It is unusually hot for the beginning of January, let alone for January in England. God, it is not even raining! The only water here is located on my forehead. My suitcase weights a ton, I can barely lift it into the bus. Another bitter disappointment : when facing a sweaty Frenchie, no man in this bus seems to remember the English are supposedly world famous gentlemen! All right, I must admit I am in a bad mood.
It’s only my second time in a London bus and I can’t say my first experience was great. Buses can be tricky for foreigners. Among other problems, here is the main one : if you look both on the bus stop and inside the bus, only a few main stops of the line are indicated. So if like me, you don’t know precisely where you’re going, you can easily take the wrong bus ! Not to mention that the names of the stops are written ridiculously small : good luck with deciphering them while the bus is moving! Basically you just have to guess where to stop... and last time, i guessed wrong. I hope this time will be better.
Unfortunately, it’s not for the moment. Maybe my mood has something to do with the 2 pounds I just paid for a single trip. And I thought Paris transports were expensive! It’s a 50 cent rise since last year!
But let’s forget about the price, the heat, the suitcase. Night has fallen, the town is glowing. The people on the bus are pretty quiet now, the street noises are muffled. I see people coming and going, it’s like watching through the glass of a aquarium. I’m starting to think my friend was right. She told me the 188 would take me directly from Waterloo to the Tower Bridge, where I am to meet her. “You do have to take the bus, she insisted, you’ll see the city at night, it’s beautiful. And red buses are part of London’s history.” I’m glad I let her convince me. Red buses as well as red phone booths, red post boxes and, well, black cabs, are indeed what comes to a foreign mind when picturing London.
Speaking of symbols, we drive past a routemaster. It’s the most famous model of double-decker buses and was introduced in London in 1956.It’s easily recognisable, with its open platform at the rear and a conductor to collect fares. I recall that these buses have been withdrawn for economical reasons in december 2005, but some have been preserved for tourists on two lines called “heritage roads”. As it stops to a red light, old movies come to my mind. A platform crowded with passengers, people boarding quickly at stops, at traffic lights. A detective catching the bus to follow the villain’s car.
As we drive on, the roll of film rewinds further in time. I suddenly recall the story of the first regular bus service. Here the streets are narrower and darker. It is easy to imagine the horse buses started by George Shillibeer in 1829. He had taken example on the omnibus operating in Paris. A flash of white, and I imagine an elegant lady with a hat boarding this bus made for up to 20 passengers. She’s taken away at the pace of three horses, trotting on the first route that ran from the suburb of Paddington to Bank, in the City. An immediate success. Hard to believe that Shilibeer, the man who revolutionized London’s transport, went bankrupt because of the competition and had to convert his buses in funeral coaches!
The increasing brightness takes me out of my reverie. This time, I won’t miss my stop, you can’t miss the Tower Bridge. Walking on the bridge arm in arm, my friend and I fight the biting wind. A mocking light in the eye, she asks me about my bus trip. “I have a story for you, she finally says. Did you know that a bus jumped over Tower Bridge?” “Come on, that’s an Urban Legend”. “It’s true”, she says, “the driver’s name was Albert Gunter”. We’re now walking along the Tames, and stop on a bench near street hawkers. On December 1952, she tells me, a crowded double decker bus was nearly half way across Tower Bridge when the bridge began to rise. The driver had only a split second to make up his mind. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and the bus leapt across the widening gap and smashed on the other side. Several passengers were injured, but they all survived.
“Albert was hailed as a hero”, interrupts an hoarse voice close to us. An old man selling trinkets is looking at us with a crooked smile. As he comes closer, we stand to leave, he seems to have something in his hand. “But if you’re interested in buses ladies...well...” He opens his dark hand. A little red bus glows inside. “Buy this, and I’ll tell all about the Ghost Bus of Ladbroke Grove. In the 30’s motorists died because of that ghost bus. It was large, and red, with a "7" route number on it. Wanna hear about it?”
