Aliens, Foxhunters add Musical Cab Rides - Leeds, England

Save This Page | Stumble It!


Aliens, Foxhunters and Musical Cab Rides

Leeds, England



UFO's fascinate my friend, April. And since this stems from the time we saw something weird in the sky outside my house, she's convinced that I am too. I'm not so enamoured of the subject. But I have always wanted to travel. It's been months since I've seen my friend who now lives miles away. We speak on the phone regularly; usually to bitch about work and moan about how much we miss being in the happy bubble of university. One day, she says: "How would you like to meet up, see some place new, and see the inside of a university again?"

"Sure," I say, "That would be great."

And so, a few weeks later, I find myself sitting on a National Express Coach on a sunny Friday afternoon, en route to the 21^st Leeds International UFO Conference, being held at the University of Leeds, in the North of England. Not exactly Far Eastern beaches, but at least it's a change from my home in the Midlands. ("Don't you bring any aliens back here," said my Nan, as a goodbye. "I don't want weird things happening. I've read things.")

We both have aisle seats. Most of the passengers are quiet. April is gazing out of the window on her side of the bus. I am staring at the greasy, gelled head of the guy in front of me, who is talking non-stop to the girl sitting next to him. It's a strange, lispy voice that produces words I can't quite catch, apart from the odd few like "high master" and "I ordain you Priestess". Suddenly, he pulls the lever beside his seat, and it reclines so it's about eight inches away from my face. He looks at me over the top of the seat. For some reason I instantly think of Fez from That 70's Show.

"Am I intruding on you? Am I in your way, there?"

"What do you think, Freak?" I think. "Just a little," I say, my Anglo-Irish heritage taking over with some laid-back politeness.

The bus has pulled into Sheffield where half the passengers disembark. He has lost his bus-buddy.

"Hey, Leese." My friend pokes my shoulder. "Shall we cadge a seat together?"

"Ok," I say.

We make a rapid getaway to the back of the bus and he moves on to talk to the blond guy who was seated next to me.

April giggles. "I think I heard him tell the guy in front of me that he was half-alien."

The blond guy makes his own escape to the front of the bus, leaving the half-alien boy to be strange and irritating to somebody else.

I look at my friend. "You know we'll be seeing him again, right?

April stops giggling.

We arrive at Leeds Coach Station and locate a city map to find out where we are and where we need to go. We find the coach station without the help of a "You are here" arrow, but can't find the street where our hotel is waiting. We think it's somewhere near the university, which is at the opposite end of the map. I propose a taxi. My friend looks at the map and says in characteristically coin-centred fashion, "That looks like an expensive long way." We find another bus, a local one.

"Do you go to Cardigan Road?"

"Not exactly." The driver ponders. "Do you know where the Arndale Centre is?"

"No idea. We just got here."

"Oh," says the driver. "Do you know where..."

"We know nothing. We just got here."

The driver gives us some vague directions. I pay my fare.

"So, you're not studying here, then?" asks the driver.

I shake my head.

"You'll like this road. It's good for pubs. Lots of blokes."

I smile politely and sit down.

An elderly gentleman leans towards us. By the expression on his face, it is clear that he doubts the driver's knowledge of anything other than his own route, and possibly not even that.

"Don't go his way," he tells us. "You'll be walking ages. I'll show you where you go."

We reach our stop and the driver repeats his instructions to me.

"See them pubs? Just head towards them and keep to the left."

The elderly gentleman gives his instructions to my friend. "Go back this way and keep right."

The driver opens the bus door.

"Now," he says to us. "You know where you're going?"

The old gentleman replies, "They do, yes."

We smile and nod as we get off the bus. We wait until the bus has gone so we don't offend either of them, even though we'll probably never see them again. Then we turn around and follow the elderly gentleman's route. We find the hotel just around the corner. St Michael's Tower Hotel, contrary to its name, is not very tower-like. It is a three-storey house, with the addition of the "Annex" - the house next door. Cardigan Road itself is a street full of small hotels, most of which are also converted houses and Bed and Breakfasts.

"The girl I booked the room with said she was very new," April jokes. "I hope we actually have a room."

