I needed to catch a train to Switzerland. Not just any random train. My travel agent had purchased the train ticket from Paris to Geneva several weeks before to make it easy for me. I had big plans to visit Montreux, a setting I’d chosen for one of my stories, just to get a feel for what the place is like in person.
Unfortunately, Google and I had apparently had some communication problems back when I was sitting comfortably at my kitchen table in America, meticulously printing a dozen or so maps and written directions to take with me for two weeks so I could limit my cell phone data usage. I suspect the problem stemmed from my rudimentary grasp of the language and geography of France, and an inability to clearly understand which of the Google-delivered results I actually wanted.
I wanted the train station Paris Gare Lyon, and I inexplicably ended up at Gare de Massy-Palaiseau.
Had I understood then what I know now, all I needed to do was take the red line Metro from Châtalet Les Halles, just one stop, to Paris Gare Lyon. Easy peasy, plenty of time to get there and get my bearings, jump on the right train to Geneva, and breezily enjoy all my well-laid plans, as if being an international traveler is no big deal.
My first indication that something was awry was when the upcoming stations on the blue line Paris Metro were outside Fare Zone 1. I got a little squirmy and uneasy inside. Then I passed out of Zone 2. And Zone 3. My little Metro ticket was only good inside Zone 1, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. Was someone going to check? Was I going to get kicked off, fined, stranded somewhere? Finally, in the middle of Zone 4, I was able to exit for my stop. I was feeling slightly frantic at this point, hauling my luggage out of the Metro, because I only had about fifteen minutes before my train to Geneva was scheduled to leave.
Turns out a Zone 1 ticket won’t let you out of the Metro platform to get to a Société Nationale des Chemins de Fer (SNCF) train. No matter how many times you put that tiny rectangle of printed cardstock through the ticket scanner, the fare gate will not open. I contemplated heaving my suitcase over the top in desperation, but it was kind of heavy. I mean, if it was just me it wouldn’t have been much of an obstacle, physically, but the thought of drawing that much attention as I wrestled my suitcase up and over was socially daunting. Plus, it was almost certainly illegal, and there were surely cameras even if the probable disdain of my fellow travelers wasn’t enough to keep me in line despite my urgency. Mercifully, a woman wrestling a couple of kids and a stroller opened up a larger family-sized gate next to me, and I slipped through before the gate closed.
I raced to the train station and quickly scanned the electronic sign boards, perplexed that none of the soon-to-be-departing trains seemed to be my own. I paused, gulping down the panic that threatened, and considered whether it just hadn’t arrived yet and would perhaps come and go quickly…or maybe it was delayed? But then, wouldn’t there be some kind of message indicating that?
I hate stopping to ask for directions. It has nothing to do with pride in knowing where I am (since that is a rare enough occurrence), and everything to do with being painfully awkward about asking even the simplest of questions to a complete stranger. My thoughts are agonizingly difficult to slow down, and to organize into coherent sentences so I can communicate effectively (succinctly) to another human being with whom I have no common frame of reference. There are all these polite niceties that should be observed before launching into a scatterbrained solicitation for assistance, and I only seem to remember that post-launch, when I have to backtrack and start over before getting straight to the point. This often results in confusion plainly visible on the other person’s face, like I’m speaking in another language. Cough. Only this time it really WAS another language. Thankfully, the woman behind the ticket counter spoke heavily accented English, much better than my French. And even better, she spoke in a tone of simple kindness to my distress, with zero impatience for my foreign-ness or my lost-ness.
In surprisingly short order, we moved past the problem of me being at the wrong station and on to getting me to Geneva on the next possible train, which was the next morning at 09:17, for the mostly-digestible price of 124 euros… if I made the decision in the next two minutes, before my existing train ticket expired. I plunged into the unknown, bought the new ticket… and then found an empty bench where I could sink down and take stock of the whirlwind of uncomfortable emotions swirling around inside, threatening to topple my equilibrium.
I was alone, in France, completely lost. My adventurous day in Montreux had just dissolved, and I felt keenly disappointed about that. I emailed my travel agent and explained (as best I could) what had happened. Later, when it was morning in America, she emailed back that she had contacted the hotel in Geneva and made the arrangements for my arrival a day later than planned. I reminded myself that I was not helpless. I had the convenience of a smart phone with cellular data accessible, and a credit card. After a few deep breaths, I got my bearings on the gps map application, which was much easier to understand now that I was the blue dot at the wrong train station. I pulled up a list of hotels near the correct train station, and found one that was reasonably priced (and available) with just enough stars to fit within my comfort zone, and I was able to pay for a room online. Things were starting to look up. Now I just had to figure out how to pay for the right Metro ticket so I could get from Zone 4 back to Zone 1 in Paris. At least I wasn’t in a hurry.
I found a platform with a kiosk and a line of people that seemed to be the place to buy the kind of ticket I wanted. I cringed at the restless line of people, not because of the length of it ahead of me, nor at the cacophonous sounds of the crying and whining children with the mother attempting to purchase tickets while keeping them all under control. No… it was the prospect of the line continuing to grow after I joined it, and knowing that I would then be the person holding up the entire line when it was my turn, struggling to select the correct ticket.
As I stood there wondering if the line would dwindle to nothing if I waited long enough—so I could take my time without any pressure to hurry out of the way for others—a small dark woman with wrinkled skin and a scarf tied artfully around her head came up to me and told me, in a mixture of lyrical French and broken English, that I could get a ticket downstairs. I hesitated at her gentle but insistent gestures to go to the elevator and, if I understood her correctly, her plans to meet me downstairs at a building that did appear to sell tickets.
Honestly, I had no problem waiting indefinitely for the kiosk, and it was not anywhere near as far outside my comfort zone as following a stranger to who-knows-what fate. I mean, my imagination had no trouble conjuring up large, scruffy men outside the elevator below, waiting to haul me off for vaguely nefarious purposes, unscrupulously using an old woman to lure me into a false sense of security. (Ahem. The downside of having an overactive imagination…)
Turns out there were no scary traffickers, gangs, pirates, or other criminal masterminds, just an intimidating guy behind the ticket counter who was clearly exasperated to have to speak in English for my benefit—because my attempts at French sucked every time—and assure me that yes, this ticket would get me where I wanted to go. I was so relieved not to be abducted that I turned to thank the helpful lady, but she’d already gone. I felt a twinge of guilt for my skepticism and suspicions about her motives.
As I made my way back over to the Metro platform, I realized that there were actually two platforms, presumably for going opposite directions. I stood there bemused, trying to remember which platform I’d used when I arrived, assuming I would be going back on the other one. I felt a little uneasy as I stepped onto the already-waiting Metro, which wasn’t in a hurry to leave that station. I stared up at the map, trying to discern which direction we were going to go, not quite ready to commit to sitting down, in case I was wrong and needed to quickly jump back off. A plump grandmother with colorful clothing, dark skin, and kind brown eyes stepped up beside me to look at the same map, and we shared a pleasant smile. She asked me if I was okay. Her English was beautifully accented but easy to understand, probably because she had a relaxed, unhurried tone that invited confidences. I shrugged and said I wasn’t sure I was on the right train to head back to the middle of Paris. She smiled and said she wasn’t sure either. She settled herself onto a seat with an air of contentment and said, “I guess we’ll see.”
I burst out laughing, and all the tension left my muscles. I found a seat, settled in, and waited to see which direction the Metro would go when it pulled out of the station.
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