A fencing meet practically next door —12 minutes by train— so we could
leave late and had most of the morning for housework and last-minute
weekend shopping. At the entrance to the sports hall, one of the judges greeted
us and asked “did it go all right by public transport?” I’m used to people at
fencing meets thinking that getting there by public transport is by definition
difficult and unpleasant and we’re heroic for suffering it, so I said, “why,
yes, of course” without telling him about the roundabout bus route that the
public-transport planner had made us take: bus 2 that goes all through the
newish housing estate, when we could have taken bus 4 that goes straight, and a
driver who told us that the stop I thought was our stop wasn’t, and later asked
why we hadn’t got off there. (In fact going places by public transport is
usually pleasant, though time-consuming, and easy once you’ve got the hang of
it. I suppose it’s mostly a matter of competence, though; I can imagine people
not used to it getting completely confused.) It wasn’t until later that I
realised that he thought we came from Gouda, because that was the
place where he’d first met us, and Gouda is on the other side of the country
and happened to be completely isolated because of railway works and an
accident.
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