“AUGH!” How could I not have noticed this before?! My train is leaving at 5:45!!!
“We have to go, we have to go!” I screech, dragging Beth with me at break-neck speed out of the hotel and up the street to the subway. She doesn’t seem to realize the catastrophe that is at hand and tries to dawdle, taking in Paris for one last time and kindly letting me in on her observations.
It’s 5:20 by the time we make it to the metro, and I give her a hasty hug and take off.
“When will we see each other again?!” She’s yelling as I descend into the metro.
“Ahh, summer, maybe, probably not though, bye!” At this point I really couldn’t care less. All I can think about is making my train.
I manage to arrive at the wrong platform in my haste and have to run across the station, losing a grapefruit on the way.
“Attendez!” I screech as I see the train doors pulling closed, managing to squeeze through sideways and collapsing onto a seat. The paper handles of the grocery bag are beginning to give way, and my back is straining under the weight of my backpack. My face is a light shade of strawberry and dripping sweat, and random strands of hair are plastered to my forehead. But I ignore the stares of the other passengers, leaning forward to focus solely on the clock in the overhead part of the train. 5:25. 5:27. 5:33. The subway seems to be taking its sweet time opening and closing its doors at every stop.
It’s 5:39 when I finally vault through the train doors at Montparnasse.
I can do it!
I feel like my daily runs through the countryside have all been in training for this moment, this four minute sprint through the largest train station in Paris. I hike my bag securely on my shoulders and set off, dodging startled passerby, flailing to keep my balance, leaving bullets of sweat and the occasional piece of fruit in my wake. A papaya on the escalator, a peach on the moving sidewalk.... They’re sneaking out through the growing space between the plies of the grocery bag, but I refuse to acknowledge the hole until it is too late.
I’m chugging up my final set of stairs, taking them two at a time, when the whole bottom gives way. I can hear the wave of apples, grapefruits, and oranges go bouncing down the stairs behind me, rolling purposefully into the crowd of rush-hour pedestrians. It's like bowling! I stop a moment to try and gage the extent of the damage then decide I’d rather not. I keep running.
At the turnstiles, a lone and final mango topples out of the crippled bag and I leap over it, narrowly avoiding a spill. The person behind me is not so quick on his feet.
At 5:46 I arrive at the end of the track, panting, bent over and supporting myself with hands on knees. The train is still there. My seat is in the second to last car. I take a moment to catch my breath and psych myself up for this final sprint before taking off at full speed, mentally congratulating myself in advance for what is sure to be an impressive story along the way.
It’s a story, all right. Inside the train, the French are reclining peacefully, reading their latest novel, enjoying a sandwich, murmuring thoughtfully to one another about the weekend spent in Paris, when a red-faced banshee with wild hair comes barreling onto the train car, sweat flying as she pivots in a frantic search for her seat.
“Excusez-moi!” I screech at the little old man who is so unabashedly occupying 37A. “C’est la mienne, la!” That’s MINE! Move it or lost it, Gramps. This train is about to get going.
He timidly consults the ticket that I am waving in his face.
“Ah, non….” He begins, hesitantly, but I am too impatient for small talk.
“Si, trente-sept. C’est moi.” I tap my foot a little for emphasis.
“Mademoiselle.” His voice gets slightly more resolute. “Ce n’est pas votre asiege. Voici c’est autre tren.”
I’ve had enough of his senile babbling. This is my train and this is my seat. I look around for help, but it is already advancing upon me in the form of the conductor, who snatches away my ticket and reads it.
He contemplates me pityingly for a moment, then,
“Miss,” he states in English, always the cherry on the ice cream sundae of humiliating moments, “This is not your train. Your train leaves at 19:45.”
I read again the ticket that I have been consulting so many times today, and it is as if the numbers suddenly come clear before my eyes. 19:45 is 7:45. Where the hell did I come up with 5??? And as I lift my head I become painfully aware that my face has reached a deep shade of burgundy due to the embarrassment, that a large bead of sweat is in the process of rolling off my nose, and that every. single. face on the train is gazing half amusedly, half sympathetically in my direction.
I begin to slink away, sinking lower into almost a crawl when he calls after me,
“Et Depechez-vous. You’re holding up the train.”
I run for cover behind the nearest pole and peek out from behind it to wait until the cars have pulled away. As usual, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. So I do a bit of both, and then I go to buy an eclair.
No comments:
Post a Comment