Jeune Street

St John's College, Oxford

Everything had been planned so carefully. Our bus would leave Oxford for the airport at 8:39, and we would wake up at 7:15 to pack the last items and do a final clean of the house before making a leisurely walk down to the bus stop. At 8:15, we were on schedule. Lita left the flat to drop some things off at a neighbour’s place, and I started bringing our luggage down to the sidewalk. When the outside door of our building swung shut behind me, I wasn’t concerned because Lita would have her keys and she would be back in a minute. I took a moment to breathe in the early morning air and savour my last minutes in Oxford, where we have lived for the past three years.

It was now 8:20 and I saw Lita turn the corner on Jeune Street, walking toward me with a confused look on her face. I smiled and explained that I just forgot to pocket my keys on the way out with our suitcases. She didn’t have keys either — after leaving once, she came back to the flat a second time and also left her keys on the kitchen table. It was 8:20 on a Sunday morning and we were locked out of our second-floor flat.

Immediately, we began buzzing our four neighbours, hoping one would open the front door and let us in. Lita began with timid, apologetic buzzes. Our first-floor neighbour peered out of her window quizzically, looked at a distressed Lita with her arms in the air, and then shut the blinds to go back to sleep. I took over on the buzzers, laying on them long and hard. The new strategy was not apologetic, it was desperate. There was still no answer anywhere.

It was 8:25. Lita took my cell phone and called 911. The operator refused to give her the Thames Valley Police number for non-emergencies and instead suggested that she consult a phonebook. The phone call used our last minutes of credit on the phone and Lita bounded off to top-up at a corner store. Meanwhile, I began pounding on that first-floor window, determined to rouse our unhelpful neighbour once more. I pleaded at the top of my lungs. No reply. I returned to the buzzers, randomly punching the buttons in the hope of a reply. Finally, someone picked up. Please, we’re your neighbours and we locked ourselves out of our flat and we’re about to miss our buss and we’re moving today and we need to catch a plane and can you please please please let us in? His chirpy reply: Oh yeah, sure. No problem! It was 8:29.

I sprinted up the stairs, found our other phone and called Lita to tell her to come back. I filled my arms with bags that we would be taking to the airport and give to Lita’s Aunt for summer storage. Ran downstairs to deposit them on the sidewalk, and sped back up again. Lita arrived and she took two suitcases and left for the bus stop. As I arrived with the last set of bags I saw the bus pull in while Lita was still across the road and down the street. She turned around to look at me. Go! I said. Just go!

Lita hailed the bus driver and sweetly negotiated our seven pieces of 35kg luggage onto the bus, where the limit was one 20kg bag per person. It’s always better to have a woman do that job. Meanwhile, I was relaying our additional bags from the flat to the bus. The bus driver offered a few protests and we received a short lecture on the rules, but it was a slow Sunday morning and not many people were heading to the airport. We boarded the bus, showed our tickets, and wearily walked to our seats. I wiped the sweat of my brow, smiling, and thinking: this is just the beginning of our journey.