December 1, 1969 …
Dear Diary … It’s 12.15pm Monday, and I left Holland precisely 45 minutes ago. The Dutch are nothing if not punctual. So here I am, once again, feeling very much at home on the open sea. I do feel a little sad, too, but I guess that’s life.
I changed what money I had left into English pounds before I left Holland and I now have the grand total of one pound two shillings and four-pence. I ‘ll need to spend some of that on lunch, and with 4 heavy suitcases plus hand luggage, I’ll have to take a taxi to Sue’s place from the station. I sure hope Chelsea is reasonably close to Liverpool Street station!
Thank heavens for Sue. If she hadn’t been inspired to do the Grand Trip and fly to London 2 weeks before my ship sailed, I’d be in big trouble.
The ferry is like a mini passenger liner. It has a bar, lounge, TV room, purser’s deck, 3 other decks, a shop and a dining room. The channel is very rough, but it really feels great to be back at sea, almost like being back on the old girl.
There are people from Holland, England, France, Germany, America and even one or two Aussies on board. In my purse I have money from Australia, England, Holland, the US, and a ten cent piece from Panama. Boy, do I feel international! Now I’m going to be very touristy and go up on deck and have a look at the water and think some more …
I walked out onto the deck and was immediately slapped in the face by a gust of wind that threatened to haul me over the rails and blow me all the way back to Rotterdam. Oh but it felt so good. I closed my eyes and licked the salt from my lips. Heavenly. The biting wind whipped my long hair into a tangled mess. It would get no complaints from me. I loved it. l steadied myself at the railing and watched as waves slapped the side of the vessel, and as I had done so many time in the past few months, I reminded myself that it wasn’t Australian water I was looking at. These were European waves! Here I was, standing alone on a ferry on the North Sea, heading off for my next big adventure. My dream was now reality.
I leant against the rail and allowed the rhythmic rise and fall of those waves to lull me into a semi-hypnotic state. Suddenly, and without warning, my courage blew away on the next gust of North Sea wind. Tears of disappointment and fear welled up and burst through like a leaky Dutch dike. Until that moment, I hadn’t allowed myself to think too much about this next hurdle. I had just been relieved to be leaving Rotterdam.
Everything had been so wonderful on the ship. We had all existed in a bubble, a timeless fantasy world. Our every need had been met with a smile, our every whim generously catered for. Now I was facing a grim and frightening reality. I was alone and almost penniless. My one day in London on the way to Rotterdam had totally overwhelmed me. Soon I would have to face living and working in the very city that had terrified me.
At least everything would be relatively familiar. I understood the language, the money, the food and the way of life. I tried to convince myself that once I got settled and had time to look around, I’d feel more confident. After all, I’d done nothing for three months but travel. It was time to settle.
How wonderful it would be to have my own apartment, somewhere to hang my clothes up and cook my own meals. I’d find a job and have a regular pay check to sustain me. I’d learn how to find my way around sprawling London. I’d save my money and travel the continent in the spring.
I’d be fine.
Yes, I was sure. I’d be just fine.
The Juliana docked at Harwich at 6pm. I loaded my luggage on a trolley, had my passport endorsed for a year, walked straight through customs without a problem and boarded the train for London, arriving at Liverpool Street station at 8pm. I had a one pound note and a few coins left in my pocket. I also had 4 heavy suitcases and sundry hand luggage. What fun it was lugging them up escalators one at a time, wondering if each one would still be there when I arrived at the top again. If someone wanted to steal them, they’d need muscles, and I doubted my mini-skirts and bell-bottom slacks would suit a burly, muscle-bound thief.
I hailed a taxi outside the station, gave the driver Sue’s Chelsea address, then slumped back in the seat and fixed my eyes on the meter. I was feeling sick to my stomach. What would I do if the meter clicked over to a pound?
Fifteen minutes after leaving Liverpool Street station, we stopped at a red light. By then, the meter was showing eighteen shillings and I was starting to break out in a cold sweat. Soon I’d have to shout “pull over!” But then what? I had no idea where I was. How would I get to Sue’s place from “somewhere in London”?
Would I be able to find a public phone? Where would I leave my pile of luggage while I looked for one? Did I even have enough change to use one? What could Sue do anyway? Would she have to come out in the cold and dark to find me? Perhaps she’d tell me to get a cab the rest of the way and she would pay for it when I arrived, but we were in a suburban area, so where would I find another cab if I had to let this one go?
Oh why hadn’t I saved more money? Why hadn’t I delayed my trip for a few more months. I had my return ticket, but what little extra money I’d saved had disappeared in ports along the way and during my time in Rotterdam.
Yes, I’d discovered the hard way that Dutch treats weren’t just a saying! They were for real.
Besides, why would I have needed to save more money? A friendly Dutch family had been waiting to welcome me with open arms into their cosy home. A work permit for the Netherlands was stamped in my shiny new passport, and a job had been waiting for me in Rotterdam.
I bit down on my lower lip to stop the involuntary quiver that started when I thought about my stay there. How disappointing it had all been.
Once again, I briefly considered that perhaps it might be best if I jumped on a plane tomorrow and returned home. I had somewhere to stay tonight – if I ever got there – but how would I get through the weeks ahead? How would I find a job when I couldn’t even afford the train fares to go for interviews? How could I find a place to live when I had no money for rent until I received my first pay packet? And what was even more terrifying, I had to accomplish all this in London! Huge, frantic, immense, chaotic, overwhelmingly terrifying London! I could see the headlines now:
“VISITING AUSTRALIAN GIRL STARVES TO DEATH WHILE SLEEPING IN A SUITCASE ON A SUBURBAN LONDON STREET …. AND NO ONE NOTICED”
The traffic light turned green. The cab moved away from the intersection and immediately turned into a side street. And in that street, mercifully, it came to a stop.
“Here we are, luv. Tite Street Chelsea!” the driver announced.
The meter showed 18 shillings and sixpence. I could have kissed him.
I’m sure he expected me to say “keep the change” after lifting my four heavy suitcases in and out of the cab, but I bravely held out my hand for my one shilling and sixpence change. He grudgingly handed it over.
It was all the money I had in the world.