I think today is the Queen’s birthday, which would make it the 21. It’s probably the 21st anyway. This is a very bumpy train, which is surprising since the ground we’re traversing is very, very flat and inhabited by lambs and rapeseed flowers. I’m not supposed to be on this train, which is probably fitting. I got on the one to Hastings from Tonbridge instead of to Ashford, which would have been next. There didn’t appear to be anyone around to ask, so I just stepped on, half expecting to be thrown out on my ear when the loud speaker came on once we stared announcing our route and not including Ashford in the mix. So I read the obituaries of Linda McCartney in the Independent lying on the seat across from me and awaited the arrival of the conductor.

“Thank you,” he said several stops later, taking my ticket. He was about to punch a hole in it when he stopped and stared at it. “You’re on the wrong train. Don’t worry, I’ll get it sorted out. Stay here.” He returned a few minutes later telling me to accompany him to the brake room. I followed him through almost the whole train. He apologized for the long walk, but I thought it was great getting to pass from car to car, through the narrow doors and passages, getting to see what each car was like. He told me to take a seat near the back end of the train where I found an available copy of the Times. Then he gave me a slip of paper on which he had written, “21st APRIL 98/Conductor JOHN GRIFFIN/HASTINGS/This passenger got on the wrong train at Tonbridge/should have been Tonbridge/Ashford/Canterbury/please see that she is able to continue her journey on your train to Ashford.” I put it in my pocket, feeling like a naughty child sent home from school with a note pinned to my shirt, only mine didn’t say, “Joanna has problems healthily interacting with others,” but, “Stupid foreigner. Please lead by the hand.”

“This is in case I can’t talk to the conductor,” my saviour smiled benignly. As promised, he took me over to the other train, the one going to Ashford, and told me where to sit. When that train started off, I told the conductor I’d gotten on the wrong train while showing him a completely incorrect ticket. He smiled condescendingly and waved it away, saying he already knew.

I love being taken care of when I haven’t got a clue. In London, all I had to do was stare at an open map and someone would come up and ask where I was trying to go. It’s wonderful!

I’m pretty sure I’m on the correct train now, since this conductor nodded approvingly at my ticket. Sure enough, the loudspeaker announced we’re in Canterbury.
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Well, that was fun. Canterbury is about as touristy as a center of Christian pilgrimage can be. I wonder if they charged Chaucer to enter the Cathedral where Becket’s head was cleaved. There’s a modern memorial on the spot now. THOMAS it say, in neo-Gothic lettering, below a jagged, iron, lightening bold of a cross pierced by two saw toothed swords. One of the three knights who patriotically hacked the archbishop to death broke his sword in the process. Thomas had tended to be hard headed.

Being inside the cathedral today after attending church in London on Sunday night, I was struck with how warped and ingrown and deformed religion can be. Relics of Kentish Kings revered in an abbey, pilgrims crossing miles to kneel at the shrine of a stubborn religious leader, gigantic stone structures you have to pay 3 pounds to enter… and another 2 pounds to take a tour. It all seems perverse.

Like the Punch show I watched on the street. I laughed and put a penny in the guy’s bag who was working the crowd. I’m not sure his “god bless you” was worth the cost.

I had time to quickly pay too much to see the abbey ruins nearby. Then I rushed through the French tourists on the pedestrian streets lined with trendy shops back to catch my train back. This time I asked if it were the right one.

Sitting in Ashford International Train Station (only because Eurostar goes here) now, waiting for my train. I know I’m at the correct platform because this International station has monitors. Evidently, I should be resting assured because my train is thus far on time. The problem is that I don’t know what time that is. There are others waiting as well, so at least I’m not alone. The problem is that there is no one official to ask, except for the cafe workers, and I don’t want to make them profess their ignorance, especially when I’m not purchasing anything.

Have I caught up then journaling? At this rate, I’m going to be out of paper in a couple of weeks. I’ll have to turn the book around backwards and write upside down. Then it will really be ambiguous as to which side is up.

Jan picked me up after my coach deposited me in Tunbridge Wells last night. Then she brought me home and cooked me some dinner, including a mountain of pasta (they pronounce the “a” short, as in “cat,” not like “father”), which I polished off while we watched the last half of a 4-dimensional sitcom. Time warped comedies–what will the Brits think up next.

This morning Chris called around for me, finding the best route to Canterbury. He then dropped me at the station and bought my ticket. “I know I don’t have to,” he said to my protestations.