by Yesterday morning I was woken by a four o’clock alarm. The start of a long day. I got a taxi to the airport. Flights to Schengen destinations now leave from the fancy new terminal, leaving just a tiny number (like mine) to depart from the old one. The attention-grabbing split-flap departure board has finally succumbed – it was still there but totally blank. The whole place was eerily quiet. As always we were held in an inhuman pen-like room before it was time to board. The flight was uneventful; I even managed to doze a bit.
At the other end the e-gates weren’t working so we all had to be processed manually. I had a wait for my coach, so I got a £4.20 coffee from Caffè Nero. The lady asked me if I wanted chocolate sprinkled on it. I might as well, I said. (At that price you take whatever you can get.) Then I thought, how would I say “I might as well” in Romanian? I’d have come out with the equivalent of “Why not?” or even a simple yes. Even though I get by in Romanian, it’s like having one hand tied behind my back.
The bus station outside the airport terminal consists of 18 bays, with buses (or coaches, as they say) going in all directions. A short, stocky, bearded, heavily tattooed guy of about thirty seemed to be running the show. He wore an orange hi-viz vest. He could handle any question about any bus going anywhere, with handy gesticulations and the odd sympathetic “sorry, mate” thrown in. He had a ticket-issuing machine strapped to his waist, and also transmitted information to his colleagues (some hi-vizzed at the station, others in the terminal) via both a phone and a walkie-talkie. “Victor Zulu Foxtrot [referring to the bus’s number plate] has just pulled in.” I got the impression he’d been doing this since he left school. I thought, this bloke is worth his weight in gold. We’re still a very long way from AI replacing (properly) someone like him.
Our bus driver was cheerful; he introduced himself as Pat. Midway through the journey to Cambridge he had two problems at once – a door that didn’t shut properly and a road (the A602) that was closed by the police. Pat spent some time communicating with HQ about the door issue but fixed the problem and after taking a detour we arrived only half an hour late. The trip only cost £10. My subsequent bus to St Ives cost just £2. Very good value. Measures were put in place in 2022 to help with the cost of living; poorer people use buses disproportionately.
St Ives is quiet, a much nicer temperature than Timișoara, and generally an enjoyable place to spend a few days in the summer. I had a nap in the afternoon and woke up pretty discombobulated. Where exactly am I? I have internet access here in my parents’ apartment – I’ve managed to get the password from the people who live above. I don’t know how much longer Mum and Dad will keep this place. Having the internet meant I was able to give two online lessons in the evening. When they were over, I could hardly believe it was still the same day that it was when I set off.
I don’t plan to do much. I won’t be seeing my brother or my university friend. Sadly I don’t even have my aunt anymore. I’ll go for the odd bike ride, do some reading, catch up with my family friends (gently suggesting they come to Romania for a second time), and probably make a trip into Cambridge which will only cost £4. Not doing much is basically the whole point.
Thinking about the title I’ve given this blog post, I’m reminded of a maths test I was given at the age of six. The teacher, Mrs Stokes (who sadly died very young of cancer just a few years later), read out the ten questions. For one of the questions, we had to solve the riddle “How many were there going to St Ives?” I tried to calculate 7 × 7 × 7 × 7 by hand and missed the next few questions entirely.
