Current Location: York, England

Waverly Station in Edinburgh was a confusion of people and trains and baggage. I hopped off the train that had brought me here from Inverness exactly on time, and wandered around the station, looking for Platform 11, which held the train that would take me to York. I found that train, discovered that it was just about to leave, and hopped on quickly just as it was pulling away from the platform.

"I thought I had until 3:00," I told the conductor.

"You do," the conductor replied. "This is the delayed 2:00 train. This route runs every hour, but this particular train is delayed. May I see your ticket?"

I dutifully handed it over. He looked at it and told me, "This is the first class car. Standard accommodations are towards the back of the train. You could upgrade for only ten pounds, or make your way three cars back."

"Thanks," I told him, "but I’ll take my chances in Standard."

With my huge backpack straining at my shoulders (I hadn’t managed to pack very well), I made my way back until I got to the first of the standard accommodation cars. Right away I was hit with a wall of cigarrette smoke and a crowd of people with similarly straining backpacks and strained tempers. Because I was developing a migraine and wasn’t interested in dealing with the smoke and the crowd, I decided to spend the extra ten pounds and sit in first class.

The train had been delayed in Waverly station because of a tardy crew member. As soon as the train reached Dunbar, it became clear that the train was going to be delayed again because of a problem with the doors in one of the cars. By the time the train left Dunbar Station, it was nearly a full hour late. This was my first experience with trains run by Britain; the trains run by Scotland, Scotrail, were brutally punctual, leaving on the minute from each station and arriving at each destination exactly at the time advertised on each timetable; needless to say, this was a blow to my stereotyped perception of the English as brutally and coldly efficient creatures of punctuality.

But I arrived in York with enough time to check in to my Bed and Breakfast. This is a lovely one, very Victorian in many ways, and quite attractive, and well within walking distance of city center, which is a good thing, since York is a beautiful city (though you wouldn’t know it to look at the scenery as you ride into the train station). It is in this Bed and Breakfast that this morning I discovered the Paradox of the English Breakfast: namely, that you won’t be allowed to order your meal until you have already begun eating. I found this passing strange, since I do have a degree in Philosophy and haven’t encountered this logical conundrum before. I sat in the dining room and waited for the hostess to come by and ask me what I want for a good fifteen minutes. Finally, I went to the sideboard and fixed myself a bowl of corn flakes and orange juice, and sat down and began to eat. It was then that I finally got to order my kipper. I watched the other guests in the dining room and noticed that things were just the same for them as well.

After eating my logically ambiguous breakfast, I headed out of the B&B and started to walk the streets of York. Naturally, the first thing I did was seek out an Internet café, which is where I am right now (it is, in fact, a branch of the same chain of internet cafés which I used in Glasgow, Scotland). York is a beautiful city with a castle and a cathedral and more museums than you can possibly hope to see in a single day; the streets are tiny, prohibitive to automobiles (in fact, cars are banned in the denser parts of the city near the cathedral); and street actors wander the snickerways (that’s the actual word), performing and pandering for money. I fully intend to explore this city as much as I can.

I have less than a week left on my trip. I have given up entirely on trying to get to the continent, and booked a flight from London to Amsterdam so that I can catch my flight home from there (booking that flight was far cheaper than trying to change my flight home to leave London instead of Amsterdam). One month is not nearly enough time to appreciate Ireland, let alone Ireland and the United Kingdom. As it is, I will see very little of England (Stratford-upon-Avon is my next stop after York), and I won’t get to see Wales at all. Trying to see France, Germany, Italy, Belgium, Sweden, and the Netherlands on top of this would have been insane, and I know I would not have enjoyed that. I am very glad that I let my gut decide where to go. My only regret is that my flight home leaves Amsterdam; the flight from London to there will cost me $200, which I could have used to buy an even more extravagant birthday gift for Jennifer.