Train Fail

Saturday was my last day in London, so I got up early so that I could experience the one thing I had missed so far: Westminster Abbey. I managed to get down to the Westminster Tube station without any problems and got my ticket to go inside the Abbey. They don't allow photography, but I got an audio guide and wandered around (I was very surprised to hear Jeremy Irons introduce himself as the voice of the audio guide, but it was also pretty awesome). I also went up into the Shrine of King Edward the Confessor. It's not open to general tourism, but they let small groups inside for prayer sessions led by one of the priests. I mostly just wanted to see the shrine, so I pretended. The Abbey itself was beautiful, of course. My favourite part was the Poet's Corner, where they have tombs and memorials to various writers (including Shakespeare, Lewis Carrol, Robert Browning, and a dozen others, including my favourite: W.H. Auden). I did sneak a couple pictures (like one of Edmond Halley's memorial) before I left, and wound my way out through the ever-present souvenir shop. I figured I had left with just enough time to get back to Katie's house, finish throwing my stuff together, and come back in to the train station.

Unfortunately, it didn't prove to be that easy. When I got back to Totteridge & Whetstone, the only trains arriving were going on the wrong track (via Charing Cross rather than via Bank, which was what I needed). Without any other real choice, I got on the train anyway, and figured I'd get off and switch trains at some point. Unfortunately, no good opportunity presented itself until I got to Euston station, which is huge, and I switched to the Victoria line to get to King's Cross/St. Pancras. By the time I got there, I had basically figured that I would be late, but I ran through the station anyway, hoping. I managed to get there right as the train was departing, and felt like I was going to cry from running through stations, freaking out, and having it confirmed that my train had, indeed, already left.

The people at the Eurostar were fantastic, however. They took pity on me, and the first guy I talked to wrote on my ticket that I had showed up about five minutes earlier, to give me a little more leeway, and sent me to the ticket office. The guy there did some checking around and managed to get me a seat on the next train, when I explained that I hadn't known when I was supposed to be there and had been late. I kind of suspect that he thought I was younger than I am, judging from the way he spoke to me, but I wasn't about to complain. He told me that since I would miss my connection in Paris, I would have to talk to the SNCF people directly and try to get on the last train of the night. But to help me more, he put a "magic stamp" (his words) on the ticket that basically said that I missed my connection because of another train, not through my own fault. That wasn't technically true, but he gave me the stamp anyway to be nice.

Going through security went fairly quickly, and I got my second train-travel passport stamp. When I got to the Eurostar lobby, the train for Lille was boarding, so I sat down to wait. It was then that I experienced the most bizarre thing: while I was sitting there, they were reading announcements in both French and English. And when I heard the French, a huge wave of relief washed over me, and I felt almost weak. I hadn't realised until that point just how draining it was to constantly listen to British English. As much as I love the language and watch the BBC and was looking forward to London, the entire time I was there I felt somewhat distanced. In France, my accent might show me to be a foreigner, but I still feel included in the culture and language and am still accepted so long as I try to speak French. But in England, although American English was certainly suitable for communication, I still felt like and proved myself to be an outsider every time I opened my mouth.

Maybe it was just the exhaustion from running and stressing and the relief of being on a train - any train! - back to France, but my strange euphoria just increased every time I heard French, spoke French, and even when I used Euros to buy myself a simple dinner on the train. (The Eurostar has two "dining" cars; I got a BLT sandwich, a bag of chips, and an Orangina.) The seat next to me was empty, so I put up the arm rest and curled up across both seats to sleep for a good chunk of the trip, and also started organising my receipts and figuring out just how much my London adventure had cost me.

We got to the Paris Nord train station at the exact time the train I was supposed to take was leaving from Paris Austerlitz, so there was no hope of me catching it. So I took my time getting to the Métro and crossing Paris. I found myself loving almost everything I encountered: the ever-so-distinctive smell of Paris, the fact that the people I saw ignored me, that the Métro itself was dirty and the cars were old, the brief glimpse I saw of the Eiffel Tower all lit up for the night, and the little theme song that plays on constant loop in every SNCF train station. When I found the platforms at Austerlitz I went and talked to the man in the information booth. Without hardly looking at me he told me that it would be perfectly fine if I took the last train to Tours; I think the fact that I mentioned the stamp might have had something to do with it! I settled in on one of the seats in the station and prepared to wait the three hours until 10pm, when the train would leave. Fortunately, I had a book.

When the platform for the train was finally displayed on the board, I made my way over there. Unlike almost every other time I've taken the train in France, they had set up barriers and were actually checking people's tickets before they let them go on the train. The man glanced at my ticket, seeming confused for a moment, but when I explained briefly he nodded and let me through. By this point I was cold, exhausted, and wanting nothing more than a bed I could call mine. I kept myself awake by reading on the way to Tours, and finally arrived sometime between 12:30 and 1am. Then I dragged myself and my luggage back to the house, still kind of euphorically pleased by things as simple as French drivers' respect for pedestrians and the fact that I knew where I was going without thinking. I managed to find my keys after a panicked moment of not remembering where I'd put them, and unpacked just enough to be comfortable before I snuggled into my bed.

It's not quite home, but for that night, it was close enough.