I Hate Trains

Or, “Why I Had a Complete Mental Breakdown Today.”

I used to love trains. A long time ago, like this last weekend, I would marvel at their efficiency and the ease with which one could travel across cities and countries. My, my; how things have changed.

Well. Today has been a disaster. I had already written one blog entry (these are starting to pile up) that I was rather proud of, as I was proud of myself as an adventurer, proud to jump on a moving train in order to get to my destination, breathless, adrenaline pumping. I was rather proud of that blog entry, as I tried to fill it with my, uh, usual wit and charm as well as some hip cultural references; and I may still post it to show the contrasting juxtaposition of the events of my day, all before seven am; but for now I look at it with spite considering what happened after the first train arrived... at least I thought it had arrived.

I was to switch trains at Lyon Perrache, but my train had a stop at Lyon Part-Dieu. I thought that it was just like the other stops, that we would pause a moment, let people get on or off, and then continue on to the destination. But the train stopped... and everyone got off. Then it started filling with completely different people... and it still just sat there. At first I thought nothing of it, but as more time passed I began to feel more and more uneasy, so I decided to look out the window; the sign read that the train I was sitting on was destined for Grenoble... in other words, turning around. I was so confused, because the ticket guy had punched my ticket and said nothing about me being on the wrong train; also I was pretty sure that the sign had read “Lyon Perrache” when I had spent my precious few seconds to pause and look at the board in La Tour-du-Pin whilst sprinting to the train, but I was seriously doubting my state of mind at that moment – so I started to panic. I asked the person next to me if that train was destined to Grenoble, and she said yes. I said... a not very nice word. In retrospect, I asked the wrong question. I should have asked “Does this train continue to Lyon Perrache before it goes to Grenoble?”

I scrambled off the train and saw that there was another train leaving for Lyon Perrache in a couple minutes, and with some quick calculations, I realized that, if I ran like I had been doing all morning, I could take that train and still catch my train to Strasbourg. So I rushed through the station up to the other platform and waited... and waited... and waited...

The train was ten minutes late.

I should have just tried to stow away on the train from Lyon Part-Dieu to Strasbourg, then pretended to be a dumb American tourist when the guy told me I was on the wrong train. Yeah... that would have been a good idea... But not knowing what to do, I got on the train, praying that maybe my train to Strasbourg was also late, as it seemed to be the trend today.

No such luck. We arrived about five minutes after the departure of my Strasbourg train. And so began my mental breakdown.

What I've learned: the French guy at the ticket booth in Lyon Perrache is much nicer than the English-speaking woman, though he did sell me very expensive tickets when he just could have said “If you wait until tomorrow, you can get tickets for only 38 euro.” And I ended up losing 10 euro to exchange the tickets a mere 20 minutes later – can you see why I hate trains? So... in summary:

Today, to get to Saarbrucken, according to the nice, sympathetic French man, it would cost me 159 euro, and in the heat of the moment, the tears brimming in my eyes, I agreed to it, I handed over my shiny new bank card, and in complete and utter desperation bought the effing tickets for 159 euro. Then, as I had about two hours to wait for the train, I sat down in the cold hallway, ate my breakfast, and stewed. Fester, fester, fester... rot, rot, rot. As much as I wanted to get to Germany, and get there fast, I could not justify spending 159 euro for a trip that I had already spent (only!) 50 euro on. So I tried the magic yellow machines that I thought would be easier to bend to my will than a live person... but they failed me. They, too, wanted to sell me expensive tickets with transfers in Paris. And they wouldn't let me look at other options. So after a short breakdown, I decided to go back and attempt to talk to the guy again, since he seemed like such a nice fellow. However, he was busy, so I went to the woman next to him. I started stuttering through my situation in my lovely elementary-level French, then noticed a little British flag next to her name. With hope in my heart, I asked if she spoke English. She immediately started talking in English – but I also noticed that she began to get impatient with me. She did not care what my situation was; she just wanted me to tell her what I wanted her to do – which is difficult to do when I had no idea what I actually wanted to do. I could tell she was judging me hard-core and thought that I was holding up the line.... but, I'm sorry, there is a HUGE difference between 38 and 159 euro, and I apologized profusely for my incompetence when it comes to trains.

Y'know, before coming here, I was under the illusion that I was a rather intelligent person; since my arrival, I have only felt like an idiot.

The train I'm sitting on now has a running marquee of all of its stops, and tells the passenger what time he can expect to be at the next stop. Had the first train I was on today had the same genius piece of technology, I would be on my way to Germany now instead of turning around to go back to La Tour-du-Pin.

Also, I've picked up a cough from running in the cold. I'm going to go home and sleep the whole effing day... so I can hopefully get up in time for my train tomorrow.