Tumultuous Twenty-eight Hours

Bonjour de la France! What a day I had yesterday (and when I say day, I mean a 32 hour day). Shad, Taelor, and I watched Judge Judy and tried not to watch the time tick down to the hour we had to leave yesterday, but the time did come for them to take me to the airport. We talked and laughed, while I tried to swallow the peanut butter ball that was stuck in my throat, the whole way there.

Upon arrival, they helped pull my bags out of the car and I gave Taelor a hug. "Fiancé last," was all she could muster, while I watched the tears well in her eyes, so I grabbed Shad and my damn eyes began leaking, despite my best efforts. All of us were smiling trying to keep from making a scene and Taelor rambled on about airport people, and that they are better than watching the people of Wal-Mart or the mall, which definitely helped my morale.

So with one last glance at them through the airport glass, I turned to begin my grand adventure. I finally found my check-baggage area and tried to wipe away the silly tears that had crept out of my lids. I went through security (remember I've never been on an airplane, everything is new to me) and opted for a scan. Sorry Taelor :) 

After finding my gate, I waited for two hours to board. While watching the crates being loaded onto the plane, watching the security people walk around and jump in and out of the little airport carts, and trying to read The Hobbit, I realized that I was too excited and nervous to do anything but sit and think.

The fears, from my last blog, grew scarier and more complicated, and my whole body felt as if I could run a marathon or climb Everest. In actuality, of course it was just the adrenaline and other drugs that one's body makes when under stress. Regardless, I was enjoying the feeling. The flight was a flight, normal. Take-off was fun, kind of a roller coaster with a view, and I really enjoyed watching the sun rise over Ireland and the UK.

The food was not bad and there were many movies from which to choose, and my only complaint was entirely my doing. I could not sleep. At all. During an almost 10 hour flight. Needless to say, upon arrival at Heathrow in London, I was exhausted and not thrilled about hopping on another plane. 

I was walking briskly through to the other side of my terminal and was abruptly stopped by a security search. Once through I kept walking briskly to the gate, and the flight attendants had to pick up the phone to tell the pilot that the last passenger was there and to not close the gate. Wonderful, first step onto foreign soil, and I am already late to something.

The flight to Paris was very quick, 50 minutes, and then we had to run to the rain to get on a bus to take us to the terminal. Apparently, all of the rain had delayed a few flights and they had to park our plane in the Great Concrete Plains. Going through customs, guess whose last name was called over the intercom? Oui, c'était moi, I thought.

I went to the baggage directory. Heathrow had transferred my checked bag to the wrong plane, and I would have to wait around two hours to retrieve it. Sitting on a bench by the conveyor belts, I heard familiar voices. I turned to see three women who are also attending UCBN in lieu of UNT this semester. There flight had been delayed 3 hours and they were going to take a taxi from the airport to the proper train station.

"You're really going to stay here by yourself and try to get there by the Metro?" was their response to question of my plans about transportation. All I could do was shrug and nod in understanding of the escapade on which I would soon be embarking. After an exchange of numbers, they were off and yet again, I was alone.

Finally, after watching the flaps that cover the entrance to the conveyor belt, I saw my bag. The thought of my bag being shoved onto a shelf in a check-bag graveyard had been weighing heavily on my mind during those two hours, but I had also consoled myself in the fact that if my bag had been lost, I would have had to buy a new wardrobe. Who would complain about that when said person now lives in France?

I arranged my luggage on a cart and drove toward the RER sign. The RER is the Parisian metro that services all the way out to les banlieurs, which are really large neighborhoods outside of Paris. I had to buy an RER ticket, print my train ticket, and find the right metro. After accomplishing all of this with a bit of confusion, I sat next to a couple who were speaking Romanian and looking at me like I was an alien. I am an alien here, but it was painfully obvious with the ridiculous luggage I was carrying and rolling with me.

