Seeing London

The station felt like it was empty, probably because it was. I was alone, surveying the empty track that would soon provide me a short ride to the next station on the line. That next station would be the end.

Not the end of my journey on that specific day, for I would have to return to my flat eventually, but to a personal vendetta I had against myself. Or so it would seem.

Everyone wanted to go somewhere for fall break, including myself. When we arrived in London we all had grand visions of sandy (potentially topless) beaches, real Italian dinners or nights under the Eiffel Tower lights. However, the sad truth of reality soon set in, which meant a rush for discount tickets, extra cheap accommodations and maybe, just maybe, the chance to still see some of those topless beaches.

It became apparent very quickly that I would not be going anywhere for fall break. I simply didn’t have the funds. At first I sulked, like all good college students do, but then I took it as an opportunity, a challenge even. A chance to do something no one else could say they had done when they went home for winter break.

And it is with that notion that I set out on what would be a 28 hour journey over the course of three days. I wanted to go to every underground Tube station in London’s Zones 1 and 2. I wanted to leave every station to take a photo to prove I was there. To whom was I proving this? I wasn’t quite sure, but I knew I wanted to prove it anyway.

At the starting point, Marble Arch, my home station, it was awkward. I was using my cell phone from the States as my camera because I don’t own a real one. I had a backpack on and lots of layers because it was a little chilly. I stopped outside the main entrance and did my best version of a MySpace self-picture pose. I was very aware of the eyes around me, staring down the weird kid with the beard and baseball cap. This was going to be interesting.

Five stops later, I was wearing half as many layers, rocking a set of headphones and in the zone, now aware my task was becoming quite the mission. To finish 154 stations (every one in the first two zones except Blackfriars which is closed until 2011) would take much longer than previously anticipated. I also went in without much of a plan; just a tube map to cross off each station on and a notebook to keep track of time. Two hours went by. Then four. It was past lunch time, so I snacked on some chips and kept on going. Underground it was like time stood still. I could travel from station to station, exit, snap a picture and get back onto the tube generally before the next train had even come. I cut out an hour each day by walking up and down the escalators. I became a professional at something few would ever want to be a professional at. Train riding should be listed on my next CV.

After my first day I’d completed 45 stations. I had to retrace stations a few times, which wasn’t very efficient, so I rethought my lack of a plan and decided to make one. I split London into my own set of zones- Northeast (which I covered the first day), Southeast, and West. There weren’t enough lines west of London to split it easily.

Day two took me to the Southeast, including the Docklands Light Rail, or DLR. Ten hours. 73 stations. In the words of, well, I don’t know who said it actually, I made the London Underground my personal play toy. I owned it. It became clear my mission could potentially be completed. And by day three, it was.

Another 36 stations and eight hours clinched the trek. As I snapped my final photo and dusk set in over London, my phone rang. It was my girlfriend.

“Hey, Dublin and Brussels were amazing! Berlin is good so far too! What have you been up to?”

“Nothing really.”

I took a look around at a section of city I will probably never see again. Then, I walked back down to the trains.

Looking back I can finally understand the point of my journey. Ever since I was tripping over my OshKosh overalls I’ve loved a good story. It’s why I am a journalist, or at least trying to be one. Exceptional stories are the ones that don’t make the front page headlines; they’re the ones all around us. Like a divorced mom raising two kids while getting another degree at 50; a sister trying to make the high school bowling team; a first date, first kiss, first love. These are the stories that we love telling but seldom hear. The stories that are timeless. The stories of our lives.

Just like the kid that spent 30 hours on a train simply because he could.