SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SPAIN AND FRANCE – A comedy of errors greeted us on our way to France. We arrived early at the train station in Spain with train tickets in hand in case anything went awry, but we should have known it wouldn’t be a breeze. We realized a little too late that it required a separate ticket to get on to the train platform.
With 15 minutes to spare, a nice man informed us that we needed to first take a number and wait to be called in order to get the ticket to get on the platform to get on the train.
I should mention that the two dudes working the ticket desk seemed to be very well acquainted with the DMVs of the United States. Same level of urgency. Same enthusiasm.
Soon it was five minutes to take-off and we were still two numbers away from being called to get the ticket to get on the platform to get on the train.
That’s when I spotted a priest with No. 228 in hand. We had No. 229. I asked him politely if we could swap tickets so that we could catch our train.
THE PRIEST DID NOT OBLIGE. I couldn’t believe it. Is there a “How am I doing” number I can call for rogue men of the cloth? In the name of all that is holy!
We made the train. Barely. But we missed the connection, which set off an epic journey that bounced us across the south of France on four different trains until we finally landed in Toulouse SEVEN hours later. Navigating the train system without being able to read or speak French was no joke. But we’re here. Now where are those croissants?