Five minutes later, I find myself a ghost story richer, 2 pounds poorer,and smiling. “Time to go” my friend tells me, you want to grab a cab?” I look at the toy in my hand. The suitcase doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. And I know where I am, and where I’m going. Arm in arm, we walk to the bus stop.
It’s only my second time in a London bus and I can’t say my first experience was great. Buses can be tricky for foreigners. Among other problems, here is the main one : if you look both on the bus stop and inside the bus, only a few main stops of the line are indicated. So if like me, you don’t know precisely where you’re going, you can easily take the wrong bus ! Not to mention that the names of the stops are written ridiculously small : good luck with deciphering them while the bus is moving! Basically you just have to guess where to stop... and last time, i guessed wrong. I hope this time will be better.
Unfortunately, it’s not for the moment. Maybe my mood has something to do with the 2 pounds I just paid for a single trip. And I thought Paris transports were expensive! It’s a 50 cent rise since last year!
But let’s forget about the price, the heat, the suitcase. Night has fallen, the town is glowing. The people on the bus are pretty quiet now, the street noises are muffled. I see people coming and going, it’s like watching through the glass of a aquarium. I’m starting to think my friend was right. She told me the 188 would take me directly from Waterloo to the Tower Bridge, where I am to meet her. “You do have to take the bus, she insisted, you’ll see the city at night, it’s beautiful. And red buses are part of London’s history.” I’m glad I let her convince me. Red buses as well as red phone booths, red post boxes and, well, black cabs, are indeed what comes to a foreign mind when picturing London.
Speaking of symbols, we drive past a routemaster. It’s the most famous model of double-decker buses and was introduced in London in 1956.It’s easily recognisable, with its open platform at the rear and a conductor to collect fares. I recall that these buses have been withdrawn for economical reasons in december 2005, but some have been preserved for tourists on two lines called “heritage roads”. As it stops to a red light, old movies come to my mind. A platform crowded with passengers, people boarding quickly at stops, at traffic lights. A detective catching the bus to follow the villain’s car.
As we drive on, the roll of film rewinds further in time. I suddenly recall the story of the first regular bus service. Here the streets are narrower and darker. It is easy to imagine the horse buses started by George Shillibeer in 1829. He had taken example on the omnibus operating in Paris. A flash of white, and I imagine an elegant lady with a hat boarding this bus made for up to 20 passengers. She’s taken away at the pace of three horses, trotting on the first route that ran from the suburb of Paddington to Bank, in the City. An immediate success. Hard to believe that Shilibeer, the man who revolutionized London’s transport, went bankrupt because of the competition and had to convert his buses in funeral coaches!
The increasing brightness takes me out of my reverie. This time, I won’t miss my stop, you can’t miss the Tower Bridge. Walking on the bridge arm in arm, my friend and I fight the biting wind. A mocking light in the eye, she asks me about my bus trip. “I have a story for you, she finally says. Did you know that a bus jumped over Tower Bridge?” “Come on, that’s an Urban Legend”. “It’s true”, she says, “the driver’s name was Albert Gunter”. We’re now walking along the Tames, and stop on a bench near street hawkers. On December 1952, she tells me, a crowded double decker bus was nearly half way across Tower Bridge when the bridge began to rise. The driver had only a split second to make up his mind. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and the bus leapt across the widening gap and smashed on the other side. Several passengers were injured, but they all survived.
“Albert was hailed as a hero”, interrupts an hoarse voice close to us. An old man selling trinkets is looking at us with a crooked smile. As he comes closer, we stand to leave, he seems to have something in his hand. “But if you’re interested in buses ladies...well...” He opens his dark hand. A little red bus glows inside. “Buy this, and I’ll tell all about the Ghost Bus of Ladbroke Grove. In the 30’s motorists died because of that ghost bus. It was large, and red, with a "7" route number on it. Wanna hear about it?”
Five minutes later, I find myself a ghost story richer, 2 pounds poorer,and smiling. “Time to go” my friend tells me, you want to grab a cab?” I look at the toy in my hand. The suitcase doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. And I know where I am, and where I’m going. Arm in arm, we walk to the bus stop.
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