What finally motivated me away and through the security checkpoint was no idealistic thought of the adventures that lie before me, but the fact that I had no tissues. I was briefly snapped at by a TSA woman for not separating my baggie of liquid items into a separate bin (I swear the signs said nothing about that!), but when she saw the state of my face, she took pity on me and waved me through. On the other side, I went immediately to a little store. They had no tissues that I could find. The next store over was the same. “Well,” I said to myself, “That settles it. Crying is simply too inconvenient, and I must not do it anymore.” I bought a book instead, figuring that was better anyway—a preventive measure, a distraction, instead of just something to clean myself up with—and went to find my gate.
The plane ride itself was very enjoyable. The lady next to me: friendly, the food: not bad, the in-flight movie: one I had wanted to see, and the nighttime view of bright New York falling away from my window: a glittering treasure burying itself for me to find again when I return. I didn’t sleep a wink.
We arrived at Charles de Gaulle at 7:00 am, Paris time. I collected my big suitcase from the baggage claim, and dragged the two suitcases behind me to the opposite end of the airport, where the high-speed train station is located. Four hours early, I staked out a spot on a bench near the electronic board where platform assignments are posted, no sooner than 15 minutes pre-departure, and read the novel I had bought six hours before. The station was freezing. According to weather reports I’d heard, it’s been extremely cold in Paris lately, and abundant snow has thrown the north of France into a mild panic. As if the temperature weren’t evidence enough, all the trains coming from the north were running late. Mine was 20 minutes en retard.
When the platform assignment was posted, I followed the signs down to platform 5. I knew I would only have three minutes to load my stuff into the luggage rack and find my seat before the train started to move, so I double-checked my ticket; mine would be car #15, seat 44A. With a roar of wind, the train pulled up. I hurried further down the platform, looking for car #15. To my dismay, the numbers stopped at 8. Perplexed, I stepped aboard and asked a woman to help me. “Pouvez-vous m’aider?” She smiled, but when I showed her my ticket, she looked equally confused and didn’t know what to tell me. I got out and looked at the number again. Still only 8. Starting to panic a little (my three minutes were fast running out!), I ran up to a man in the airport uniform and asked again.
“Pouvez-vous m’aider?”
“Tell me what you need,” he said in French. Then, with a glance at my ticket, “Continue down further to where you see sign G. G! Okay?”
I nodded, and did as he said, though G was several hundred feet beyond the end of the train. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a second train pulled up behind the first, this one labeled #9-16. Who knew trains came in halves?! Certainly not me. I quickly stored my bags and found my seat.
Again, the ride itself was quite pleasant. There were only a handful of other people in car #16, so it was quiet, and I had room to spread out. Snow-covered hills and trees outside became brown, then slightly green as we moved further south.
Three hours later, I got off at the fifth station from Paris, Aix-en-Provence. Following the instructions I had received, I made my way to la point de rencontre, the meeting point near the exit doors of the station, where an IAU rep was supposed to be waiting with a sign. But no one was there when I arrived. Five minutes passed . . . then ten . . . and I began to wonder whether I had somehow missed my person. Certainly, my train had been late (by the time it reached Aix, 15 minutes en retard had become 40), but I found it hard to believe the representative would just go home without me; I had emailed IAU my travel plans, so they knew I was supposed to arrive. I wandered around, searching the whole exit platform for a place someone might be hiding, but found no one. Though I still had my American phone, with my American calling plan on roaming mode, I dialed the number for IAU’s offices in Aix. No one answered. Again, I was beginning to stress. But suddenly!—I heard my name called over the public address system. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make out where the announcement in French was telling me to go, and it was not repeated. Still, I was relieved to know that somebody knew I was there.
Looking around again, I realized there was no information desk or microphone at the exit platform, from which such a call might have been made. Figuring if I found a place like that, I would find whoever was looking for me, I expanded my search of the station beyond the exit platform. There was a stairway leading up and over the train tracks to the entrance platform, where tickets were sold. Seeing no other option, I lugged my suitcases up and over and down again, drawing the attention of everyone on the entrance platform as my grande valise (big suitcase) banged to the bottom of the stairs. Still, I could see no one from IAU, and no one who appeared to be looking for me. There was an information desk, though, so I approached the young woman nearest me.
“Uh, j’ai écouté mon nom? Mademoiselle Scott?” I gestured to myself.
She nodded knowingly. “Oui, il y a deux femmes qui te cherchent (There are two women who are looking for you).” I followed her around the information booth.
Down towards the far end of the platform, two tall women caught sight of me as my guide attracted their attention with a wave. They moved closer and I could see that one had brown hair and the other, the older of the two, was very blonde. The blonde woman was on her cell phone, and when she was near, she introduced herself as Josie, my designated host mom, and the other woman as her daughter. Then she handed the phone to me. On the other end was Karen, Housing Coordinator for IAU, with whom I had exchanged emails previously. Karen expressed her relief that I had arrived safely and been found, and reassured me that the two women were who they said they were. The women smiled. I smiled back.
Speaking to me in rapid French that I was by then too tired to understand very well, Josie and her daughter helped me maneuver my suitcases outside and into their car. I got in the back seat, buckled my seatbelt, and eagerly awaited my first look at where I would be living for my four-month stay in Aix.
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The story of my first few days in Aix will be continued in my next post! My plan is to upload a video of my new home for you to see. So! Tune in next time, folks, if you're curious! :)