My journey through France began with train doors slamming in my face as my high speed train took off towards Aix-en-Provence. The only problem was that my stop was Avignon, the station which the train was getting further from with every passing second. All I could think to do was stand at the doors which were firmly locked and keep punching the button.
The train is moving. Surely it will stop.
punch, punch, punch
It has to stop. I am still on here. My group is not on here. I need to NOT be on here.
punch punch punch punch punch…
I am pretty sure this train isn’t stopping, but I still need to press this button…
punch punch punch PUNCH
My racing mind was interrupted by a young (and might I add very attractive) french guy who just slowly shook his head and muttered “the door will never open again.”
The sound of his voice echoed down the corridor of the train…
Never…
never never neverrrr…
Open…
open open opennnnn…
Again…
again again againnnnnn…
And mind you, this was no ordinary train. This was one of those fancy high speed trains which travels at the speed of light and stops FOR NO MAN. So getting off, finding another train, getting back to my people… that was all going to be a bit like if you took off in the wrong airplane and you were trying to get off to head the opposite direction. And to further complicate matters, the only words I knew in the native tongue were Merci, Bonjour, and Croissant.
But all was not lost. My fellow garden tour comrade, Joan, was also not able to exit the train in the allotted 2 minutes.
Dear sweet Joan.
I was immediately struck by a brilliant idea — Joan and I must head to the snack bar, which I firmly believe is where all very pressing problems can be solved. There we found some people in uniforms, so with zero context of who I am or my predicament I begin to English/French word vomit on the poor snack bar custodian. I was talking fast and waving my hands and trying to type in numbers to a French man’s phone standing near me.
Before I really knew what was happening, the entire cabin of lovely French people were talking to each other and pointing at us, and sweet Joan and I just stood there like the little lost Americans we were (except Joan is Canadian but you get the picture). About 20 minutes later, the kind snack bar custodian handed me a sheet of paper with a platform number and the words “4 minutes” scribbled with a train number. He just looked at me and said “run.”
When the train came to a stop, I scooped up Joan’s suitcase in one arm and my 43 pound backpack in the other and ran as fast as I could to the indicated platform in an “every man for himself” type fashion. In my memory (which could have undergone sub conscience embellishment), the lovely French people of our train cabin were hanging out the windows waving silk scarves and cheering me and Joan on as we raced up the stairs through throngs of faceless people. It is of course all in slow motion and I look extra graceful as I effortlessly lift two large pieces of luggage and run simultaneously.
The rest of the trip I endured jokes about putting me on a leash and exiting the bus in a timely manner. But I have decided I was actually the one who came out on top through the experience because I found my inspiration for my next romantic comedy which will take place on a high speed train in France (insert cute French boy and lost American girl).
So my little French adventure had begun. Train doors had slammed in my face, but the greatest adventures often begin that way now don’t they?
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| first views of Provence out of the train window (pre-missed train exit fiasco of 2k14) |
