My first day in London began as I tried to get out of my nine-bed hostel room without waking up the other eight sleepers. Having backpacked in fifteen other countries and in their respective hostels, you’d think I’d have it down by this point. Of course, as everyone knows, everything has to be louder when you try your hardest to not make a noise - the bed all of a sudden becomes creakier, my book bag zipper zips abnormally louder, my plastic bag gets all tangled and thus, producing more crinkly sounds, and then the tip-toeing only emphasizes the loose wooden floor tiles.
When I do finally make it out of the room, I head down for breakfast, which I was hoping would be something stereotypically British, like crumpets and tea. Just know that the hostel website said they offer a continental breakfast every morning, but all I saw were discount cheerios.
So it was quite the normal day, creaky hostel beds and discount cheerios, until I went underground to try out London’s subway system, “The Tube.” I was patiently waiting till 9:30AM, because it’s off-peak and you get a discounted fare. So again, everything’s fine, calm, and hunky-dory…until a woman pulls out her umbrella and starts attacking the customer service window, 2007 Britney Spears-style.
“Y’ave people way-ten in ly-een and yoh-er bahck theyuh takin yoh-er ty-eem!”
I appreciated her passion for a good cause, but…whoa. Trust me, Security was on that whole situation quicker than I had time to remove myself from the area.
I tube’d it along the District Line, admiring the preppy names of every station – Parsons Green, Earl’s Court, Upney. I secretly wanted to get off at Westminster to sneak a peek at Big Ben and ride the London Eye, but I knew I had to continue on the line in order to make it to Wimbledon in time.
On the forty-minute train ride, I met Marta, a middle-aged American woman who had asked the entire train at nearly every station, “DO I GET OFF HERE FOR WIMBLEDON OR IS IT THE NEXT ONE?” I piped in like a big know-it-all and told her I had read it was quicker to get off at Southfields.
We got off together and speed-walked to the stadium just to get in line and hear the guards yell, “The approximate wait time for a ground access ticket is five hours.”
We gasped in unison, almost as if we had come together. The tournament I’d watched every year of my life, was it worth a five-hour dent in my day?
Yes it was. In fact, it was well-worth the seven-hour wait I ended up enduring with Marta.
