We were allowed to leave school early on Friday to catch a noon-time train, and Ms. Reed waved us away from our 10:00 English class. "Go," she said. "You kids have fun."
Liberated, we danced over to the yellow boulangerie for ham and cheese baguettes, and secured some Bonne Maman cookies at the Supermarche for good measure.
"This," we crowed, as we once more strode through Rennes with cheeks stuffed with cookies, "Is going to be Amazing!"
“Umm, I just looked at the ticket again to double-check that it’s leaving in fifteen minutes, and uhh…. I just noticed that the station name is actually… Nord. Not Est.”
There was a brief moment as I stared at her, letting the realization sink in. Then,
“Run!” I screeched, snatching the magazines from her hand and flinging them, with mine, at the bewildered cashier.
I grabbed her arm and began galloping toward the quai, searching desperately for any sign of a metro.
“Nord….” Bonne moaned. “It’s probably all the way across the city!”
I sighed in defeat and stared up at the clock overhead, watching precious seconds tick away. There went our London weekend; there was no way we were making this train in time. But then, across the station, Bonne spied a glimmer of hope in the form of tiny, miraculous sign pointing up a flight of stairs and stating clearly, “Nord.” It could be just a way of clarifying cardinal directions, but we weren’t taking any chances.
“Onward!” I charged toward the sign.
“AUUUUGHHH!” Bonne had come face to face with a beserk pigeon that was trying to find its way out of the station.
“NO TIME!” I shouted at her, already halfway up the stairs.
We burst out the doors and onto a high-altitude Parisian street, sprinting the length of it and rounding the corner into oncoming traffic. No matter; I saw Gare Nord on the horizon and the quickest route to it was a diagonal across the busy street. Bonne shrieked in terror when she saw my plan but I didn’t waver; at this point it was every woman for herself.
We skidded into the Eurostar terminal exactly 7 minutes before our train was scheduled to depart, somehow managing to navigate through customs in record time and collapse into our seats as the train pulled out of the station. London was back on.
But we hadn't made it far before the trouble began.
At Paris Est we had forty-five minutes to kill before catching the train to Waterloo station, so we decided to take a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood and maybe stop for coffee. So engrossed were we in conversation, it took about four blocks before we noticed that every other establishment was a sex-shop, and that there were at least three police sirens sounding simultaneously. Upon closer look, we quickly decided that the residents of this section were not people we wanted to be drinking coffee with, and we hoofed it back to the station just as fast as we could go.
At Paris Est we had forty-five minutes to kill before catching the train to Waterloo station, so we decided to take a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood and maybe stop for coffee. So engrossed were we in conversation, it took about four blocks before we noticed that every other establishment was a sex-shop, and that there were at least three police sirens sounding simultaneously. Upon closer look, we quickly decided that the residents of this section were not people we wanted to be drinking coffee with, and we hoofed it back to the station just as fast as we could go.
If there's one thing a Bonne likes almost as much as a bar, cafe, boulangerie, or cookie aisle, it's a magazine kiosk. Luckily there was a large one near the track, where we could catch up on pop culture while awaiting our boarding call.
I was enjoying the latest Orlando Bloom interview when I felt a timid tap on my shoulder. It was Bonne, looking apprehensive.
“Umm, I just looked at the ticket again to double-check that it’s leaving in fifteen minutes, and uhh…. I just noticed that the station name is actually… Nord. Not Est.”
There was a brief moment as I stared at her, letting the realization sink in. Then,
“Run!” I screeched, snatching the magazines from her hand and flinging them, with mine, at the bewildered cashier.
I grabbed her arm and began galloping toward the quai, searching desperately for any sign of a metro.
“Nord….” Bonne moaned. “It’s probably all the way across the city!”
I sighed in defeat and stared up at the clock overhead, watching precious seconds tick away. There went our London weekend; there was no way we were making this train in time. But then, across the station, Bonne spied a glimmer of hope in the form of tiny, miraculous sign pointing up a flight of stairs and stating clearly, “Nord.” It could be just a way of clarifying cardinal directions, but we weren’t taking any chances.
“Onward!” I charged toward the sign.
“AUUUUGHHH!” Bonne had come face to face with a beserk pigeon that was trying to find its way out of the station.
“NO TIME!” I shouted at her, already halfway up the stairs.
We burst out the doors and onto a high-altitude Parisian street, sprinting the length of it and rounding the corner into oncoming traffic. No matter; I saw Gare Nord on the horizon and the quickest route to it was a diagonal across the busy street. Bonne shrieked in terror when she saw my plan but I didn’t waver; at this point it was every woman for herself.
We skidded into the Eurostar terminal exactly 7 minutes before our train was scheduled to depart, somehow managing to navigate through customs in record time and collapse into our seats as the train pulled out of the station. London was back on.
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