We arrive at St Michael's Tower Hotel at about six o'clock in the evening, only to find that we are booked in for only one night, instead of two. In a way it was a cup half-full situation; at least she booked us in for that night. They have nothing else available, so we'll have to find somewhere else to stay in the morning. As we feel superstitiously responsible for jinxing the situation, we take this quite well. We just want to dump our bags and get some coffee. We can be troublemakers tomorrow.

We settle in our small twin room, accustom ourselves to the bathroom where there is no soap (I use my face-wash), and then we use the complimentary Nescafe sachets and tiny milk portions. We resolve to phone around for vacancies first thing in the morning or, if that fails, trudge from one end of this street of hotels to the other, knocking on doors.

We set off to catch the last part of Friday's Conference. We're told that the university is twenty minutes away. ("Go right, keep to the right, you'll see some shops, buses every ten minutes)." We pass a supermarket, Safeway, and nip inside to get some food (my second sandwich of the day; not the most healthy of choices). I see a girl waiting at a bus-stop singing quietly to herself. Great voice. We find a bus to the university and get off when the students do (the easy way to find a centre of education). The students wander off to their pub, The Library (cute). We wander into the university grounds. We walk over to what looks like a security station in the middle of the road, but it's empty. My friend starts to get a little tense as we look around.

"This place is huge."

We look around until we find a "You are here" map. We stare at it for a while.

"We're here. We want to go there." We find a key for co-ordinates but still can't locate our destination on the map. We stare some more, as if that will bring enlightenment. In a way, it does.

"Where are you trying to find?" asks a student, walking up to us carrying a Safeway bag.

"The Main Auditorium."

"Oh," he says. "It's not on that map. You're a way out. Go down here, past the library, down the steps, lots of steps. Go around the fountain, then right around the Sports Centre. You'll see the Auditorium by the car park. Can't miss it."

In my experience, university students feel some kind of obligation to be friendly and helpful to lost-looking people, the way that other people would not if they spotted some strangers wandering aimlessly around their area. This is probably due to the confusion of Fresher's Week surviving as a fuzzy but deep-seated memory and the community feeling that comes with being surrounded by people of the same age, doing the same things. Or possibly, a trained impulse to display knowledge.

As we head down some steps, an anxious-looking girl asks me where the library is and I direct her automatically, having spotted it on the way. I suddenly wonder if she means the place of books or the place of beer, but she's already disappeared. Oh, well. We get to the Auditorium at interval time and filter in with the others.

The University of Leeds is made up of big, shiny buildings, lots of steps and a gorgeous fountain. There is a big cross-section of people at the Conference. Some have travelled from all over the world: South America, Germany, Turkey, Australia, Leeds... I admit, I'm disappointed. I expected to see people dressed up in big alien headdresses with bug antennae or as Mulder and Scully, but everyone looks sadly normal. We don't even see the half-alien boy again. I'm secretly gutted about that. Does the world not respect the rules of irony anymore?

The introduction to the Conference finishes just after 10:00 pm and we walk back to our hotel. The streets are teeming with students. We have a crisis looming. April wants coffee and we only have one Nescafe sachet left back at the hotel. Safeway is closed, but we find a 7-Midnight shop (which appears to be closing that night just after 11:00 pm). We manage to locate shelves with tea, but no coffee. My friend becomes strangely tense and irritable.

"There's no coffee. How can they not have coffee!"

"Maybe this isn't a big coffee community," I say. "Maybe this is more of a tea community."

April glares around the shop, evilly. "Tea?!"

I wander over to the counter to buy some M&Ms and a bottle of water and find that they keep the coffee behind the counter. My friend visibly relaxes when she sees it and I wonder if they have many coffee junkies in Leeds.

September is a time when students arrive in big cities in big numbers, sometimes with no accommodation arranged. This is a very good and busy time for the hotel industry. Early on Saturday morning I phone Travel Lodge, our best bet, to ask if they have any vacancies for tonight. The Travel Lodge guy laughs at me.

"No, we're fully booked. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

This does not bode well.

After trawling up and down Cardigan Road, the road of many hotels, we trudge back to St Michael's Tower Hotel to demand a room. Or at least, beg nicely. It's a family hotel and the husband answers the door. We explain our situation, contriving to look as lost as possible.

"We've got the family room. It usually goes for £80, but I'm sure we could let you have it for ... £50 ..."

"That would be great," we reply, in unison.

