My daughter spent the year before she married in a small town in Burgundy called Digoin. She was assigned to Lycee Camile Claudel, a secondary school. She has told her story in her wonderful blog, Francey Pants, but the one piece of her tale I want to share concerns a family with whom she shared a particularly close bond. She also made good friends with a retired English teacher.
These friends were invited to her wedding, and the family actually made it. It was such a great gesture of friendship. When the family learned I was going to be teaching on this side of the Atlantic, they extended an invitation to me to visit them in Digoin. Reading Week (the first week in November) seemed the best time for me to visit, so we made plans.
The original plan involved traveling with my dear friend from Duluth with whom the French family had stayed before my daughter's wedding. Unfortunately, ill health prevented her from making the trip, so I had to reconsider how I would make the trip. The problem is, I do not speak French and my friend does, so I had to consider how I would fare on my own. At one point I thought I could convince my French speaking daughter to join me, but that wasn't going to work given the fact that my daughter has a job with some time restrictions.
As I have aged, I have developed a few travel anxieties. About 10 years ago I participated in my daughter's class trip to France and Spain. We started our trip in the UK visiting my sister and her family in Oxfordshire. After a three-day trip to Edinburgh and day trips to Bath and Cirencester, my daughter and I were scheduled to meet up with the people from her high school who would be participating in the trips to France and Spain. It was cheapest for us to take the Eurostar to Paris. The only problem was, I have become increasingly more claustrophobic as I have aged. I've also developed anxieties about getting places in time to make connections. As a result, I was an absolute basket case getting to the departure point, and just about fell apart as the train entered the Chunnel. I can't speak for my daughter, but I perceived her respect for me slipped considerably after watching me give in to my fears. It was not pretty.
My daughter was able to visit me in the UK the week before my scheduled trip to France and helped me identify the train connections I needed to make, as well as to reserve a hotel room in Dijon on the way back to the UK. The prospects were a little intimidating to me and I started chewing my nails in anticipation.
The first task was making the train that would get me to London in time to make my connection with the Eurostar. The first train to London Paddington Station left Worcester Foregate at 5:32 a.m. That meant, I had to arise at 4:30 a.m. and then walk in the pitch black dark to the train station about a mile from my flat. I assume others go through the "night befores" I experience. I tried to get to bed no later than 10, but sleep? That's quite another story. I probably fell off to sleep around 11:30 p.m., but I awoke at 1:40. I might have dozed 10 minutes here, 15 minutes there, but for all intents and purposes, I got about two hours sleep for the night. I finally got up at 4:30 and dressed, leaving the flat by 5:00. The walk in to the station was fine, and I wasn't the only person waiting to board the 5:32-- there was also a young mother and child waiting to board.
I choose not to drink or eat while traveling alone because I want to minimize my trips to the toilet when I am in transit. So...I didn't.
I made it to Paddington by 8:00 a.m. I found someone who directed me to picking up the Underground link to St. Pancras where the Eurostar departs. I had booked my tickets via the Internet and had instructions to collect them at St. Pancras. That was a very simple affair--it took maybe three minutes tops. My train wasn't scheduled to leave until 10:23, and one cannot even enter the gate area until about 45 minutes before departure. I dilly dallied for a little over the hour and then the magic time of entry arrived. I found a perch and people watched until my train was ready for boarding.
One thing I have done of late, is pack more effectively. This wasn't true of my trip here to the UK; I overdid it with two huge bags packed to the gills. Going on weekend trips with the Study in England Programme has given me an opportunity to learn a more efficient system. I now get everything in one backpack and this makes traveling a bit less complicated.
The Eurostar ticket identified a particular coach number and assigned me a particular seat. The train was quite crowded, but comfortable. Once in my seat, I think I lasted about 10 minutes before falling asleep, so the Chunnel anxiety never had a chance to surface (yuk,yuk). I awoke shortly before we arrived in Paris ready to disembark and raced to the next station..
One of the challenges I
faced was getting from the Gare du Nord where the Eurostar arrived, to
the Gare de Lyon where I would board a train to Dijon. The time frame
was very, very tight. The train from London arrived at 13:56, and my train for Dijon was scheduled to leave at 14:53. My options were to take the Metro (which could take upwards of 30 minutes), or a train (similar time frame), or a cab. Advice from fellow passengers on the Eurostar was mixed. Some said, the train was fine, but a French woman shared how her husband had become hopelessly lost. She recommended the Metro. Another Englishwoman said--take a cab. I chose to follow her advice. My daughter's former Camile Claudel student warned that the taxi driver might take advantage of me as a foreigner. Online, we learned that cabfare from one station to the other should cost about 10 Euros. The reality was a bit more--about 12.40 . Given the time limitations, I chose the cab--price be damned. I approached a cabbie with my rather weak French: "Parlez vous Anglais?" to which he responded "A little." Frankly, most of those who responded in this way were actually quite good--certainly worlds better than I am at French. I asked the cabbie if he could get me to the station fast, to which he responded--"nooo, the police watch very closely." I asked how long it would take him. He said 15 minutes and that was perfectly fine by me.
Once at the Gare de Lyon, I had to find the gate for my train to Dijon. When I approached the Information station, I once again asked "Parlez vous Anglais?" but this time, the clerk's mastery was less than the cab driver, and coupled with a fairly significant 'tude. Regardless, I comprehended enough that I was able to find the gate and board the train.
My daughter had crafted instructions for train travel in France, which included something I haven't experienced elsewhere--sliding the ticket into a yellow machine on the platform before boarding the train. I'm not sure what this is supposed to do, but I made a point of doing it.
On both train trips, it seemed no one talked. That was perfectly fine by me. Both trips were smooth and uneventful. The connections were seamless and I never panicked.
My daughter had suggested we meet at the Tourism Center, but they did that one better. As the train pulled in to the station at Dijon, my hosts were awaiting my arrival on the platform.
I did it! I got to France, I got to Dijon, I met my friends without incident and they whisked me off into the descending evening.
More to follow.
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