So I left Middelburg…
I was pretty sad to say goodbye to Tom and Merel, especially after reconnecting after all this time. 25 years is a long time. We made a solemn promise not to let that much time pass again. Plans were already in motion… returning to the Netherlands, meeting in Greece to do more turtle conservation work, and even them venturing over to Canada.
Originally, my plan was to travel from Rotterdam back to London… then from London to Sicily, where I intended to spend two and a half weeks exploring.
Why Sicily?
After two months of bus travel through the Middle East, I was craving a taste of indulgence… delicious food, fine wine and a generous dose of Mediterranean charm.
Sicilian plans took a sharp turn when I learned that Richard had passed away. Richard was… well, how do I explain this? He was my step-cousin-in-law.
If that seems odd to compute… I get it.
How Richard was related to me is… interesting. It’s actually a highly complicated, discombobulated interwoven family connection… full of gossip-worthy, fascinating, and often bewildering, family drama. It’s hard to follow the details when you’re hearing it all for the first time as an outsider, but as I’ve said before… it’s never lacking in intrigue. When I found out about Richard’s death, my immediate reaction was to be there for ZC. I wasn’t sure exactly how to offer support in a situation such as this… but I figured that perhaps some company, a few laughs, and maybe even a road trip could help lift her spirits and get her out of the house.
And so… that became the plan.
I arrived in Soissons later in the afternoon after a very tedious journey from Rotterdam. My train ticket seemed straightforward enough, but the journey was anything but.
Rotterdam - Brussels - Paris - Soissons.
My train ended up halted somewhere along the tracks for the better part of 40 minutes… or more… somewhere in Belgium. When we finally got going, it was only briefly… before we were all instructed to disembark in Antwerp. From there, the instructions were a bit of a blur.
Nobody knew what was going on.
First… we had to go immediately to platform 22… then it switched to platform 2… then to platform 24… and then back again to platform 22. Imagine a train full of confused people… each proficient in their own particular language… all trying to piece together the sporadic, crackling announcements that spewed out of the muffled loud speakers.
It was pandemonium.
And cold.
It was pretty cold.
A train finally arrived… and we all boarded… though none of us were particularly confident we were getting on the right one. We just crossed our fingers, hoped for the best… and jumped on.
Brussels?
Maybe.
Who knew?
No one, apparently.
As it turned out, it was the right one… BUT… it made us all late and pulled into Brussels at exactly 13:13, the same time my connecting train to Paris was scheduled to depart.
13:13.
My train to Paris had already left.
Or so I thought.
I saw a train listed on the passenger info display screen that was scheduled to depart Brussels for Paris, leaving at 13:13, but it appeared to be 20 minutes late. Twenty minutes late seemed perfect for me as I was also late in my arrival.
What a stroke of good luck!
Things were falling into place and finally going my way.
I quickly made my way to the platform, relieved that I hadn’t missed it. Actually… when I say that I made my way “quickly,” that’s a bold lie, as I couldn’t find my platform to save my life. I’m positive it was listed as platform 68… and nowhere in the entire station, were there signs for any platforms anywhere near that high of a number.
After scurrying back and forth… and forth and back… on multiple occasions… I finally resigned to go into the information centre and ask. I was frantic. There was no way I could miss a train that was 20 minutes late.
The ticket officer smiled at my obvious distress.
“It’s not platform 68… it’s platform 6B.”
OMG. I need glasses.
Seriously.
Panic attack over..:
So… that was humiliating. He must have thought I was the dumbest person on the planet.
True.
Obviously after that embarrassing incident, I did “quickly” make my way to my platform… and the train was there when I arrived. Perfect.
Platform 6B.
In my defence… it does look like 68…
It does.
I checked my ticket. I was assigned carriage 8… seat 81.
Ok.
As I walked along the train, I saw carriage 13… 14… 15.
Ooops… I was going the wrong way…
I turned around and made my way backwards. Carriage 12… 11… the end. Nothing else before 11. No number 8 carriage at all.
Wtf?
Why was everything so difficult?
QR code on screen, phone in hand… I confidently approached the ticket checker who was standing at the entrance to carriage 11. She scanned my phone… then stopped… looked at my ticket… and then at me…
Silence.
“Your train has already left,” she informed me, apologetically.
Noooooo…..
Why… of all the days… did everything have to go sideways on my travel day???
What were the chances of two 13:13 trains to Paris?
What was seriously going on????
I stood there… dumbfounded… with no idea what to do. She said if I needed more information, I would have to speak to the people at the ticket information desk.
No… I didn’t need more information… but I was on the edge of a mere meltdown.
It was time to resort to begging.
I begged her to allow me on this train… after all, I’d already paid for a ticket, the train didn’t seem full and it was going to the exact same place I needed to go to. AT almost the exact same time. Kinda.
She smiles and reluctantly agreed, but assigned me a seat at the very end of the train.
Carriage 17.
This meant running along the side of six carriages with all my annoying, heavy, and burdensome luggage… trying desperately to reach my carriage before the train rolled away. Miraculously, I made it… and I was on my way to Paris.
Again.
Once in Paris, I had a bit more time to relax between connections… and then caught the train to Soissons.
Anna, ZC’s daughter, was set to pick me up. When I pulled in, she sent me a message letting me know she was parked outside of the station. I replied with a description of what I was wearing… and carrying… and what I felt like I looked like at that particular moment.
Frenzied… bloated… weighed down.
I hadn’t seen Anna since she was about 7 or 8 years of age. I had a feeling I would recognize her when I saw her… but wasn’t sure if she’d know me.
Probably!
Her parents had photos of me.
When I walked outside, I realized my data connection had dropped to 3G, so I wasn’t able to send her a follow up message. I paced back and forth in front of the station… freezing in the bitter France February frost… but I couldn’t locate her. Eventually, I had to head back into the station lobby. I needed to warm up and I needed to connect to the free Wi-Fi in order to try and connect with her.
Anna said she had parked the car… and was currently walking toward the station.
Perfect. Out I went again.
I stood there.
Walked around.
Scoured the parking lot.
Scoured the sidewalks.
Nothing.
No one matching her description was walking toward me. No one matching any description was walking toward me.
This time, Anna called me.
“I’m standing directly in front of the Soissons station,” I said, turning to look at the sign just to confirm that what I was saying was in fact true.
“Oh no,” she exclaimed. “I’m in Reims.”
Uh-oh.
So ZC jumped in her car and headed to Soissons to pick me up instead.
It was definitely a day of turmoil & tangle.
In the meantime, I wandered across the street to the sketchiest tabac store/bar I’d ever been in… in France. It was full of older men, all drinking espresso. I was desperate for warmth and for the use of the bathroom… and since I had another 35 minutes to kill, I figured it might just be time for a lovely rosé. When in France… right? The bartender filled it to the absolute rim of the rim.
Perhaps slightly toooo much to the rim… although I probably would’ve been upset if he hadn’t considering the astronomical price and the minuscule size of the glass.
I sat there, slurping up my wine, taking note of my surroundings… and experiencing these odd feelings of slight familiarity. This place didn’t shock or bother me at all… as I’d recently been in a multitude of similar spots all over the Middle East… where the atmosphere was just as dingy and male-dominated.
I was relieved when ZC arrived though. It was perfect timing for finishing my teeny weeny, brimming glass of cheap tabac-shop vin.
Off we went…
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