We follow him inside, where he tells his wife, "They can't find anywhere. We've got the family room. We won't fill it now. We could let them have it for £50."

His wife does not look pleased.

"I'd have to charge more," she says to us. "It's the family room; one double bed, two singles."

She takes some time going through her books. "If there's someone here who hasn't left their credit card details, we can kick them out."

She can't find anyone. Eventually, she lets us have the family room. "I can let you have it for £60."

My friend looks at me and I'm surprised, given her Taurean coin-centricity, to see that she seems eager to pay the extra money.

"What do you think?" she asks me.

"Mm," I contrive to look uncertain, but the price doesn't drop. "Ok."

They let us stash our bags until we can check in later, and we head off for the Conference. En route we find a Starbucks and detour for coffee (and a cigarette for my friend). We sit outside and listen to the loud traffic drive past on the busy main road. We are strangely content, perhaps flashbacks to our university days when we sat around between lectures with nothing much to do (well, except study and write essays and meet deadlines and worry about money and debt - but that's kind of blurry now). We amble along to the university.

A few hours later, I'm sitting in my seat in the lecture theatre, my bum going numb as bums do during long lectures, hoping we can sneak off later to explore the city centre.

My friend turns to me, her face glowing, and asks, "Are you liking it, so far?"

"Mm," I say, secretly desperate to shop. "I liked the psychology and mythology stuff."

"Me too!"

No shopping for Lisa.

Later, April points at the guy with the video camera. "Look. They're filming the whole thing. I can buy the video when it comes out so I can see any bits we've missed."

Damn. I could have shopped.

During an intermission, as I'm sitting in a toilet cubicle, I hear one woman say to another, "How do you think it's going?"

The other woman replies, "Ok, I think... really, I'm just here with my daughter."

Somehow, we both get a sense of this not being good enough. The woman's voice gets defensive. "I mean, I'm not a believer or a non-believer. I'm just here with my daughter."

She laughs, a little embarrassed and not a little relieved as her daughter comes out of her toilet cubicle.

This woman reminds me of my Mum. I totally relate. So I phone my Mum.

"How's it going?" Mum asks.

"Oh, fine. But I'm going to come home early Sunday instead of late Sunday."

"Are you bored?"

"No," I yawn.

I phone the National Express number a few dozen times to alter my tickets, but no answer. I decide to try again after dinner.

I semi-satisfy my need to shop by buying some alien merchandise trinkets; a badge with Area 57 on it, an alien pin with movable arms and legs, and an alien incense stick holder with an agate stone as a base. My friend grabs the very last blue mug with the embossed alien head. I'm gutted.

Later, we head down to a bar/café called Citrus, not far from our hotel. We order a healthy dinner of pizza and diet coke. It is very good pizza. The staff look busy and harassed, but are still polite and good-humoured, probably because they're all students and don't yet know any better.

After dinner, we wander over the road to the local cinema, which is showing Signs, Mel Gibson's crop circle film. I think it would be a fitting and funny end to the weekend if we saw it. My friend does not. More caffeine deprivation, I think.

We check out on Sunday morning, skip the hotel breakfast and head down to Starbucks. I have a mocha and a croissant. My friend has a cappuccino and a gingerbread man.

"It has an iced skeleton on it," she offers as an explanation for her unhealthy food choice. I buy a sandwich for the road and we make it to the bus station in plenty of time. I'm a little worried that a twenty-minute gap between connections might be pushing it a bit, but our first bus is early and everything runs smoothly. I say goodbye to my friend in Chesterfield and wait for my bus to Milton Keynes. It's a bit late, but I get an aisle seat. I've found that this is important on crowded buses and long journeys in order to avoid the panic and hysteria of entrapment.

The driver makes an announcement. "There may be delays as we get closer to London because of the demonstrations happening there today."

There are groans and dark mutterings. There is not much sympathy on the bus for the Liberty and Livelihood March. I'm sure the United Kingdom countryside has its problems, but most people perceive the march as a bunch of bloodthirsty foxhunters. And maybe they are. I haven't met any of them, so I can't say.

It's very warm and every seat in the bus is reclined. I can't find the lever for mine to sit upright, so I get sleepy as I'm reading my book. Fortunately, the blinding light from the sun keeps me from falling asleep as we rush along the motorway.

