Bum Trip II (Guest Post)

(Or 'The Revenge of the Short, Fat, Balding Ticket Inspector')

Ah Paris. Beautiful Paris. Nothing wrong with Paris. Not at all. Except the metro. It's a bit seedy and untimely. And maybe the catacombs. They're a bit unusual. But oh, what a beautiful place. History and sandstone mixed inspiringly into one. Not an eyesore in sight.

Wake up on time - bags packed. What better way to spend one's last day in Paris than by exploiting one's EU passport - allowing us to see the Rodin Museum (and therefore the auspicious Thinker statue) for free? We get bowls for breakfast, rather than needing to use glass cups.  We're even out by 10 - the earliest this week!

It is generally known that clouds with a puffy, white and relatively horizontal in its disposition are normal clouds. It is also generally know that clouds with a darker base are pre-empting a storm. The taller and darker the clouds - the worse the storm will be. The first sight of the dark clouds on any trip are normally ignored with a wave of the hand - "They'll pass over."

The metro required 3 changes with a heavy backpack and requiring an hour in duration. Half of our last morning in Paris - gone! And to what? Seedy individuals, metro stop signs and Assassins Creed
3 adverts. But hey, at least the city is beautiful, right?

The winds pick up - all of a sudden things seem a little on edge. The champagne and cheese slinks away into the basket.

"The Rodin museum is closed!?!?"

Correspondents in the field

The museums of Paris (except the Louvre) close on Mondays - rendering my passport useless. A man drops a box of wine - smashing it onto the floor, wine gushing into the gutter like water during a downpour. It’s the single moment that one realises the storm will probably not pass over - the awkward realisation that the wind has changed direction, and the clouds have somewhat materialised to pin you in the middle. But you think its still recoverable - the day's still young. But you still start packing away most of the things in preparation for a quick dash to the car.

It's okay - we still have some post to do. There's even a post office down the road. We write down what is needed - 'Can I please send this package- normal post - to England?. Thankyou very much! :)' I mean it has worked previously - days before at the train ticket office, the TGV train ticket for today - the 15th - is reserved with relative ease. The woman smiled at the smiley face and asked for the unusually high 25 euro reservation fee.

'No,' she says, 'it's an international ticket you see.'  Fair enough, that makes sense I suppose.

'It must go regular post - just put it on the weigher over here.... That will be 10 euros," the man from the post office says.

The money jingles as the other ten euros are given as loose change. A pain - but no matter, it can go in the coin purse. 'Now just go to a newsagents, and you will get an envelope...then it will send'. That's another thing that is wrong with Paris. They don't have envelopes in post offices. Paradoxical and absurdist one must admit - but nonetheless, we still have time.

We head over to Champs-Elysees. The Arc de Triomphe, the centre of the cityscape beats like a heart - enthusiastic tourists spread around the city to lose their audacity at the Louvre and return days later to repeat the process. We decide -being THE major street- that the Lapost will surely have envelopes.

"No," the man with the awkward green shoes says, "go to Monoprix - down there."

He points directly downwards, to his feet

"No. Get a box." 

Another problem with Paris - the people seemingly don't understand the concept of pointing to indicate direction - pointing merely gives cryptic messages left for the tourist to decipher. But hey, at least the city is beautiful, right?

We decide to split - I'll walk up, Gab'll walk down. Endless walking. No dice. Walk back.

"Oh, it's just across the road," she says.

We walk in - we search for what seems like hours. I approach the counter - the manager, in cheap suit and tie is there. He must know - right?

"No... Not here. Go to the post office."

"They just  sent me here"

"No."

We continue our search - at last, success! Well sized, brown envelopes. We walk back to the post-office. Well, its taken nearly an hour all up, but it will be done. Packaged, addressed, stamped. I re-approach the man with the awkward green shoes.

"No."

"Why not?!?"

"It's too thin... I can't send it"

"I have a whole packet - I'll put it into 5 envelopes"

"No. There's another post office just left of monoprix. Go there".

That's another problem with Paris. The people in public positions are very unhelpful.  But hey, at least he didn't point this time. We walk speedily there - our train is for the 15th at 3:25. We walk in - "Its fine. Just put this onto it." She takes the sticker from my hand and puts it onto the parcel and off it goes.  So the package is off to the UK. We've wasted our last morning, but hey, nothing's perfect, right?

We get back to the hostel and head to the train station. A beggar, who's knees are facing the wrong direction, 'stands' like a dog, knees protruding behind him, palms on the floor,  barking for spare change. We've made the train in good time - even managing to get rid of some of the ridiculous amount of change to get a coffee. That's another problem with Paris - having coffee is like doing a shot of vodka. It's all in espressos. But hey - at least you’re doing coffee shots in a ridiculously beautiful building, right?

Storm. n. A disturbance of the normal condition of the atmosphere, manifesting itself by winds of unusual force or direction, often accompanied by rain, snow, hail, thunder, and lightning, or flying sand or dust.

Nic considers the arse-end of travel

The sun cannot find its way through the clouds. It’s dark, extremely windy. The rain lashes through your jacket, soaking you. You left your escape too late. The car was twice the guessed distance, and it now looks like someone's thrown you into a pool fully clothed.

Train to Brussels Midi. Number 4664. Platform 8 - making it with 20 minutes to spare. The man directs us to our seats - carriage six. They are extremely comfortable. Its almost unfortunate that it's only an hour trip.

"Tickets please".

The ticket collector is fat and balding. But hey, no one's perfect right? In any case, nothing could possibly go wrong. We've just written the 15th into the pass - having learnt a wise lesson from Bum Trip Part I.

"Its the wrong date. It says the 12th"

The collector grabs the passes, placing them into his briefcase. Bile rises. Anger hits its peak. Naturally, one begins to argue. He's unwilling to listen. Every last detail on the ticket is identical - the time, the train number, destination. All except the date - the 12th. We show him the message, protesting how we wrote the 15th - it couldn't possibly be our fault.

"No."

That's another problem with the french. They all speak the same. "No" ..."No" ..."No" ...There's no extension to the 'o' sound. It’s cut short. Uncaring. Lifeless.

" How much?"

" 98 euros. Each."

"We don’t have that money"

"Pay by credit card."

"We've paid 25 euros to book the ticket. This is ridiculous."

"No." 

We have but no other option. We pay the 100 euros each - virtually all the money that we've accumulated by staying under budget throughout Paris. Gone. Instantaneously. Apparently we're accountable for checking the tickets - even though it says in clear writing '15th' on the paper we wrote the booking for. Suddenly the smiley face with 'Merci beaucoup!' is a lot less joyful.

There's an old saying. "When it rains, it pours."

And don't you forget it.


Nic Cholerton
Paris, France
November 15, 2010