Slip into train station. No line. Pass validated. Travel begins.
Well, first call Mama, let her know you're fine. She's not certain it's you until she hears you laugh. Your train and track come up on the screen. OK Mama, gotta go. Walk to train, ticket in hand. Watch people insert ticket into sleek little machine...ok, do the same...now to find spot. Voitre 2. Is that class? Train cars have a large 1 and 2 on them. Must be 2, finally get to a car with ginormous 2 on it, look in entry 11-56 this way, I'm 45. Perfect. By the window, great! I can put my stuff here...I think. Is that a luggage rack? A handicapped spot? Am I in someone's way? Pack up loathed sweatshirt in now bursting backpack. And finally, settled. Ahhhh....huh. That's funny. Classe 2. Why does that sign say Classe 2? Is this second classe? Wait. Ticket says 1st Class, Voitre 2. What the f*** is Voitre 2? (Why the f*** didn't I learn French?) Maerd.
Pack up purse, sling backpack over shoulder and wend through narrow aisles. Pardon. Pardon. On platform again. Mmmm...they don't work here, they don't work here, you don't work here, but aha! you looked, too late sir, you are the lucky winner of help the silly American. "Uhhh...Pardon...ou est ? (point to ticket). Ici? (Point to new train car with big fat 1 on it)." Elegant silver haired fox smiles at silly American with the terrible French accent and says "Voitre"( Pointing to ticket) "Ici" Pointing to smart digital readout next to big fat 1. OHHHH! Merci! Merci! complete with faux bowing motion because that will make him understand I'm grateful...what a nerd.
So, I'm in 1st class...which makes my backpack seem waaay out of place, but I don't care. Ok I do, but I'm working on not caring. The suits all find me harmless enough, and I don't have to worry about them stealing the hideous sweatshirt or sharing the 2 apples and 3 stinky cheeses I brought with me...now if only I had a drink...
Well, first call Mama, let her know you're fine. She's not certain it's you until she hears you laugh. Your train and track come up on the screen. OK Mama, gotta go. Walk to train, ticket in hand. Watch people insert ticket into sleek little machine...ok, do the same...now to find spot. Voitre 2. Is that class? Train cars have a large 1 and 2 on them. Must be 2, finally get to a car with ginormous 2 on it, look in entry 11-56 this way, I'm 45. Perfect. By the window, great! I can put my stuff here...I think. Is that a luggage rack? A handicapped spot? Am I in someone's way? Pack up loathed sweatshirt in now bursting backpack. And finally, settled. Ahhhh....huh. That's funny. Classe 2. Why does that sign say Classe 2? Is this second classe? Wait. Ticket says 1st Class, Voitre 2. What the f*** is Voitre 2? (Why the f*** didn't I learn French?) Maerd.
Pack up purse, sling backpack over shoulder and wend through narrow aisles. Pardon. Pardon. On platform again. Mmmm...they don't work here, they don't work here, you don't work here, but aha! you looked, too late sir, you are the lucky winner of help the silly American. "Uhhh...Pardon...ou est ? (point to ticket). Ici? (Point to new train car with big fat 1 on it)." Elegant silver haired fox smiles at silly American with the terrible French accent and says "Voitre"( Pointing to ticket) "Ici" Pointing to smart digital readout next to big fat 1. OHHHH! Merci! Merci! complete with faux bowing motion because that will make him understand I'm grateful...what a nerd.
So, I'm in 1st class...which makes my backpack seem waaay out of place, but I don't care. Ok I do, but I'm working on not caring. The suits all find me harmless enough, and I don't have to worry about them stealing the hideous sweatshirt or sharing the 2 apples and 3 stinky cheeses I brought with me...now if only I had a drink...
