First rule of traveling: travel light. I obviously missed that one. So, I am sporting broken arms and sticky skin as I walk into the European world.
Welcome to France, Hannah. Recap of day one: grounded flight in Houston led to a missed connection in Frankfurt, which led to yet another missed connection in Pqris; this time ona different airline, so it wasn't their fault that I missed my flight, and the only consolation they offered was to say, "buy another ticket...for TOMORROW night." Yes, a whole 36 hours from the time I finally set foot in Paris; France, to the time I would be in Marseille, my final destination. Returning to the airline that caused the entire ruckus, they ever-so-casually told me, "it's notour fault either." Really? So,the blame-everyone-else-because-it's-just-not-my-fault-no-now-not-ever game is alive and well in Europe too? I thought Americans werethe champions of that game,but I think there's a secret war of nations waging. After riding the airport shuttle to-and-from literal opposite ends of the famous Charles de Gaulle airport twice, I finally found help. Picture this: I arrive at the ticket counter, my eyes welling with tears of exhaustion and sheer frustration mixed with a dash of fear because I'm in a new place and everyone is telling me something different, and 3 tons of luggage, white shirt with pit-stains from the sweat and the oh-so-American Rainbow flip-flops on my feet. Tell me, who wouldn't want to help a girl like that?
Sparing details of terrible travel insurance stories and ridiculous conversations with unhelpful people who, by the way, work at a help desk, I bought a train ticket. Mrs. Cross (my high school french teacher) often spoke of the TGV, the "bullet train" that will carry you from one side of France to the other in just a fewshort hours. So, TGV it was. Of course, the train didn't leave from the airport station! Oh no, it definitely left from the center of Paris, so I had to buy a metro ticket to get to the Gare de Lyon in order to catch the train to Marseille. And yes, my 3 tons of luggage had to come with me. [insert side bar: you know, I really am just flat stupid sometimes. A typical American girl, I traveled with way too much stuff] I must admit that I was beginning to think I made the wrong decision.
So, here I sit at the train station, waiting for le TGV à Aix-en-Provence. There is a crowd all around me. Everywhere is crowded here. I'm nestled in a small corner against one of my oversized suitcases, lifting my feet every few moments as another traveller scurries by. My smile reappears every time I hear the chatterings of French, Spanish, Italian, and even some German. I love it. I've got my baguette bien-etre in my lap, full of fresh cucumbers, fresh chicken, and, of course, fine cheese, and I'm still on the road. I can't help but think of Jack Kerouac right now, and Dean Moriarty. On the road again, indeed.
Disregarding the minutia and headache, I can wholeheartedly tell you that I am right where I am supposed to be. I have no explanation for why this mess is the beginning of my journey, but I must and do trust that He is up to something here, whether it's sending me through the French countryside, or conversing with someone on the train, I don't know. I did meet two wonderful women on the métro, Laura and her sweet Spanish mother Maria Antonie. I will never forget the European delicacy that we shared: chocolat.
And so, the memories have begun.
Welcome to France, Hannah. Recap of day one: grounded flight in Houston led to a missed connection in Frankfurt, which led to yet another missed connection in Pqris; this time ona different airline, so it wasn't their fault that I missed my flight, and the only consolation they offered was to say, "buy another ticket...for TOMORROW night." Yes, a whole 36 hours from the time I finally set foot in Paris; France, to the time I would be in Marseille, my final destination. Returning to the airline that caused the entire ruckus, they ever-so-casually told me, "it's notour fault either." Really? So,the blame-everyone-else-because-it's-just-not-my-fault-no-now-not-ever game is alive and well in Europe too? I thought Americans werethe champions of that game,but I think there's a secret war of nations waging. After riding the airport shuttle to-and-from literal opposite ends of the famous Charles de Gaulle airport twice, I finally found help. Picture this: I arrive at the ticket counter, my eyes welling with tears of exhaustion and sheer frustration mixed with a dash of fear because I'm in a new place and everyone is telling me something different, and 3 tons of luggage, white shirt with pit-stains from the sweat and the oh-so-American Rainbow flip-flops on my feet. Tell me, who wouldn't want to help a girl like that?
Sparing details of terrible travel insurance stories and ridiculous conversations with unhelpful people who, by the way, work at a help desk, I bought a train ticket. Mrs. Cross (my high school french teacher) often spoke of the TGV, the "bullet train" that will carry you from one side of France to the other in just a fewshort hours. So, TGV it was. Of course, the train didn't leave from the airport station! Oh no, it definitely left from the center of Paris, so I had to buy a metro ticket to get to the Gare de Lyon in order to catch the train to Marseille. And yes, my 3 tons of luggage had to come with me. [insert side bar: you know, I really am just flat stupid sometimes. A typical American girl, I traveled with way too much stuff] I must admit that I was beginning to think I made the wrong decision.
So, here I sit at the train station, waiting for le TGV à Aix-en-Provence. There is a crowd all around me. Everywhere is crowded here. I'm nestled in a small corner against one of my oversized suitcases, lifting my feet every few moments as another traveller scurries by. My smile reappears every time I hear the chatterings of French, Spanish, Italian, and even some German. I love it. I've got my baguette bien-etre in my lap, full of fresh cucumbers, fresh chicken, and, of course, fine cheese, and I'm still on the road. I can't help but think of Jack Kerouac right now, and Dean Moriarty. On the road again, indeed.
Disregarding the minutia and headache, I can wholeheartedly tell you that I am right where I am supposed to be. I have no explanation for why this mess is the beginning of my journey, but I must and do trust that He is up to something here, whether it's sending me through the French countryside, or conversing with someone on the train, I don't know. I did meet two wonderful women on the métro, Laura and her sweet Spanish mother Maria Antonie. I will never forget the European delicacy that we shared: chocolat.
And so, the memories have begun.
3 comments:
oh, the joy of traveling. you know, of all the hours we have spent together, I don't think I have ever read something you wrote. I take that back, I think I read one of your english papers or something. I am enjoying your descriptiveness and your thoughts.
Hannah,
I am so glad you made it there safely. I am sorry it was such a memory-making experience, but I know you handled it with grace and dignity...(I'm just glad I was not on the recieving end of the "help desk"!! You have always been so resourceful and I am very proud of you.
I already miss you tons, even though you were already half a country away...! Can't wait to hear more! Thanks for the email letting us know you made it there! Praying for you! I Love You More!
minutia.
-scout
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