something for sickness. This girl looks not so good, eh?" The words were spoken with a slow and clear accent, which sounded neither Castilian or Mexican, and I guess out of pure curiosity I removed my head from my hands to look in the direction of the speaker. He was seated in the same section of attached metal chairs as I was, some two seats to my right, waving at a woman who had just joined a line at a News Stand type counter across the room. Smiling at me, he offered me a bottle of water, indicating with a nod that mine was empty and that his companion had gone to buy another. Taken aback, but grateful, I took it from him and smiled weakly. He introduced himself as Christian, and indicated that he was traveling with his wife, whose name was Deanna. He asked where I was from, and where I was traveling, and I found myself falling quite easily into conversation with him, despite his less than complete grasp of English, and my own fumbling Spanglish. His wife returned and I learned that he was originally from Uruguay while his wife was Russian. They live in Sweden, and were traveling to Moscow for a family funeral. He was a Spanish teacher, though he spoke fluent Swedish and French, and was learning English. Deanna spoke Russian, Swedish and English. In the course of a ten minute conversation, these two strangers told me about their lives, their loves (football, music, architecture and theology, among others) and had me talking about my own before I could consider the true oddity of the situation. After a time, I rose to check my gate number on a digital board, and seeing it listed, began to gather my things. I told the couple I needed to be going, but thanked them for their kindness and conversation, and wishing them a safe journey, went on my solitary way again, feeling just a little less alone in this great big world. So, wherever you are, Christian and Deanna, thanks again.)

Safely through the airport and aboard my plane, I let myself take a deep breath and relax. Granted, my unexpected interaction with Christian and Deanna had strengthen my resolve to succeed in my solo travels, safe in the knowledge that I was not in fact completely alone, I nevertheless retained a feeling of being ill at ease in my seat, and nervous about the next step in my journey. But then a child just behind me--with a strong Yorkshire accent--began a conversation with the man seated beside her. She told him she was traveling alone to visit her grandmother in Clapham, and it was evident by his speech that he was returning home to London himself. I spent the remainder of the flight being oddly comforted by the sound of their voices and the familiarity of their conversation--from Cadbury bars to tube stops and kebabs, I smiled in spite of myself and returned to my book, knowing that we are none of us alone, and familiarity is everywhere. So I guess I'm a little less like Hrabal's protagonist, Hanta, than I might have thought. I realize I CAN live in this world of other people---though I may still prefer the literary one. I imagine it has something to do with the fact that one feels far less put-upon and exhausted in dealing with fiction than with real life. Though, as I discovered, reality can reveal itself to be just a bit more satisfying than any two dimensional adventure could ever dream.

Upon arrival in London (something like 6 pm) I was exceptionally weary and under the weather, but also strangely empowered. Newly aware of my own reality in stark contrast to any fiction, I set off on this, the last leg of my journey with renewed vigor. This, I could do. Get luggage, find ATM, purchase Oyster card, ride the Piccadilly, then the Bakerloo, "mind the gap," exit Paddington on Praed (after a quick spot of supper at a take-away M&S) and carry on around the corner by the Tesco to my temporary home. No problem. Fun, even. By 10 pm I was beat. But I made it. I navigated five kinds of transportation in three languages in one day and survived. And while that might not seem like a big deal to you, it was quite possibly one of my proudest moments to date. And it went off without a hitch. Solo journey to London, day 1: resounding success!