One Does Not Simply Move Into London

Its black gates are guarded by more than just unionized tube workers on strike. There is evil there that does not sleep. The great eye is ever watchful.

It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash, and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand bus drivers could you do this. It is folly.

(For the culturally deprived, click here).

Seriously, Peter Jackson could direct a trilogy about the insanity we went through trying to move into our apartment two weeks ago.

Having finally figured out how to put down a deposit, thanks entirely to Sunday, again, and all her wonderful help (apparently Bank of America does not even understand that the Royal Bank of Scotland exists, and thus cannot do a wire transfer to it. So we had to write Sunday a check, and she was so wonderful and kind to us to transfer our deposit from her account. Truly a blessing from God), we had scheduled with our agent to move in the 7^th of September. This was all fine and dandy, until we started looking into how we would get around with all our luggage the day we moved in, and discovered there was a tube strike on the 6^th and 7^th, that would cause many of the subway lines to experience heavy delays or shut down entirely. Apparently this causes a sort of ripple effect in transportation, with everyone who normally takes the tube now overcrowding the buses and streets, and sends the entire city into minor chaos (though thankfully, the unions are kind enough to do their very best to do as little damage with their strikes as possible. The strikes musn’t be impolite, musn’t be too disruptive. Seriously, things are so messed up here. Different unions will work together to make sure they don’t strike on the same day, to ensure that there isn’t too much inconvenience or too much trouble for everyone. Because that would just accomplish the purpose of a strike too well...)

So, having never experienced a tube strike, we weren’t sure how much this would affect us, so we asked our agent if maybe we should wait and move in the 8^th instead, and deferred to his wisdom and experience on the subject. He said to go ahead and come on the 7^th, and it would be fine. So we did.

We get off our train from Macclesfield in Euston, and who would have guessed but the tube line we need is shut down. We have 2 hours to make it to our landlord’s office before they close, and the only station within 4 miles of the office is completely shut down due to the strike. And we have all our belongings for the next year strapped to our backs. So, I call the agent and ask him what to do.

“Um, I’m not sure. I sent you an email this morning saying maybe you shouldn’t come today afterall.” Later I checked my email and discovered “this morning” meant 1 pm, after we had already gotten on the train into London. Thanks for nothing.

So, essentially, our agent, Robert (not his co-worker Ian, who was so helpful to us in the beginning when we were looking for a place to begin with) was completely worthless. He put us in this horrible situation entirely by his own mistakes, and offered nothing to get us out of it. He had no plan. He said he would figure something out and call me back. So we waited there, with all our luggage, for him to call us back. Cheslea was livid. I thought maybe she should be the one to talk to him next on the phone so we could actually get something accomplished. For though it is normally my tendency to be confrontational and forceful in such situations, to demand that the other incompetent moron take responsibility for their mistakes, for some reason that day I felt no urge to demand anything from him, no fire to force him to action. But we talked about it, and decided that maybe it was a sign from God, that despite my natural inclinations I felt no rage against this unhelpful person, and that we should keep our calm with him and control our emotions in dealing with him. So, we decided I should continue to do the talking.

So he finally called back, and again had no help for us at all. He mumbled and said “I don’t know” a lot. So we were essentially stranded, and possibly sleeping on the street that night. Finally I suggested that we take one of the few tube lines that were still running to the nearest possible station we could find, and then maybe someone could pick us up from there. He agreed, and I imagined him bobbing his head up and down like a fool. So we did that, took an overground train to Willesden Junction. The man at the ticket counter had told us that we could possibly take a bus from there to Willesden Green, which was the closed tube station we needed to reach in order to get to our landlords, but not to trust the buses as they might be very unreliable. Oh really? London buses, unreliable? Never.

So, we didn’t want to take that bus across Willesden. That was about Plan J on our list of ways to get to the office, right after Plan I, which was hire a hot air balloon. But we got to Willesden Junction just fine, and called up our agent again. Again, he was useless. He tried to dump us off on Ian, who was a bit more helpful than his useless boss. He gave us the landlord’s phone number and told us to call them, and then if we had anymore trouble we could call him back. So we called the landlords. They were about as helpful as Robert. They mumbled a lot and kept repeating “I don’t know.” Completely unwilling to help us. So we were back on our own again. I didn’t really think much good would come of calling Ian back – we had hoped one of them would give us a ride, since we weren’t sure what other service they provided as middlemen between us and the landlord, but it didn’t seem like that was happening. Especially with the insane traffic caused by the strike. So, try as we might, we couldn’t find a hot air balloon, and saw no other alternative but to get back on the diabolical creature that is a London city bus.

