Chasing Picoseconds In A World City
That feeling of abject loss when you’re just there, but agonisingly short. You gasp aloud and miss a beat like it’s heard on a tennis court when the ball lands a fraction outside the line, or just manages to kiss the edge.
This, in travel is an absolute heartbreak. Lost opportunities. Never knowing whether you’ll get a shot at it again.
London, November 2001
The cold and wintry day of November under clouds was pregnant with rain. The last day in London on my first ever visit - a windfall gain thanks to my boss thinking I was going to Bangalore for a job search rather than for a wedding of a close friend as I claimed. It was Tom’s turn to go this time, but I got the call, and Tom was graceful about it.
Across the previous four-five evenings, I managed to tick off several bucket list spots I wanted to see. Two remained before before taking a train to Chester the next day, and from there, back to India. (After that who knows if I’d ever make it here again!).
So, armed with the Lonely Planet guide book from the office library, I began very early in the day. Around 1 in the afternoon, alighting the ‘District Line’ train at Wimbledon station, I set off on a hunt along Wimbledon Hill Road for the world’s most famous grass courts termed as his living room by my childhood hero - Boris (boom boom) Becker! Not a soul in that entire village town knew where ‘Wimbledon’ was (“well I can tell you this is Wimbledon indeed, but I have no clue where the tennis courts you’re talking about are”). I mentioned several names like those of Becker, Lendl and McEnroe. Nobody knew. So I tried Steffi Graf and Sabatini thinking at least the two most sought after heartthrobs of an era would help. No way!
Now where do I go? Not a single soul - young, old, middle aged, man, woman … not one of them knew.
Tired and hungry, the board ‘Pitcher and Mug’ caught my eye. In I went and fed myself with orange juice, coffee and Sausages (and fries)!
Coming out I wandered past football fields, rows of cute shops on High Street Wimbledon and other alleys. My search was already past an hour (I couldn’t count the steps I covered turning left, right, straight, up the hill and down the hill).
I stopped a pleasant looking man with a copy of the Financial Times in hand - he held some promise. At long last, this man with ‘class’ written all over his demeanour said, “ah, you’re looking for the All England Lawn Tennis Club! That’s not here, you’ve got to take the same train you came on, hop off a station called ‘Southfields’ and it’s a ten minute walk from there”.
Heart pounding, I ran back to the station with the world’s most misleading name - Wimbledon. Making sure I got down at the right place - Southfields - and walking briskly, I began to pant in both exhaustion and excitement. I realised it was a little past three in the afternoon; it was getting darker by the minute helped by those threatening dark clouds that lingered since morning.
Walking in to the ‘Club’ wide eyed in amazement, it took just a few minutes to realise that the on-court tour had ended a few minutes ago! Dreams of setting foot on the most hallowed greens on earth, lay shattered. Had I been there just 10 minutes before, I’d have been able to.
Do you call this ‘just miss’?
Swallowing the disappointment, taking easier steps now across the museum observing various exhibits, pictures and paintings, I was not prepared for what I saw - a souvenir shop. This was my first ever visit to an organised museum which planned visitor flow in a way the it feeds on your emacity - the desire to buy something. I bought two tennis balls and hand towels (one each for my very close friend and fellow Becker-fan Rahul. In fact, he was at times called “Wimbledon” at school - our friends used to tell us to stop discussing Wimbledon) and a keychain, and stepped out into near darkness.
That wasn’t all for the day!
Having ‘lost Wimbledon’ by a whisker, the next goal was to catch the 5pm last entry deadline to the world-renowned Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. Already nearly 4pm, the aim was to make use of every minute. By now, I had familiarised myself with the time taken to reach places on ‘The Tube’ (London Underground). By that calculation, making one change at Edgware Road to a ‘Hammersmith & City Line’ train to Baker Street would take me to the door with 5 minutes to spare.
Jumping off at Edgware Road station I made a dash across the platform to change to a Hammersmith & City Line service to Baker Street. On the platform I was on, another train’s arrival flashed on the digital screens, indicating an arrival in under one minute. One train was just leaving the opposite platform and it instantly hit me that I was on the wrong side. To walk around the proper route and reach the other platform would take ‘ages’! Every second counted.
So I decided to cross to the other platform over the rails (as we normally do in India)!
As the train on the opposite side left, it was time to cross over the rails or, choose to go around the proper way risking the loss of an additional two-three minutes. The clock was ticking even as the lights of the incoming train became visible on the rails behind the curve.
I moved to the edge of the platform, to jump and run over the rails to the other side - there was one fear though: the platform height was way more than in India. Looking around to see if anyone noticed my preparing to jump, my knees bent just a little in order to take the plunge.
Something told me at that moment: “this may be against the rules here… they may fine you and put you behind bars”. In that case forget Madame, even the Queen wouldn’t help.
I listened, and one of those few times I practiced what I heard!
