We stand there, sharing that moment, shoulders shaking and tears streaming down our faces as we are propelled further and further away from something that from here on will never be the same. There will be no going back; we can visit as often as we like but no matter how much we try to access it, this chapter in our lives is now closed.
We let ourselves be absorbed completely in the raw, painful beauty of this bittersweet moment of transition, forgetting that it is not considered normal by any means to stand wailing like banshees between compartments of a train. Before long, a concerned woman has come out to make sure that there hasn’t been a violent death or bomb on the train that she needs to know about.
“No, no,” We assure her, fighting to compose ourselves as she takes in with gaping eyes the mountain of luggage that scales an entire wall of the train. “We’ve just been living here for a year and now we’re leaving forev….”
And we’re off again.
“No, no,” We assure her, fighting to compose ourselves as she takes in with gaping eyes the mountain of luggage that scales an entire wall of the train. “We’ve just been living here for a year and now we’re leaving forev….”And we’re off again.
An hour out of Paris we are forced to sober up completely in preparation for the daunting task that lies ahead; shuttling our luggage off the train. We have a whole system in place; I’ll hop out first so that I can receive the items from Alyssa, who will be stationed on the steps to relay them out from Katy, and hopefully the whole pile will be voided before the French start a riot.
Unfortunately, our fellow passengers begin lining up about ten miles out of the station, but no matter, we’ll just let them go first. Receiving no small amount of menacing looks for the amount of space we have managed to take up, we attempt to meld with our luggage to make room for everyone, praying for a swift and painless ending to this leg of the journey.
Finally, we screech to a stop. A minute or so passes, but the door doesn’t open. The French are getting restless. One pulls the handle a few times with increasing violence. Nothing. The tension is at an all time high when it dawns on us all, simultaneously, what the problem is.
The door is open.
But it’s the door that is currently blocked by our luggage.
In a seeming moment of heroism, but more in an effort to avoid being maimed, I scramble upwards and tumble out the small space between the luggage and the ceiling to land rather ungracefully on the platform, where I promptly receive a suitcase right in the stomach. Indeed, they are being flung outwards from the train with rather unnecessary vigor, which I soon realize is not the work of Alyssa and Katy, who are hiding themselves meekly in a corner, but the rest of the impatient passengers.
Katy and Alyssa come tumbling out as well, and scramble to join me as a near stampede floods out of the train. We avoid making eye contact, and cower behind our luggage until we are certain that we are the only three people left on the track. Once the coast is clear, we take up our handles and roll the brigade of duffels to the nearest phone booth to call for a cab. Facile. We should be curled up in our hotel room in no time. Except that we soon realize that we have no change to speak of, having made a purposeful effort to use up our last Euros during the week, and no way of taking out more money for that same reason. There’s no one awake at the station who we can make change with.
So we turn to calling cards. I have one in my purse, but after typing in all of the numbers multiple times (I make a mistake with one of the digits and have to start all over again, typical), I find out that it only works for Spain. Alyssa has a go with hers, but after five minutes of hang-ups and re-tries, we learn that it’s expired. Finally, Katie produces a promising looking calling card, and after ten or so minutes of battle with it, we discover that- REJOICE!- there are 7 minutes left. Ample time to call the cab company that Sophie recommended.
We dial the calling card number- twice- and then the cab number once, but get a digit wrong and have to start the whole thing over. I’m starting to think I might never see America again. We at last get through to the cab company, but they put us on hold. One minute, two minutes tick by. We decide to call again, scream at the injustice when the phone operator tells us we are down to three minutes on our phone card, try to scream about injustice to the cab company operator in the brief moment before she puts us on hold again, and finally resort to seething in unison at the mouthpiece.
Finally, just as the phone operator is telling us all about the dwindling amount of seconds we have left, and we’re bouncing our choice French words off the walls of the empty station, the cab company operator gets on, and, after listening politely to our predicament (“Your card is on the verge of expiring!” cheers the phone operator), informs us that there are no more large size cabs to be had. And then the phone goes dead.
Fabulous.
Each one of us is on the verge of panic, but trying to hold it together for the sake of the other two. We have money, but only enough for one large size cab ride. The cabs that are available right now on the streets have nowhere near enough room. Plus, how are we going to navigate all of this onto the streets?
While the other two contemplate sleeping in the station and taking a morning train directly to the airport, I decide to go exploring. I follow the signs pointing to a “cab loading zone,” until I round the corner to see... Hope. An entire horseshoe of cabs, with their bored looking drivers standing around smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze. I dart back behind the wall before any of them notice me, then peer out again. The largest of the cars could at best be described as “midsize”, but at this point, we’re pretty low on options. I hurry back to Katy and Alyssa to relay what I’ve seen and give instructions.
I have an idea.
They wait behind the wall while I take my purse and one large suitcase, and head down the ramp, where I am met with a horde of eager to help cabbies.