In hindsight, the bus actually wasn’t that bad. It actually took us where we wanted to go, and didn’t cost but a few pounds. But while we were on the bus, it was pretty scary. The bus had already bullied us so badly, we were afraid of it. And on and on it went through unfamiliar streets with unfamiliar names, forever it seemed, never reaching Willesden Green. We had no idea when or if we would get there, especially with all the insanity of traffic and the strike, and time was running short. The office closed at 6, and though we had arrived in London at 4, sufficiently early to make the trip with time to spare, we had wasted so much time waiting on Robert to lend the aid he never did. So we both kept checking our mobiles for the time, and 5:20 came and went, then 5:30. I could see the tears welling up in Chelsea’s eyes. She knew we would face homelessness that night if we didn’t make it there in time. But then looking out the window, I saw some store, or some shop, I can’t remember what it was, but I saw the words “Willesden Green” in the title, and I had hope. I knew we were close, and knew God was watching over us. I squeezed Chelsea’s hand and told her with as much surety in my voice that it would be okay. And hearing myself say it aloud, I knew it would be.

And it was. We made it to the office by about 5:45, and in person everyone there was far nicer and far more helpful than they had been on the phone (a theory we’ve all but confirmed on the UK: British people are approximately 147% nicer in person than on the phone). We went through the contract, which was all standard stuff, no surprises, signed the paperwork, and got the keys. It went great.

Then we had to figure out how to get from the landlord’s office to our apartment. We had give up our naïve notion that they might drive us – the kinder days of generosity, when we had been under Ian’s care, were long gone by. I had looked it up when we were at Sunday’s, and knew it was a two mile walk. So I didn’t even bother writing down the directions, because I thought there was no way we could walk that far with all our luggage. Thankfully the landlord was kind enough to print us off a map showing the area between the office and our apartment, so we were able to get started in the right direction. We fully intended to take a taxi though, as those packs were really starting to weigh on us. So we figured we would go ahead and start walking in the right direction, and take the first cab we found. We thought that we might as well walk in the right direction while we were looking, since the closer you are, the cheaper the taxi is.

We found one. But it was empty, the driver nowhere to be found. So we kept walking, never to see another taxi again. We found the Willesden Green library, from which we had solid directions to and from the apartment, since we knew we would need to go there often, our lifeline (I’m posting this blog from the very same library, actually. Internet in our apartment is finally scheduled to be set up. Everything is in place, they just have to flip the switch. They're gonna do it next Thursday. Actually this Thursday, but last week it was still next Thursday and Brian Regan's joke was a perfect fit).

So, we just kept walking. We took a break on some nice little benches around a tree, which we now know to be an entrance to the wonderful Roundwood Park, which we’ll write more about later. And so we walked. It wasn’t as horrible as we thought it would be. It took about 45 minutes or so, not including our rest at the park, and we finally made it. Our new home for the next year.

So, that night we rewarded ourselves with a lovely dinner of donner and chips from a local chip shop (there are tons of them on our main drag, Park Parade, which is just a couple minutes walk from our front door).

Thankfully, we were able to slow down a little bit the next few days. Not too much though, wouldn’t wanna go crazy, actually have some time to relax. It wasn’t too bad though. We spent them mostly shopping for stuff to set up our apartment. Quite a bit of walking was involved, which was inevitable, since we’re us. But in the end we did quite well, and were able to get everything we need and cozy up our little studio, all for about 150 pounds. We found an ASDA, which is the name for Wal-Mart here, and took advantage of Argos, which is this weird store where all they have are catalog points, cashiers, and pick up points. You look through the catalog, write down the codes for what you want, take it to the cashier and pay, and then go wait at the pick up point. Employees in the massive warehouse in the back take your order and send up all the stuff you want, and you pick it up from the pick up point. It’s kind of like the fast food of department stores – cheap, fast, and easy. So, finally, without further ado, here’s our apartment, set up with all our purchases, in all its glory.

We really love it. The building is pretty old, I think. Edwardian, I think is the correct era, though I’m not sure. We totally have epic crown molding though, presumably original to the building when it was used for other purposes, since the molding doesn’t exactly follow the current room layout. Still, it is really nice, and makes the apartment feel much nicer and higher class.

We have a nice bay window with a table and chairs where we eat all our meals, for which I am now the primary chef.

Our street is all residential, and fairly quiet, and we’ve really enjoyed it these first few weeks. It’s been a lot of fun setting up our first home together, and we’re really thankful to have such a wonderful place to live.