Tracks

The funnest stories to tell seem to be the various mishaps of life. My current theme is our trip to Europe.

We settled into our Paris apartment which we had rented from the company that wasn't crooked and found various foods at neighboring bakeries, markets, and crepe stands. We purchased our Paris Museum Pass, which would give us free access to dozens of museums and unlimited use of the Metro. That takes a lot of stress out of travel! That is, if you know how to use the Metro.

Our first full day we had decided to go to Chateau de Versailles, the palatial home of Louis XIV-XVI, on the outskirts of Paris. We headed out in the early afternoon and found the train to our destination: the Versailles line. How easy is that?

The Paris Metro system runs under and over ground at various points. The city center portions are mostly underground. We watched as the train stopped at each station, comparing our pronunciation of the names with that of the automated announcements. We listened to the Parisians around us, drinking in the beautiful French language. Not that we could understand a lot, but we generally got the gist of the conversations.

The train gradually emptied out and stops got farther apart. It wasn't really too surprising that we didn't recognize stop names because the route map posted on the wall of the train didn't always list all of them.

The train stopped way out in the middle of a residential area and sat. We waited, watching the wasted minutes tick by and wondering how much time we'd end up having at Versailles.

We were seated upstairs to have a better view, but there was no route map upstairs. Kevin headed down to check and moments later popped his head in and announced, "We're on the wrong train!"

Groan.

We hurried off, lest the train take us farther from our intended destination. To head back in the other direction, one must disembark, take stairs underground, go under the tracks, and reemerge on the other platform. This we did. The only other person was an interesting heavyset black woman with a large shopping bag full of flowers. She spoke French and was on her cell phone, so we did not speak.

Another wasted ten minutes ticked by. The train sat. We sat.

Suddenly a uniformed French security officer approached us. Hey! Guess what! He spoke French! By this time I wished I had reviewed more, but at least I could say, "Parlez-vous Anglais?", which means, "Do you speak English?" Usually someone answered, "A little bit."

Not this time.

Pointing goes a long way when it comes to communication. We incorporated much into our mixed conversation of French and English.

The train continued to sit on the tracks. We determined that we needed to get back on the train ("cette train?") and change ("changement") at a station in the city center.

Hoo boy. We'd never get there in time.

But we did it. We went back downstairs, under the tracks, and to the other platform. And we got on the same train, which was about to reverse direction and go from whence it came. We never did understand why it didn't finish the route.

Oh, the French. And, as an Englishman in a hot tub would tell us later, "No one understands the French."

By the way, the two routes are both called Versailles, but one is "Versailles Rive Gauche". If you are ever in Paris, just take the train that says, "Vick" on the front. Then you will end up here: