Month: March 2017

If a friend ever calls you from a train station in a country where they do not speak the language on a mobile phone they have borrowed from a stranger to tell you their train has been cancelled, the best response is: “That is awful.  How can I help?”

The day until that point had gone well.  The TGV had snaked through Paris via tunnels, then past suburbs and fields to the rail yards of Orly.  There, in the shadow of the other (707-era) international airport serving the French capital, I got my first view of French street art.  Also, as we slowed on a curve in the tracks, I could see the front of the train from my window. (I don’t know why this tickles me so much, but it does.)  Then we were off through the countryside, past rolling, cultivated fields dotted with farms, small towns, and wind farms, at sustained speeds nearing 180 kph.  Stops became few and far between: Vendome, Tours, Poitiers.  My favorite was Futuroscope; at the time I assumed the engaging geometric glass and metal structures (prisms! tubes! geodesic domes!) were a master planned city. (I have since learned it is an IMAX and 4D-themed amusement park.) The train ride was surprisingly quiet (none of the click-clack we are accustomed to here in the States), an attribute I later learned was the result of new rail welding techniques.

I was on my way to a small town in south-central France to spend a week with a friend.  The TGV was the first leg, a straight shot to Bordeaux.  After a two-hour layover, I would transfer to a ‘local’ train (the Aquataine) for the ride to Sarlat. At least that was the plan.

When I stepped off the train in Bordeaux I was met with a wall of hot air.  Ten miles inland, and located just before the Garonne River widens to meet the Atlantic, the city is one of the oldest ports in France.  Originally settled by the Celts, it has changed hands many times and the region now considered Basque. It is also well-known for its wines.  Had I been more adventurous, (not so tired) I could have walked along the river to the old centre-ville and explored the Basilica of Saint Michael and the Tour Pey Berland.  Or I could have veered west and visited the Rock School Barbey, a local venue that provides training in rock, heavy metal, rap and spoken word traditions to musicians of all ages.  But I’ll be honest; as nice as my sit and stroll in the park had been the evening before, the trip was wearing me and I just wanted to rest.  So I found a cool spot in the station, sat down, and pulled out my book*.

After a bit I got restless, so I set out to find something to drink.  Along the way I stopped to check the train board.  But what was this?  A word in red next to my destination?  This can’t be good.  I sought out a station agent to learn more.  “Ah, madame, your train has been cancelled.”  Seriously?, I thought, hadn’t I burned through travel upsets on the flight out?  I took a deep breath, asked about options, and received an alternative route that would deposit me in Bergerac.

A thoughtful guest, my next concern was my hostess. I had a mental image of her at the station in Sarlat, waiting for a train that would not arrive. This, on the surface, had a simple solution.  But in this case it did not.  I was in an unfamiliar city on a continent not my own, I did not speak the language, my flip phone did not have an EU sim card, and I had no idea how to use the local phones. Exhausted, my eyes became misty with impending tears.

The first task, I thought, would be to find a phone booth.  I wandered the station, past rows of seated passengers.  I looked in the concourse, the waiting room, along the halls leading to different parts of the station.  Despite my best efforts, I could not find a call box.  I considered expanding my search to the world outside the station.  I thought maybe I could ask a stranger to call my friend.  While weighing these two options I passed a gregarious British lady who just happened to be ending a call.

I got up my courage.  “I was wondering if you could help me.”  I explained my situation, and asked if she could call my friend.  She dialed, and once the phone began to ring, handed it to me. This would never happen in the States, I thought as I listed to the repeating tone.  My friend picked up and I explained the situation.  “No,” was her reply, this will not do.  “You have to find another train to Sarlat.”  I disconnected.

It was at this moment that I reached the nadir of my fatigue.  I had been traveling for four months, first a grueling 4500-mile road trip, then nine weeks of retreat, at least six of them in a state of mild hypoxia, before a week in the sticky, buggy heat of Florida.  For much of this I had relied on the kindness of friends, staying in guest room after guest room, planning and re-planning as I went.**  I had thought this EU leg would be a chance to relax, regroup, and choose where to settle down, but the travails getting to Lisbon five short days before had expended the last of my resilience.  I found a quiet spot out on the platform, sat down, and let the tears flow.

* I was still reading the Lucifer Effect.

** I continue to be grateful for all the kindness extended to me during my road trips.  I must admit, in hindsight, that it was exhausting.  I would also later learn couch-surfing with no fixed address meets the definition of ‘functional homelessness’.

I passed the extra time watching the goats.

France’s high-speed rail system is known as the Train a Grand Vitesse (train of high speed) or TGV.  Inaugurated in 1980 with a line between Paris and Lyon, the TGV has since grown to serve close to a hundred French cities and selected locations in Italy, Spain, and Switzerland.  Over time, it has also been emulated by (and connected to) the UK, Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands with the Eurostar and Thalys systems.  My first travel leg of this day would be on the Atlantic line from Paris to Bordeaux.