I went around the proper way.
(Now, coming from a land where underground trains were only running in distant Kolkata in the entire country [three days away from Trivandrum on a train], little did I know about its functioning. I noticed a third line in addition to the two standard rails on the tracks. In equal distance there were round fuse-like objects. It dawned on me that these could probably be a ‘live’ electric line that powers the train. Because, unlike in India where electric engines have those fangs touching the electric line above, I didn’t spot any here. Were they ‘live’ electric lines? There was no google on phone to find out. The next day I got it confirmed - it was indeed a ‘live’ electric line that powered all of ‘London Underground’ trains! I was a few seconds away from turning into a pile of ash! One of those divine interventions in my life where the “inner voice” I heard, was, I believe, God calling out my utter foolishness and instructing me in the right way).
3 Minutes to go!
The next train from the correct platform took me to Baker Street station. With the clock just 3 minutes short of hitting 5, I ran every step as if my life depended on it!
Bursting out onto the Malylebone Road from the ‘Tube’ station (like ‘Super Grover’ in Sesame Street), with one final look at the city map and spotting my pre-checked landmarks, I turned right and ran towards the Madame Tussaud’s. Swirling and avoiding oncoming people and their kids (or pets), and impatiently going past those walking leisurely ahead of me, you could forgive me to doing something that looked like ‘break dance’ (MJ must have just turned in his grave)!
Finally at long last the logo of the world’s most iconic tourist attractions was in sight. I slowed down for no more than a second. I looked at the watch, It was a little after 4:59pm. Sprinting again, I reached the door. With barely a few seconds left that I could count on one hand, I lunged forward and reached out my right hand to the door.
As soon as I touched the handle, I heard a sound - click!
The automated, time-sensitive lock system (a very new thing for me then) locked the door. The time between my touching the handle and the “sound of Madame’s” closed gates was perhaps a few picoseconds (in order to understand - it has been considered as the time taken for light to pass by one strand of hair)! Who can explain that?
Just to try my luck, I tried pushing the lever of the door down a few times to catch the attention of some generous, sympathetic, understanding soul (staff). A uniformed man made signs from the inside - ‘no, time over’. I showed a sad, disappointed face seeking some mercy. He phoned an officer (I think).
Fresh hope bloomed.
A security officer walked in from the other side of the building. Coming to me he asked: “can I help you sir”? Opening up my sob story of ‘losing Wimbledon’ and now ‘missing Madame’ despite all the scampering, I tried to impress upon him how as an Indian I appreciated and loved British culture. None of this cut ice with the one with a tight upper lip. “Five-O-Clock it is, and it’s already a minute past Five. Are you here for an event sir… yes? O you’re going back tomorrow, then come back next year in the morning. Cheers”. I also said thanks and “cheeears” like all mallu heroes on screen (watch any Malayalam movie with a ‘drinks’ scene).
Well, that was a sad end to a day that started off with much promise despite the clouds that hung over. I was dejected and frustrated with all those who could not lead me to ‘Wimbledon’ in time. That’s where I lost an hour or more. How can a whole village not know?
An ‘international lesson’ learnt was, outside India, ‘time and tide waits for no man’ - rules are meant to be kept, not talked about or negotiated around. In India ‘stories’ work and can get you past almost anything. In England stories are meant for bed time or during the evening night over the dinner table only.
The rest of the evening was spent tiffling (a word used in Suffolk, England meaning to ‘potter about aimlessly’) through the streets of where else, London! Tried ‘Fish and Chips’ paying Ten British Pounds, and left it there after a very difficult third bite, before pouncing on a Burger King beef whopper to satisfy my hunger.
Early morning the next day, once bitten twice shy, I reached the Euston station to catch a ‘Virgin’ train for Hollyhead, 45 minutes before departure. There I learnt another lesson: trains or platforms do not open doors until 15 minutes or so, before departure. Did a ‘revenge sleep’ on that trip (which arrived at Chester an hour and fifteen minutes late).
In 2002, Prem and I, and in 2003 Tom and I went together in the early afternoon hours to avoid a ‘closure experience’.
Over the next 20-odd years, yours truly has been to the British isles more than 25 times, to scores of other places including to the Lords’ Cricket Ground, all well in time to avoid pointless ‘storytelling’.
In 2011, Deepak and I took a proper tour of Wimbledon. Those pictures went away with a wicked Spaniard who flicked my laptop from my zipper bag on a busy Madrid metro train early in 2012. We took that particular train because our client made us wait a few minutes more than planned. Else, we’d have taken another train, and that laptop wouldn’t have disappeared.
Here’s the thing: we are always on the wrong side - when we are late by a few seconds, doors close. When we are early, they all conspire to make us wait!
Travel Tip: Never leave time bound attractions to the last moment. And, never assume what is globally acclaimed is known locally. Well, today with moving maps in hand, there’s no real need to ask anyone too!
