Ancient History

It was 4:52 in Paris and we were supposed to meet our traveling companions in the Louvre courtyard--on the shady side of the glass pyramid--at five o'clock. It was 4:52 and we were at the Paris Opera House, craning at the last fluid limb on the Chagall ceiling even as we were running down the front steps to the street. Two metro stops on the 7 train to the Louvre, where our traveling companions would be at 5 o'clock to meet us for a jaunt to the hotel to retrieve our luggage and then a final leg to the train station to catch the TGV back to Switzerland.

When we made it to the pyramid, it was after five o'clock--ten minutes? fifteen?--and not knowing whether we had missed our companions or beat them, we waited around as long as we could while still ensuring we'd make our return train, for which we'd paid an extra five francs to have reserved seats on the long journey. And so at 5:45, no familiar faces in sight, we got back on the metro and headed to the hotel to pick up our bags.

Except we got on going the wrong direction and ended up spending precious minutes riding away from our destination, then navigating the urine-soaked halls and stairways to the opposite platform, then waiting for the correct train. When we got off at the station by our hotel, we saw across the platform our traveling mates boarding the car to the airport. We were only ten minutes behind them, and we were all going to make the train. We HAD to make the train; we were holding their pre-paid tickets.

Ten minutes behind turned into fifteen turned into a half hour after the walk from the metro stop to the hotel, the awkward dealings with the desk clerk, and the walk back. We were still on the metro (going the right direction this time) twenty minutes before our train was to depart, and in our future there were still dim, damp hallways, stairwells, narrow escalators that go up two and a half stories, and numerous train tracks all radiating east from a station we'd last seen through bleary eyes after eight hours on a train that had sleeper cars for a reason, although we chose to ignore that detail and instead dozed nose-to-toe in a miniscule cabin with two friends and two strangers, us ladies in skirts. (Note: Always spring for the sleeper car.)

But I still thought we could make it. Our weekender bags were light, and we were only twenty-one and twenty-two; we could run our little legs off and still have breath to shout "Pardon! Pardon!" to part the crowds in our way. Twenty minutes would be cutting it close, but we'd make it. And if not? We stay an extra day in Paris. There are worse fates.

No matter that we were getting closer and closer to the station, the later and later it got, the more frustrated my traveling partner became. And then frustration became anger, and then anger became scary. He was staring out the metro window fuming, and I put my hand on his back and said, "We're going to make it. We'll run. We'll be fine," and what I got back was a short string of now-forgotten words and an unforgettable look through someone's eyes into his "dark place." I remember being stared down with an intensity I've never felt before or since, and if he'd been the hitting type, he surely would have whacked me a good one right then, although he hardly needed to use his hands after a look like that. I didn't say a word the rest of the trip to the train station, and when we got to our stop, there was nothing between us but wind as we ran through the metro tunnels, down the putrid stairwells, and up, up, up the narrow escalator. Our tickets said 15, so we looked for Track 15, not knowing that we needed to check the big board for up-to-date assignments. Needless to say, we searched for a track that didn't exist until we realized the one we wanted was right there in front of us--and there goes our train, a slow pull-out in prep for a 200 m.p.h. pace.

Stony silence. Then harsh words. Then stony silence again. The worst was whatever was happening at the time. We fought over who had to ask the ticket agent about our options. I thought he should do it since he was the one being the dick. He thought I should do it because he didn't want to. As it turns out, that was the last train to Switzerland that day, and we'd have to wait until early the next morning if we wanted to get out of Dodge. (Except it was Paris!)