By the time we get to Milton Keynes Coachway, it's cold and rain has started to come down. I'm a little surprised at the number of people standing underneath the shelter. There must be about fifty, not counting the ones squashed into the café's waiting room. People are queuing constantly at the National Express ticket office. As I manoeuvre through the crowd towards the café, I see a girl waiting beside her baggage, singing quietly to herself. Great voice. Déjà vu.

I squeeze into the crowded café and buy a coffee. I'm not thirsty, just cold. I find a space outside under the shelter, mostly away from the wind and rain, where I can dump my bag on the ground. I sit on my bag and pull out my book, The Beach by Alex Garland. And, no, the irony is not lost on me. A couple of people give me an odd look, sitting there on my bag, book in one hand, coffee in the other. Another girl plonks her bag down next to me, sits on it and gets out a magazine. A bunch of students a little further have also camped out on their luggage.

All buses coming from London are late.

"Majorly, majorly, majorly late," says the National Express ticket guy, when I ask him about mine. It's chaotic on the platform, with the students trying to get to university and holidaymakers trying to get to their flights or back to their homes. The drivers are all stressed and harassed.

"I can't take your ticket, love. I'm the 1:05," says one driver to a woman whose bus was due in around 2:00 pm.

"But its 3:15!" she squeals.

The Nottingham bus arrives at 5:30 pm, only three hours late. The driver asks a bunch of us where we're headed.

"Mansfield," says a blond woman. "But I know someone who can pick me up in Nottingham."

The driver nods. "Right. Get in," he says, decisively.

Tickets, seats and bookings are a real mess by now.

"What about you?" He looks at me.

"Northampton," I reply.

"Now, he was at the side of me as we were leaving London. He should be here any minute." He grins at me. "In theory."

My bus trundles in an hour later. Passengers flood off. I hand my ticket to the driver. I'm the only one getting on.

"So you want to go to Northampton, do you? I suppose I'd better take you, then."

It only takes half an hour to get to Northampton and there is much relief as we pass the All Saints Church in the centre of the town.

"Well, here we are, folks, at last," the driver's weary voice comes over the intercom as we pull into the station. "Let's just be grateful there isn't a demonstration in London every day."

I jump off the bus and head for the taxi rank. There is only one taxicab there. I peer hopefully in the window.

"Need a taxi, love?" asks the driver.

"Yes, please."

I'm a little anxious. The last time I got a taxi home from Northampton, the driver wasn't familiar with my town, and my directions are infamous in their hopelessness. Consequently, on that occasion, we drove around for a bit in the dark.

"I need to go to Daventry," I say. "Is that ok?"

"Yeah," says the driver. "Which part?"

Oh, thank God.

I haven't been inside a hackney carriage for years. I've forgotten how spacious they are. The driver tells me that I can eat or smoke in the back of his cab. I tell him I'm ok, but accept a mint from him, eyeing the no-eating sign in the back of his cab. I field some cabbie questions. After a bit, he puts on some music. For a minute I'm at a loss, then realise that it's a CD of children's television theme songs. The sounds of the Thunderbirds make me a little nervous. I check some road signs. It's ok. We're heading in the right direction.

"I dare you not to laugh at this one," says the driver, as the theme to Rosie & Jim carries over the speakers. I can't help it. It's weird, but I laugh.

"One woman I pick up regularly, I've been picking her up for years. She usually doesn't say much. Sometimes she reads a magazine. But the other day, I had her in the back of my cab. I put this on. First, she put her magazine down, then she smiled. And finally, she laughed so hard there were tears coming down her cheeks."

I smile, relieved. Are all cab drivers eccentric, compulsive storytellers? Perhaps it's a job requirement. When he drops me off outside my house, I feel a little guilty, as I only have the cab fare and no change for a tip.

"I think my favourite was The Snowman," I say, instead.

That night there is an earthquake, a strange occurrence in the Midlands, but apparently this is the biggest one we've had in ten years. This one registers a 4.8 on the Richter Scale and is so fierce, that I sleep right through it. My Nan, however, saw her dressing table tremble in the middle of the night. Next morning, she points at one of my UFO Conference purchases, the alien on the agate stone, and says, "That thing's going in the shed."

Ah! Home sweet home.


--------

Save This Page | Stumble It!