“I have two friends joining me. How much is it for a cab ride to the airport area?”
“For three nice young ladies? At this hour? Oh, about 25.... 20 Euro.”
“Great,” I say.
I hand them my suitcase, give a whistle, and try to act nonchalant as a rumbling noise builds in the distance and over the horizon come Katy and Alyssa with the fleet of luggage. The faces of the cabbies are straight out of a movie; eyes widen, double takes are done, cigarettes fall from gaping mouths.
I cringe inwardly; what a foolish idea! Who would even consider fitting this into one car, with all the money they could make off of three separate rides?
But as it turns out, at 2:00 AM with a long night ahead, these drivers are more in need of entertainment than they are money. Pretty soon there is quite a gathering around our luggage, which they take on a tour of the cab horseshoe in search for a suitable sized car for the job. Obviously there is none. But the men, in an experimental mood, are already taking bets to see just how much one of these babies can hold.
They settle on the closest looking thing to a mini-van. After a little deliberation and impromptu measurements, and a lot of heated argument and trial and error, they reach an accord. Three suitcases are stacked sideways and on top of each other in the back, while the biggest suitcase rides shotgun. The rest of the bags are shoved from floor to ceiling to window in the back, leaving room on the left for one small person; me, Katy, and Alyssa, in that order.
They pack us in like they did the luggage, with my face smushed against the glass and Alyssa’s against the ceiling. We wave a good-bye to our new friends and a greeting to our new driver, who is bouncing with pride and clearly ecstatic at having won control of this much coveted mission.
“Cuckooo!!” Is his rousing greeting as he peeks through the drivers seat to check on his little sardines. We’re already in the first stages of asphyxiation but manage a mangled but enthusiastic “Cuckaaooo!” in between gasps for air. Pleased, he turns around, pumps up some Barry Manilow, and we’re off. I try to disengage my face from the glass or at least mold its expression into some semblance of a smile as we pass the drivers, who are standing in a line, caps off and waving, as if wishing a ship good luck on her maiden voyage.
Some are looking nervously below us, and although I can’t see what’s causing their alarm, I understand the problem when the van, on its way out of the station, rolls half-way over a speed bump to a full stop. The cabbie guns it but there is only a clunking sound and a spinning of wheels. We’re stuck. But not to worry; within seconds our newfound friends have hastened to the rescue and we are being propelled up and over the mound and out into the Paris streets.
“Cuckoo!” Our driver yells in celebration. Our last leg of tonight’s journey has begun.
On the streets, our little clown car is met from neighboring drivers with looks of shock and alarm. I try to send them a re-assuring smile, but I’m sure the only thing my expression conveys is “grouper suctioned to a fishbowl.” I can’t understand the concern unless they fear that we might suddenly combust in an explosion of duffel fragments, but apparently we are posing a danger to Parisian traffic since our driver pulls over ten minutes later amid a clamor of unhappy car horns. The fact that he can’t see a thing out of the rearview mirror caused minor difficulty when switching lanes, and he sets to work righting the situation by re-arranging the luggage.
While we wait, we set about properly taking in the Parisian streets for what may be the last time, reminiscing about the good old days and getting misty eyed all over again.
“Oh, the bread at that boulangerie was to DIE FOR.”
“I can’t believe we’re not going to have bread like that back home! Everyone is obsessed with the Atkins diet!”
“Remember when JP took us to that café on the corner? I’m going to miss that man so much….. not to mention good French café……”
We are quite blissfully unaware of what is transpiring to our right-hand side; suitcases have been shuffled around and now the largest and beastliest duffel has been moving slowly upwards to hover ominously in the open window. Alyssa turns just in time to see the 50 pound object hurtling towards her head.
“Auuughhh!” She screams.
“Cuckoo!” Comes the reply.
We set off onto the highway, rolling backwards a few times on the ramp but eventually making it up to where we can trundle along at a comfortable speed of 45 mph. But time is irrelevant, for I realize as I stare up at the full moon that this may very well be the most deliciously surreal night of my life. Now, free of the host family, free of SYA and its restrictions, free of teachers and schoolwork and obligations, I never want this trip to end. I never want to stop feeling the way I do now, so alive, so young, so delirious with memories and excitement and a willingness to just press on, to keep frolicking and exploring Europe until there is nothing left to see, but of course there is always more to see, and… oh God, I am delirious.
We finally make it to the airport hotel, in an area that is already seeming less and less like France, and with the help of our driver make a mountain of suitcases on the lawn.
We give him as generous a tip as we can muster and thank him effusively, but before he goes, he ducks into the cab and comes shuffling back over the lawn, holding an object and smiling broadly. It’s his camera. With the journey properly documented in an image that will surely be hanging in his cab for years to come, he heads off, a farewell honk and heartfelt “Cuckooo!” hanging in the air.
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