Grenoble: Part Une

Life in France has become so natural that I haven’t felt the need to post much. I’ve also been completely absorbed in my first week of coursework since last Saturday. I’ve officially begun my student life during this summer in Grenoble…but not before a mildly traumatic beginning. Of course.

I bid au revoir to my darling Parisian apartment in the 9^th at 7am on Saturday, June 23, enough time to arrive at Gare de Lyon with 15 minutes to spare before boarding my TGV train to the South. Certainly, this doesn’t sound like a lot of time, but with my ticket already purchased - and the convenience of printing kiosks throughout the whole place - this was not supposed to be a cause for concern. But, stressful travel plaguing me thus far abroad, the machines didn’t recognize my name…in every combination possible. Misdirected by numerous, indifferent staff, I finally arrived at the guichet (ticket service counter)…in just enough time to miss my train to Grenoble. Naturellement.

I was told I would have to purchase an entirely new ticket for the next departure, at full fare, since I wasn’t able to refund before my original train departed. Customer exploitation aside, I just wanted to get on a train and apologize profusely to my host mother for the extensive delay. I handed my card to the lip-pouting woman at the counter, knowing painfully that the only difference between a coach seat and the first-class ticket I was forced to buy was 40€ in price. She swiped and slid my card back under the glass barrier, lips pouted, eyes fixed on her screen.

“Cette carte ne marche pas…” (“This card doesn’t work.”)

I SO wanted to rewind an hour and start the day over. My card had worked just FINE for two full weeks in Europe, and I had informed my bank of my travel plans. This was a nightmarish joke.

I insisted the card had worked since God was a boy, but realized how much time I was losing. I had a ton of cash in my wallet (or so I thought), so I started counting. Of course, I had several euro less than what I’d thought. I just stood there - staring blankly - telling the woman I was short, like a gambler to a loan shark. Pouted lips and an indifferent expression indicated that a ticket was not coming my way, regardless of whose fault the whole mess was.

I just roamed Gare de Lyon in a daze for the next 10 minutes, totally bewildered. This morning was supposed to go like clockwork – the simple part of my trip! Getting into the country was always supposed to be the difficult part, not traveling within it. Utterly exhausted and starving (I had been planned to eat something on my now vanished train), I ventured out into the streets around GdL, suddenly feeling just as alone and vulnerable as the day I arrived in Paris two weeks prior.

For the next hour, I felt like I had come full-circle. My credit card didn’t work at any ATM, everyone I knew in Paris was out of town for the weekend, and I had no means of calling my bank at home until I bought another calling card. This being France at 8am on a Saturday, I’d be waiting an hour before ANYthing opened. Even then, the first two shops happened to have technical difficulties this out of all days, and therefore couldn’t process a ticket téléphone. Naturally.

Tried another ATM machine…card rejected. The world was suddenly conspiring to prevent me from taking a three-hour train ride to the southern half of the country. Train stations aren’t supposed to be such nightmares – that’s what airports are for! God help me – how would I get out of Paris? I was completely stuck.

Being a relatively “together” adult, I had avoided tears thus far. The worst phase of the morning was a 20-minute panic-session on the streets surrounding the gare. I finally spotted a bar where – observed by a group of beer-swilling, Saturday-morning regulars – I bought an international calling card. A frantic call to my impossibly patient mother ensued (2.30am Michigan-time), walking her through an online RailEurope purchase for a ticket to Grenoble. This was literally the only trick I had left. Just as she clicked Confirmer, an error message appeared. Something fabulously vague about a processing error.

Verging on a true meltdown, my dignity flowing out of the phonebooth and into a Parisian gutter, I suddenly recalled an episode last summer when my bank card mysteriously stopped working for approximately two hours in New York City, without a hold. I hung up the phone and stumbled over to a BNP Paribas. Removing my card, I entered my PIN, trembling.

BEEP. BEEP. Success. I marched back to Gare de Lyon with a wad full of vibrant currency, pride still in tow.