No Ticket.

You haven’t learned the true meaning of terror until you have had a Parisian taxi driver, already running behind, attempt to get you to your soon departing train in rush hour traffic.


The day started early enough after a sleepless night. The Russians next door argued. all. night. long. I awoke at 6:45. Hit snooze until 7:15. Popped out of bed where the lovely wife of the hotel proprietor offered to call me a taxi. 9 minutes. She said. Certainly enough time for a cafe au lait and a croissant. And I am unable to turn down free food, especially free caffeine and carbohydrates. I sat and ended up assisting a lovely Danish girl who spoke no French. She was trying to negotiate a way to leave her luggage for someone else to pick up. Despite sounding like a thinly veiled drug drop, I translated as best I could. The Australian gentleman, there on holiday biking through France, complimented my French. “I’ve never heard an American with such beautiful French ‘r’s.” he said. This is the ultimate compliment to an American french intermediate. Merci. Emphasis on the Merrrrrci. He noticed my concern as the 9 minutes, turned to 20, turned to 30....


By 8:15, I was panicked. My train left at 9:15 from Gare de Lyon, a good 25 minute taxi drive. The lady of the hotel called the company who assured her that the taxi was indeed coming. I begin to feel nauseous. I could try the metro but I knew I could not brave the famed 200 steps in Abbesses with a 52 pound suitcase, and the elevator was notoriously slow. The Australian gentleman who began panicking for me, grabbed my suitcase. If the taxi driver was not there in 10 more minutes, he would carry my 50 pound suitcase through a two train changeover to Gare de Lyon. It’s the most chivalrous thing a gentleman has ever done for me...and he was not creepy or menancing or even flirting. So score one for Australia.


But the taxi, in all its Parisian ease, showed up at 8:35, at which point the lady of the hotel ran out yelling in Arabic at the man. How she knew the Taxi Driver also spoke Arabic, I have no idea. But she was sweating bullets for me. I thanked her for everything, promised her daughter help with her English homework via skype, and finally got the chance to say the phrase every Doctor Who fan hopes to say in context.


ALLONS-Y, ALONSO!

Turns out his name was Mubarak. But eh.

I suppose if you don’t enjoy the prospect of facing your mortality, the worst possible thing you can do is tell a Taxi Driver, “My train leaves in 35 minutes. You were an hour late, but If you get me there I will give you a 10 Euro trip. 15, if you help me carry my luggage.” 15 euros is a decent tip...almost too much. really...I suppose, because the next thing I knew, I was cutting through morning rush hour on Paris’s busiest streets, fearing for the safety of all pedestrians and pets. Every time I saw one step out in the bus lane to look for the bus, I silently prayed that I would not be the witness/cause of a terrible car vs. pedestrian accident. Primarily because I was going to miss my train, but you know....because I care about other people sometimes.


Amazingly, my French becomes perfect when my adrenaline is rushing or I am pissed off. Every rule runs studied comes out, as I spat the address, train number, and subsequently the “Where the HELL were you?” that I asked repeatedly the first 15 minutes. I know that the public transit system, while efficient is absolutely brutal. I also knew that the odds WERE not in my favor and volunteering as tribute in this Hunger Game of car vs pedestrian was probably stupid. After all there is a night train to Gap. A 9 hour...night train. Sleeping with strangers. Oh Sweet JESUS HURRY! HURRY! HURRY!


I checked my ipod repeatedly as the time and the minutes melted away. 8:53. My train left at 9:07. Suddenly I found myself in a spin in the Bastille roundabout (Paris’s second most terrifying roundabout. Arc De Triomphe wins this round.) I held on, said a few ‘Hail Mary, Pray for this sinner now and in the hour of my inevitable death.‘ prayers and then when I opened my eyes. I was in front of Gare De Lyon. 5 minutes until 9 o clock.


He messed around with the 50 euro bill “Vous avez la monnaie? Un dix?” NOW? VRAIMENT? I HAVE TO LEAVE NOW AND YOU WANT ME TO SEE IF I HAVE 10 EUROS CHANGE.