Since my train was scheduled to depart from the same airport I had arrived at the afternoon before, I assumed I would once again have to go through security, and had included a requisite interval in my morning schedule.  Once at the airport I learned the tracks were not the other side of a security queue but rather a quick elevator ride away.  So here I was, positioned in a corridor near said elevator, gazing through the window, watching the group of goats (goats!) I had noticed while transiting to my Lisbon flight four short days before.

There were three of them, tan with dark legs and noses, and short curled horns. They were snuggled next to some hay bales in the back of a shed in a small patch of field between the rail lines and an aircraft movement area.  The goats napped, I sipped coffee (from a très petit tasse papier), aircraft regally sauntered past on the taxiway behind them, as service vehicles zoomed to and fro along the road that bordered the goats’ sanctuary.  It was a pleasant interval, an oasis of serenity surrounded on all sides by a scurry of activity.  I stayed as long as I dared before I made my way down to la gare (the train station).

There, in a hallway between the station waiting room and a snack bar, was another gift: a piano!  Tucked under an escalator, it sat lonely and silent for a short moment before two passing children broke from their parents, clambered up on the bench, and began to play.  And when I say play, I don’t mean pick at the keys; these two little ones played actual pieces, though each their own selection, one on the bass keys and one on the treble.  They were soon followed by another gentleman of similar age who played a classical etude, and then his mother (sister? aunt?) who played a more complex piece.  Soon they were on their way, and, the piano silent, I continued on to the rail lines.

I reached the balcony overlooking the rail lines fifteen minutes before my train was scheduled to arrive.  I watched the trains ahead of mine come and go, and as the time for mine neared, I schlepped my bags down to the platform.  On the TGV, passenger seats are assigned (like on an airline); so I found the platform area where my car would be positioned and waited.

And with a hum and a whoosh it was there.  A group of us herded at the door, helping each other lift our bags to and from the train.  Just in time, we got them and ourselves on board; the doors swished closed and with a faint hum of the wheels we were on our way.

 

A man walked by, in heated conversation with someone on his mobile.  The calm was broken.

Leaves still rustled in the wind, birds still chirped as they fluttered about, and the air was still warm.  I pulled a snack from the grocery bag beside me and slowly ate, mindful of the flavors and textures of each bite.  As I ate, I watched the other travel refugees (and some local families) as they made their way through the park.  And, when I was ready, I began to make my way back to my hotel.

Dusk was approaching yet I still lingered, exploring another path in the park rather than taking a direct route.  After a turn, the lawn and flowers to my right gave way to an imposing hedge.  Taller than me, it seemed designed to separate the space I was in from another, so when I saw a small break in the leaves, a shortcut (made by children, perhaps?) to cut quickly from one side to the other, I peeked through.

But what was this?

Landing Gear.  Landing Gear? 

Mais oui.  A set of landing gear (d’atterrissage) encased in glass. I passed through the shrubs for a closer look.

I was in a courtyard, or, more precisely, a courtyard-like space next to the Office de Tourisme.  A marker placed at the base of the display indicated the wheels and assembly belonged to the Concorde. It made sense now. The Concorde, long and sleek, the western world’s only supersonic commercial aircraft, had been the jewel of the Air France fleet. It was only natural that this village, offset from final approach, would celebrate their part of that history.

This part of the park was as finely curated as the other side of the hedge.  In this space, a series of overlapping squares made up a pattern of lawns, walking paths, and beds filled with flowers or larger greenery, accented with an occasional bench or display.  As I made my way through, I passed a series of signs describing regions (departments) in France of historical note and, closer to the building, examples (also encased in glass) of the art currently on display inside.  And, off to the side, hidden from the street by a series of hedges, a metal structure that at first sight had the shape of a bird.  But it was not a bird.

One sunny afternoon in July 2000, an Air France Concorde ran over some debris during its take-off roll.  The metal was flung into the left wing, fuel began to leak, and almost immediately fire broke out.  With not enough runway left to safely abort (the A1 highway lies just past the runway’s end), the pilots limped the aircraft in to the sky.  But one engine had failed (fire), another was operating at idle (fuel flow), and while the two remaining engines continued to provide power they were both on the same side, causing the aircraft to turn strongly to the left.  Despite the efforts of the crew, the situation deteriorated and in the end the aircraft, flames spewing from the left wing, impacted a hotel.

The hotel was flattened on impact, and the remains of the aircraft were heavily damaged by the resulting conflagration. In addition to the 100 passengers and nine crew on board, four persons on the ground were killed. The accident site was two kilometers from where I stood.  What at first sight had appeared a bird was a sculpted memorial to that day.

I was suddenly tired again.  After an appropriate interval to contemplate the artwork, I returned to my room where I curled up and was soon fast asleep.