The train finally came to a stop.
“Leicester,” the conductor yelled out
.
My husband and I rounded up all seven of our suitcases and managed to get off before the train moved out of the station again. We were finally at the end of our journey. In the suitcases were all our worldly belongings. We were two twenty-something-newlyweds starting a new chapter in our lives. My husband would be a manufacturing engineer, and I would be looking for a job.
We parked our bags at the left-luggage office and decided to walk down the London Road. We needed to find the Post Office. The weather was glorious, and it was so liberating to walk hand-in-hand, looking in the shop windows. We were a Yank and a Canadian abroad in a foreign land.
“We need to ask directions to the Post Office,” my husband said. And I agreed.
“You do it,” I responded. “I am not sure I will understand the accent.”
My husband decided to ask the constable on a corner. His response was, “Just down the London Road, turn left on Beaver Street.”
OK, that seemed easy enough. We kept walking and walking and walking until the London Road ended at the Clock Tower.
“Did you see Beaver Street?” I queried.
“No, we must have missed it. Let’s walk back to the station. Maybe we should ask someone else?” So we did, although it was hard to believe the constable had given us incorrect directions.
We stopped a nice gentleman and he pointed up the London Road and said, “Just walk up the London Road and turn right. You cannot miss it.”
Off we went with great determination; we would surely find the Post Office this time! Except we didn’t. Our newly-found confidence was shaken.
“We need to ask again. This is crazy,” I said.
In desperation, my husband stopped a lady coming out of Boots. “Excuse me, ma’am. We are looking for the Post Office. We were told it is on Beaver Street. Can you help?”
Suddenly the woman began to smile, and then to laugh. “In Leicester we pronounce it ‘Beaver’ but the street name is ‘Belvoir’. It is one block up.”
“Leicester,” the conductor yelled out
.
My husband and I rounded up all seven of our suitcases and managed to get off before the train moved out of the station again. We were finally at the end of our journey. In the suitcases were all our worldly belongings. We were two twenty-something-newlyweds starting a new chapter in our lives. My husband would be a manufacturing engineer, and I would be looking for a job.
We parked our bags at the left-luggage office and decided to walk down the London Road. We needed to find the Post Office. The weather was glorious, and it was so liberating to walk hand-in-hand, looking in the shop windows. We were a Yank and a Canadian abroad in a foreign land.
“We need to ask directions to the Post Office,” my husband said. And I agreed.
“You do it,” I responded. “I am not sure I will understand the accent.”
My husband decided to ask the constable on a corner. His response was, “Just down the London Road, turn left on Beaver Street.”
OK, that seemed easy enough. We kept walking and walking and walking until the London Road ended at the Clock Tower.
“Did you see Beaver Street?” I queried.
“No, we must have missed it. Let’s walk back to the station. Maybe we should ask someone else?” So we did, although it was hard to believe the constable had given us incorrect directions.
We stopped a nice gentleman and he pointed up the London Road and said, “Just walk up the London Road and turn right. You cannot miss it.”
Off we went with great determination; we would surely find the Post Office this time! Except we didn’t. Our newly-found confidence was shaken.
“We need to ask again. This is crazy,” I said.
In desperation, my husband stopped a lady coming out of Boots. “Excuse me, ma’am. We are looking for the Post Office. We were told it is on Beaver Street. Can you help?”
Suddenly the woman began to smile, and then to laugh. “In Leicester we pronounce it ‘Beaver’ but the street name is ‘Belvoir’. It is one block up.”