“Non!!!!”
He grumbled as I hopped out of the car and yelled for him to keep the change. If it was a ploy, it worked, but I needed to haul ass. He handed my little pink suitcase and my giant 52 pound bag still fresh from CDG.


My father played (American) football in high school, albeit not a very well. He talks about the drills of running with heavy equipment. If it were anytime for this DNA to kick in, it was perfect. Dragging 52 pounds behind me, wearing a heavy coat with 10 pounds on my back and a little pink 360 Brookstone hardshell carryon (I still say that it is quite possibly the BEST investment I ever made) I ran like hell to Voie 17....starting from Voie number 1, RUNNING pas the French and other slowpokes enjoying their morning stroll and becoming my father running with a football.


“She’s past the 13, the 14, the 15....oh she’s losing steam. Oh. SECOND WIND! GO GO GO GO! VOIE 17.”

I knew I was in first class, unfortunately that did not mean the first car. I was in car 12. Running with sweat drenching through everything I had on, I met eyes with an attendant who barked “ALLEZ! ALLEZ! VITE”


I made it to car twelve...hearing the sound of the buzzer signaling that the doors were closing. I swung my 50 pound suitcase in front of me and handed the controller my ticket. I had made Gare De Lyon, my bitch. (If you’re reading this Aunt Sue, I apologize for my language) If I had had a microphone I would have dropped it.


That thrill was short lived once the controller realized that I had a duplicate ticket of someone else. I had stored my luggage and gone upstairs to find someone in my seat. He came up and I prayed that this was somehow NOT my fault. Because I have seen Indiana Jones....and I saw what happened when that guy that had No Ticket, and I was not about to be thrown out of a high speed train. Okay...he was a Nazi. But, still.


But as it turns out, the gentleman’s assignment had changed and he had to relinquish his seat. He was quite nice about it. I settled in....drenched in sweat, so happy I had filled my water bottle before I had left the hotel, because bodily fluids needed to be replinshed. So with my luggage safely stored on two racks downstairs, and my seat at last found, I found myself with enough time to lavish the luxury of my surroundings on my TGV heading directly to 80 degree weather on the Mediterranean.


The Train Grande Vitesse (literally big, fast train) can make the normally 9-10 hour commute from Paris to Marseille in under 3 hours. I find it best not to look out the window because everything looks like a blur and adrenaline, caffeine, and blurred lines (the actual kind/not the Robin Thicke date rape kind) can be an equation that equals lost stomach contents. The worst moments are the inevitable descent into tunnels at which point high velocity + closed space = potentially busted ear drums, but thankfully the vast majority of the TGV’s trek is outdoors through French country side. It almost feels like Kentucky. I miss those beautiful horse pastures.


Across the aisle from me was an older couple with a very curious, tiny dog that seemed to also feel ill from the TGV. The dog and I exchanged looks a few time and the gentleman noticed. I complimented the cutie (the dog, not the man) and he asked if I had a dog. I tried to explain that I was incredibly dogsick (vs. Homesick) as my lovely Bichon/Muppet Mix was back home in the states. I have cried more about missing my dog than most people I know (Sorry...people I know). The French love their dogs. They are allowed everywhere: restaurants, stores, trains, public toilets. France is just one big fire hydrant for the beloved chien and frankly if you’re a dog lover, most French people will love you. The gentleman handed me the shaking terrier/doberman looking thing and offered to let me hold him. He is currently sleeping in my lap as I type this and it’s filling that canine companionship void that I have so been craving. I don’t even care that I began sniffling in front of the guy because he wife started tearing up too. Dog Lovers Unite!


The only horrible part of the TGV is that terrifying unexpected moment when another TGV passes beside you. It’s so brief but terrifying. Other than that, much like Sheldon Cooper, I enjoy trains. Even the slow ones. I’m a little miffed that this one does not have Wi-fi. The Thalys to Amsterdam does, but until then I can enjoy the beautiful fog and drizzle (and occasional Hansel and Gretel style farmhouse) of the French Countryside, unspoiled by Urban development.

But I am definitely going to enjoy my Wi-fi, air conditioned hotel room in Marseille. Cows are great and all, but...you know...facebook.