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’.