I couldn't deal with any more stony silence or harsh words, so I walked off into the crowd, bought a bottle of water (warm, ugh; what is wrong with Europe?), sat on a metal staircase overlooking the tracks, and befriended a little yellow cat, whom I named Leo because this was, after all, the Gare de Lyon. After a time, I started to worry that maybe he'd take off without me and I'd be left to fend for myself, so from my perch, I searched for him among the tourists and commuters, finally spotting him by the newspaper stand. For a while I watched him wander around the station, sometimes just walking, other times clearly looking for me, occasionally sitting down or leaning against a railing. I wondered if he was thinking, like I was, that it was stupid for him to have gotten so upset over nothing. So we missed our train. So we'd wasted a few francs and would owe our friends for the tickets they didn't get to use. But we were in Paris! And we were, despite the current state of affairs, young and in love. And in Paris! For just one more, unexpected (oh, how romantic!) night. If there's ever a place to miss a train, it is in Paris, and if there's ever a reason to miss it, it's because you lost track of time falling in love with the Paris Opera ceiling, right? Yes, it was stupid for him to have gotten so upset. Moreover, it was stupid for him to have gotten upset at me.

After ample time to recompose ourselves and reassess our situation, I said goodbye to Leo and descended the steps into the station hall. When he saw me, he was calmer, but annoyed that I had temporarily deserted. He was consumed with finding a place to stay, making sure we didn't miss our train the next morning, and, apparently, being miserable for the duration of our stay in France. We spent our extra night in the City of Lights in our affectionately but accurately named Ghetto Hotel Room with the mustard shag carpets, almost-matching drapes, dark wood paneling, and door that doesn't lock, and we left early the next morning to catch the absolutely very first train back to Neuchatel, even though there was really no reason to hurry since we'd never make it back before classes ended anyway and besides, we were the best students in the class and we had a good excuse.

Monday morning, reserved-seat tickets in hand, we couldn't find the correct train car and didn't dare sit in the wrong place and risk getting scolded and tossed, so we endured the four-hour trip in the stairwell of the baggage car. I remember we didn't speak much, and in the picture that was taken of me on the train car floor, my eyes are obviously red from crying. I took his picture first, trying to lighten the mood and remind him that one day he would look back on this and smile, and I guess him taking a picture of me in return was his way of declaring a truce. In the years afterward, I retold the story many times with big dramatic gestures, but lightly; it happened, it sucked, but it's over now and we survived, see? and I'd poke him playfully in the side. Now that I'm six years out, though, and I don't have to rationalize away why it wasn't that big of a deal to be that scared by the guy I was still with, I don't find the episode at all amusing.

This afternoon when a coworker asked what my plans were for England and I told her that outside of a few solid wedding-related schedules we didn't actually have a plan (I don't even know what time our flight leaves--a.m.? p.m.? I haven't a clue!), I couldn't believe I was not only openly recognizing that we didn't have a plan, but I was startlingly calm about it. "Oh, we'll find something to do, somewhere to stay, some way to get from here to there to the other place."

Calm?! But why? Aren't I still afraid that packing in a rush will result in something essential being left behind? Aren't I worried that we won't find lodging in London and we'll spend a night wandering aimlessly through the streets with our luggage before finally ending up sleeping vertically snuggled into a red phone booth? Aren't I scared that if I don't have our routes mapped out we'll end up lost in the metropolis or, perhaps worse, in the countryside?

Not really. Not in the way I used to be, anyhow. Because while I'm still conscious of all the things that can go wrong and all the things that I can and should do to prevent those wrongs from happening, the big difference in my life now is that I don't have to list Major Meltdown of Traveling Partner as one of my fears. I'm generally pretty cool under pressure, but THANK GOD I also have a boyfriend who can roll with the punches without getting scary flames of firey hellviolencedeath in his eyes. If we miss a train, we'll just get on a later one. If we have to sleep in a phone booth, at least we'll be in good company behind the foggy panes. And if things get overwhelming and heaven forbid we need to take a break from each other? I have no doubt that he'll set me up with a little yellow cat and a cold bottle of water before leaving me alone and, for my part, I won't take my eyes off him for a second as he walks away.

Waiting for the airport shuttle, May 2006

wrote Leah at 3:50 PM | Comments (10)