Brighton and Back

Riding the train back from Brighton, I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I arrived in Brighton the day before at precisely 6:30pm.  Will greeted me at the turnstile.  At 6:35 we were in Grand Central, a pub, sipping back a couple of pints of fresh, cold joy.  At approximately 4am we stumbled our way to a diner, finishing off a 9.5 hour pub crawl with hashbrowns and toast.

I struggled to extend the futon at Will's brother's flat.  I was waging a battle against poor craftsmanship and inebriation.  Both worthy adversaries, however, in the end I was victorious and able to stretch out across the foam-filled mattress.  Will passed out in a big, round chair.

The next day began as a challenge.  I wanted to make the most of my time in Brighton, but as a consequence of the previous night's behaviour, I didn't even want to sit up straight.  Eventually, I managed to mobilize and made my way to the street.  My eyes burned at first contact with the sun's rays.  I felt like I had perhaps become part vampire overnight.

Will and I walked the streets of Brighton for about 4 hours.  We explored the incredible indie shops, the second-hand bookstores, the anarchist cafe, and the coolest smoothie making place I've found since being in the UK.  I fell in love with the unique qualities of Brighton and it's citizens.

The train ride home was punishment.  There were no seats available, so I found myself jammed into the standing area with the other unlucky passengers.  To my left was a young middle-eastern man listening to Lupe Fiasco through his headphones so loudly, I can't believe he didn't rupture an ear drum.  To my right, was something even more shocking:

A young woman was deeply involved in a conversation on her mobile phone.  A 40-something year-old man stood next to her and kept responding to what she was saying over the phone:  

"I think everything will be just fine, he just needs to use some common sense," she would say.

"I've always said that," the man would utter, to no one in particular.  "Common sense is a good thing to use."

"I'll be back in about an hour.  I'll give you a call and we'll go from there," she said.

"Good idea!" the man responded, the tone of his voice reeking of sarcasm.

The lady would make another point.

"Hmph," he would laugh.  "Shocking."

I was beside myself!  I couldn't tell if the guy was mentally ill, or just the biggest asshole in all of England.  For at least 20 minutes he made remarks under his breath directed towards the woman on the phone.  She ignored them all.  Then, in the strangest twist of all, we reached a stop and in the kindest, politest voice, with no trace of sarcasm, the man asked her, "Could you please press the open-door button, love."

I have a feeling this isn't the strangest encounter that I'll have aboard the trains of London.