It's raining in Toulouse. I'm sitting in the train parked at the station before we head out to Paris. Yesterday's trip from Arles back to Toulouse was easy for a train day. The only stress point was self inflicted. Hey remember when I said about train travel, that something is always fucked up or gets fucked up I should have mentioned that half the time it's friendly fire.
The departure board had two trains leaving on the same track about 2 minutes apart. Dam, this happened in Berlin and it drove me crazy. What if the 9:00 train is late and, my train, the 9:02 comes in first. How will I know I'm getting on the right train. OK, so the first train comes in and EVERYONE gets on board. What the hell, lucky for me the coffee cart guy is right there and he let's me know I'm on the right train. As I sit down and take deep breaths I seem to remember a little bus symbol next to the 9:00 "train" Dam it, why they gotta put buses on the train board.
As we roll out of Toulouse, my seat sucks. I swear that snarky lady at the international counter gave me the worst seats. I'm on the aisle, and there is a pillar where I should be looking out the window. Lucky for me the train is half empty and I can move around and find decent seats. I just hop back to my seat at every stop and then look around as we roll out and find something good from the leftovers. It's a nice 6 hours scanning the French countryside as the train rolls in and out of the shadows of big fluffy white clouds.
The stress point for today's adventure concerns the arrival and departure points for my connecting train to Amsterdam. It works like this at any train station. We train goers all stand under the big board looking up at our train on a long list of other trains waiting for the little number to appear that tells what track we're on. When that happens we all going running like rats in a maze, scurrying to our platform... to wait some more. As I'm standing there, it dawns on me that my train arrives at Paris Montparnasse and yet my train to Amsterdam leaves at Paris Nord. I'm no climatologist, but aren't those two different train stations, many miles apart. I run into the Information office to wait for the next available clerk who doesn't speak English to ask the important question. I say the two station names and hold out my fingers far apart, she says one word "Metro". Ahhhhh, like a Hitchcock movie, her face seems to move far away from me and yet closer a the same time.
No problem, I got this, I've been to Paris twice, I've ridden the New York subway system on my own, after my 13 year old niece showed me how. How hard could it be. Probably a lot of us have to get to Paris Nord, so there will be signs. I wasn't really that worried... until I got off the train in Montparnasse. It was like Times Square on New Years Eve except everyone was in a big hurry to get somewhere, like now. I just start following the heard, hoping to see a big "M" for metro somewhere. Information desk, OK, now we're talking, "Parly vou English" dismissive "no" Of course not, that's why you work at an INFORMATION DESK! I see the big "M", OK, then I see a big "M" information desk. Bingo. I wait in a long line and get my ticket and I ask which metro to take, cause there's literally 6 different lines to take. "4" she says, it's a mad house. OK, good, I can just look on the map for "Paris Nord" Not there, it's got to be Garre Nord, right, cause that's what they put right on my ticket. Garre is French for train, right? I roll the dice, I've only got about 45 minutes to make my train, if this is wrong...
I make it to the station, Paris/Garre Nord and see my train on the big board, whew. Home free. And I've convinced myself that this train ride will be easy. You know where this is headed don't you. I'm watching the big board, watching...waiting... track 8. I look over at track 8 and 100,000 people start swarming that way. Oh boy. It's elbows and suitcases at 10 paces as we're all trying to get on board first, for no reason, it's reserved seats my bruthers. I make my way in and see a three year old in my seat. Um, French dude, your child is in my seat, and I'm having a stressful day so move your child cause I'm almost sure I can take him. (He was the cutest kid, sporting a Sammy Davis Jr type hat, you know, really short brim.) The dad says he gets that the kid's in my seat, but I'm still standing here holding up the line. He tries to move the kids from my seat and the kid goes hyperbolic. "It's fine" I say, he can have my one and only window seat for these last two days. When all is said and done the dad is not even on the train, but the mom is holding the kid in her lap for 4 hours, where he can occasionally kick me if I happen to nod off. And just to frost this cake of misery, my seat is part of a set where it's two seats facing two, so I'm also looking across at two very angry looking German women. They looked piiiissssed. Now where's that observation car.
[please note: that last line will make a lot more sense when you read about my, soon to released, adventures on the Texas Eagle last February. I'm not a writer, obviously, but is that called foreshadowing, probably not]
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