Baker Street Station, Eight O’Clock in the Morning

BAKER STREET STATION, EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Baker Street Station, London, England

Thump-thump! goes my heart at eight o'clock in the morning as I wait for the Circle Line train on the westbound platform of Baker Street Station in London, England.

An hour earlier, Terry, my wife, and Dorothy, my daughter, had left our home in Walthamstow and taken the train toward Baker Street Station.

And what am I doing at that hour of the morning in that London Underground station? The story goes like this:

In 1998, Terry was pregnant with Dorothy. Since we both worked full-time, we talked about who would look after the baby once she was born. Normally, a British couple would pay a childminder or a nursery to take care of their young children while they work. But that was out of the question for us; the costs were beyond our financial means.

So we decided that I should stay at home to take care of the baby and see if I could work nights. My bosses accepted the change of shift and gave me a half-shift from 4 to 8 a.m. in the offices located one block away from Baker Street Station.

Thump-thump! goes my heart. A sign announces that the eight o'clock train will arrive at any moment. I am ready, standing on the very edge of the far end of the platform, where the sliding doors of the last carriage will open and Terry will appear with Dorothy in her arms.

Meanwhile, Terry has already unbuckled the baby carrier where she carries Dorothy, ready for when the train stops and the doors open.

Thump-thump! goes my heart. The train has stopped. I am in the right spot. The doors are opening; Terry searches for me among the crowd on the platform, finds me, and hands over the baby just as the train doors are closing... leaving one last second to mouth a goodbye.

Then, Terry would continue on the same train toward Notting Hill, where she worked as a teacher for Southbank International School. As for me, at the edge of the platform, I buckle the baby carrier and turn around to head to the opposite platform to catch the train back to our house in Walthamstow.

Many mornings, I would arrive a few seconds late to the westbound platform of Baker Street Station, losing my "spot" at the exact point where the sliding doors of the last Circle Line carriage would open.

But even though the platform was always crowded, many of the passengers were the same people every morning. And if I lost my "spot," there was always the voice of some European lady who would say: “Please, excuse me, this gentleman needs to stand right on the edge of the platform.”

For Terry and me, this was the morning routine from the time Dorothy was born until four and a half years later, when we left Europe to move to New Hampshire, USA.

At first, Terry would hand Dorothy to me in a baby carrier. Later, things got a bit more complicated as our daughter arrived in a stroller, but the plan still worked. And if it ever failed, it wasn't our fault. It was due to a railway strike or a security alert. In those cases, the station would close. But we had a Plan B.

What did it consist of?

Terry would keep the baby with her all the way to her job in Notting Hill, and I would catch up with them later by some other means of transport. In those instances, upon arriving at Terry’s classroom, the scene was always the same: the students paid little attention to "Miss Terry," as they all preferred to play with her little girl.

Since my family and I left London in 2003, we return to this great city every two years. Among the places I visit, I like to return to my "spot" on the westbound platform of Baker Street Station.

I go there on a pilgrimage, in search of strength and inspiration. Because I believe there are things in life that we must love forever.

New Hampshire, USA

November 2011

Far end of the westbound platform, Baker Street Station 

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