Getting off the first line, I searched for line E. There are 4 line Es. Great. I hadn't realized this until I ALMOST got onto the wrong one. When I realized that I almost screwed myself, I heaved my luggage back up the staircases and and re-descended several other flights to the right platform. Once arriving at what I thought was the train station, I hopped off contentedly, thinking that the rest of my journey would be simple. Ha.

I went up several flights, hauling the gorilla of bags behind me and looking for train signs, I found an exit area with an information desk attached. Walking up to the man, I tried to muster a decent French sentence, but alas, no sleep for nearly 24 hours, my French brain was not functioning. He smiled and asked which language is my native tongue. "Je parle l'anglais." He smiled again and asked me, in English, where I needed to go. La Gare Saint-Lazare is a huge train station and the one that I assumed was somewhere nearby. He pointed to a door and said, "Right then left." Simple enough.

I pulled my luggage through the check-out area and out the door I went. This door-was an Alice door. Wonderland had engulfed me in two steps and a swift wave of panic began quickening my breath. I had already been breathing heavily from running up and down stairs pulling my crap behind me, but now my breath had begun to create smoky columns around my face. 

I had been thrown into a random busy street of Paris, with a very vague idea of where I was located. Streets had no walk/don't walk signs, people were running to and fro, street vendors were trying to barter for demonstrations and products. Chaos. Suddenly becoming aware of my out-of-place-ness, I pulled my hood over my head and remembered the info man's words, right and left.

I walked down the street to my right, desperately searching for anything with SNCF or La Gare written on it. I saw a small sign with SNCF and ran across the street to the only familiar thing I recognized. It was an office, which had closed. (SNCF runs all of the trains in France.) Pulling at the door and dramatically flopping my forehead against it, my stomach began to curdle. I took a deep breath and hauled my things back up the stairs. (The office part was in an underground, strip-mall kind of thing.

Back on the street, I looked around and took the next left I could. Feeling desperate again, I walked up to a boulangerie vendor and asked for the train station in French. He pointed and said to keep going. Finally, I came to another intersection and, hooray, Gare Saint-Lazare. I walked in, utterly defeated, and stood out of the way of the hustle and bustle. 

I needed a minute to pull my hair back and not be shoved by anyone. My train was running late. Realizing that I hadn't missed it and that the train ride would be a chance for me to relax a bit, I was suddenly swallowed by the worst thirst I have ever felt. I walked to another vendor in the station and, in French, pathetically asked for a bottle of water please. I chugged half, and saved the rest for the train.

Leaning against a cold wall, I abruptly noticed that I had been sweating profusely under my clothing and was now getting extremely, frigidly cold, so I leaned and shivered for about 45 minutes until my train arrived. I punched my ticket and hopped on a car, but couldn't find my seat number, so an older gentleman told me that they don't really check seat numbers and offered the seat across from him to me. 

I stuck my luggage in a  convenient area and collapsed in the chair. We began talking and he wanted to improve his English,and I my French, so we helped each other. He began reading his newspaper after a while and handed me the satirical section on politics. Some things were funny, but I didn't understand most of the funny parts, so he explained the significances to me and let me keep it, telling me to keep working on my French.

About an hour into the ride, I began nodding off a bit, but he kept talking to me every time I'd close my eyes, so no sleep on the train for me. We arrived in Caen just before 8:00 PM, and thankfully, my host family was waiting :)

28 hours of being awake and traveling.

We arrived at their house after a short car ride, they gave me a tour of the house, and began making dinner. I unpacked and gave them their gifts that I brought from the US. For all of them, I brought soft peppermints and truffles from a chocolate shop down the rode from our apartment, and for their son (he loves all things cowboy and Indiana Jones) a pair of child-sized spurs and badge. 

His jaw dropped and the next thing I knew, he was hanging from my neck and shouting, "Thank you! Merci! Thank you!" After dinner, I showered and passed out. It was a total of 32 hours of being awake, a 9 and a half hour plane ride, changing metros and trains 3 times, all while pulling the gorilla. Like I said, what a day.