Paris to Saint Jean d'Angély

In saying goodbye to the constant lights, the urine scented Metro and the altogether magic of Paris, my last few hours in the city consisted of Sherry, Danielle and I dragging our luggage (packed for one year in a cold climate) up and down stairs, in and out of work-day crowded Metros, and in lost circles. Our goodbyes were rushed hugs, and suddenly I was completely alone trying to find my train in the Paris Montmarte Gare. It was gray, everyone was in a rush, and there were hardly any signs to mark which train went where.

I asked a British woman where I was supposed to go, and she asked a French family on the same train to help me up--even though I was speaking to a British woman, who allegedly speaks proper English, she still had trouble understanding me and told the French family that I needed help with my luggage instead of finding my train. Alas, when they helped me find the car of the train and instructed me in a mess of English, French and gestures, I thanked them and climbed into the train.

On airplanes, I usually end up having conversations with the person next to me. Yet, on trains, for some reason people aren't as eager to talk to you--even if you say "Bonjour" in your best French impersonation, and I spent the 2 hour train ride to Poitiers reading Rolf Pott's Vagabonding and staring out the window. Despite my fatigue from the Metro and Gare confusion, I was amazed at the landscape. France is full of hills, trees and rivers, towering old steeples and buildings with character. Unfortunately, it was not particularly clear as to where the train was stopping; the main indicator was a mumbled and quiet intercom announcing a jumbled French without non francophones in mind, so I had to ask the unfriendly young woman next to me if we were in Poitiers. The Poitiers train station was infinitely less confusing than Paris', though people weren't much friendlier.

One of the most curious things about Europe is that bathrooms are difficult to find. You'd think at a train station, there'd be a bathroom. Yet, the only bathroom in the Poitiers train station costs 1 euro, and the women's stall is somehow always broken and the men's always in use. If you pay for meal in a restaurant, you can most of the time use their restroom for free, though it's not always a particularly pleasant experience. I also find that unless you ask people for help, you won't get to where you need to be. So, I've become talented in the art of smiling and using my hands while I speak. A young man around my age taught me that it's necessary to "Compost" (which is actually validate) your ticket before you board a train.

The boy I sat next to on the train to Surgeres was your typical teenage jerk. I put my backpack on my seat, and he stood up to let me in, but I had to use the restroom. Yet of course, I had no idea how to say this to him. So, I smiled and said "Umm, J'ai besoin le toilet!" This, of course, made him and his friend a few aisles over laugh at me, and I shrugged off the embarrassment that would soon become a daily experience.

Claude, who recognized me by the ukulele strapped to my bac, picked me up at the Surgeres Gare and talked about America as he drove me into Saint Jean D'Angély--a town where there is only one showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, and it's dubbed in French.