Sometimes even the most organized traveler screws it up spectacularly.
Okay, this is probably the hardest blog I’ve ever had to write because I’m confessing my shortcomings—and I don’t particularly enjoy doing that.
I’m Monica Geller. Monica’s team always wins.
Except when you’re me, you’re in York, and you… miss your train.
To this day, I have PTSD when I go through that train station.
And it all started so well.
I went to York to visit my daughter for the weekend, and we had a glorious time, as we always do. Relaxing, shopping, dining, sharing stories. It was fantastic.
I had booked my return flight for Tuesday morning, which meant I had one last day on Monday in York together before I needed to head back toward Heathrow.
Yeah.
As it worked out, she had to work that Monday, so we didn’t actually have any time together. No problem, right?
I could have a leisurely breakfast, take an Uber to the train station, relax, and head down to London. I’d arrive around 3:00, check into my hotel for the night, then spend a few hours walking around, shopping, sightseeing, and enjoying a nice, relaxing evening with just me and some bubbles.
Best. Laid. Plans.
Breakfast? Check.
Uber to the station? Check.
I arrived at the station around 10:30 a.m. for my 2:03 p.m. departure. I know this well.
2:03 p.m → 14:03 if we’re going full military time.
Got it. Plenty of time.
I headed to the pub at the station, grabbed a bite because I’m on vacation even though I’d just had brekkie, and settled in to relax.
All. Good.
I nibbled. Checked my emails. Charged my devices. Partook in the toilets. Everything was fine.
A couple of hours later, it was now 12:20.
I repeat: All Good.
But the lunch crowd was starting to arrive, and I figured I should clear the table. So I gathered my belongings, (a full-size 28″ roller bag, a carry-on, and my purse) and made my way to the waiting area.
In England, like America, train stations have minimal seating and a large departure board showing the trains as they arrive, board, and depart.
I’m well aware of this. I know the procedure. I’m Monica.
At 12:25, I looked up and saw that my train to London King’s Cross wasn’t listed yet.
All Good.
There’s a Starbucks at the station with an alfresco seating area that is in perfect viewing range of the departure board. I could sit, relax, and wait for my train to appear on the right-hand side of the departure board..
Time for Starbucks? You know it. Although, I will say this: Starbucks in the UK is not my favorite. Their peach flavor for the green tea is so very un-American. I like a little more sugar, I presume. I actually prefer the Pret A Manger Green Tea Peach. Anyway, I digress.
Eventually, I would see my train appear on the board and it would make its way across the board to the left side, at which point passengers would be alerted to the platform and we’d all make our way over there to board.
Perfect.
All Good.
It’s now 12:35.
Again, my train doesn’t leave until 2:03 so I have time to check Instagram.
And emails.
And Instagram again.
There were some funny posts about dogs.
All good.
I looked up again, because I’m conscientious.
Still nothing. All good.
I could hear the information desk announcing arriving and departing trains from my seat, so I reassured myself that everything was fine.
I had plenty of time.
I texted my daughter, who was well into her workday but still had time to tell me she’d enjoyed our weekend and wished me safe travels. Yada, yada.
I checked Instagram again.
More dogs. Funny stuff.
Then I looked up at the board.
Still nothing for Kings Cross, but my eye caught a train showing a departure time of 2:53 p.m.
“Oh,” I thought. “My train must be listed now.”
My eyes scanned left.
2:20 to Manchester.
2:15 to Edinburgh.
Scanning left,….
2:10 to Peterborough.
2:08 to Brighton.
And, on the very far left:
2:03 to London Kings Cross — Platform 6.
And it was flashing. 🚨
DEPARTING. DEPARTING. DEPARTING.
I looked at my watch.
It’s 2:04.
One minute ago it was 12:35.
Help.
Panic.
Platform 6.
Heart palpitations.
OMG.
WHERE IS PLATFORM 6?!
Holy Mary help me out here.
It’s on the other side of the station. (insert expletive here)
I grabbed my luggage and flew up the stairs.
Flew. Up. The. Stairs.
Have you ever seen a 5’ tall woman heaving a 28” suitcase up a flight of stairs in a mad rush? It’s fabulous, really it is. I looked amazing.
Across the bridge over the tracks, down the stairs on the other side, and looked to the right…
Nothing.
Looked left…
Platform 6. There it is. And my train. Pulling out of the station.
I heard it in my head, “ NOooooo!”
I cried.
Right there on the platform.
Purse flung over my shoulder. Out of breath. Carry-on hanging off my elbow.
I cried.
I could not believe I had been at the station for FOUR HOURS and still managed to miss my train.
I cried.
(Insert expletives here all beginning with “F”.)
It took a few seconds to realize people were staring at me. Yes, a couple offered the sympathetic head tilt. The British are so very polite aren’t they? But they didn’t miss their train, did they? I’m not bitter, really I’m not.
One nice man pointed me toward the information kiosk on the opposite side of the tracks. Didn’t help.
I cried more.
Monica would never let this happen.
Dusting myself off—and scraping together the tiny smidgen of dignity I had left—I made my way back to the information desk where I pleaded with the elderly gentleman to please, please. please let me on the next train to King’s Cross. Whenever that was.
“We have another train at 3:30,” he told me, “but that’s peak and your ticket isn’t transferable, so you’ll have to buy another.”
Of course it isn’t. (sigh)
Off-peak, it should have cost around £45 to get from York to London.
Today?
£165 plus the original fare of £45 totalling £210 (that’s a total of $284 if you’re calculating the exchange rate), for the privilege of sitting on the exact same train I had originally booked and I get to get in three hours late! Yay!
I hated everything.
And that lovely afternoon I had planned in London?
It wouldn’t begin now until around 6:30.
Oh, and it was supposed to rain.
Which, naturally, it did because: London.
The only saving grace was that I did catch the next train, and my £210 investment eventually got me to London.
In the rain.
But I made it.
And by bedtime, I was checked into the lovely and ever-reliable Hilton Paddington with a glass of bubbles in hand.
So, I suppose the day wasn’t a total loss.
Just a £165 lesson in paying attention. To this day I now set alarms on my apple watch to ping me 10 minutes before a departure as a result of this. Silver lining?
Whatever, I missed my train.
I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to sit in a train station for four hours, with a departure board directly in front of me and announcements that I could clearly hear, and somehow miss my train.
But I did.
And now, every time I pass York train station, I feel a tiny bit of panic. Seriously.
Because apparently, even a Type-A traveler can occasionally screw it up.
Monica Geller would be horrified.
And honestly?
So am I.
