Train Strikes

I didn't go to work this past Thursday. That sounds sort of racy and intrigueing, but my absence was not due to illness, rebelliousness, or even laziness. I didn't go to work because the municipal workers in France have all been on strike and the trains have consequently been all goofed up.

And by using the words "goofed up," I am being rather mild in my description.

Because the "normal" train schedule, which is prominently posted at my local RER station, never runs true to times (irony, there you are again!), I always give myself one to one and a half hours of "flex time" on my commute to work. This overly-cautious methodology has served me well over the past six weeks, and I had yet to be even marginally un-early for my classes.

Until Thursday.

My first class starts at 2pm on Thursdays. I left my apartment before noon. The trip, uninterrupted and without any delays, takes about 50-60 minutes. So two hours and fifteen minutes seems more than adequate. One would think.

Not on strike day, people. Not on strike day.

The "schedule" suggested a train would come at 12:07 and take me to my usual destination. On this particular day, a train was allegedly arriving at 12:40 and was not going to be going to my usual destination. In fact, there were no trains scheduled for the entire day that would bring me close to the campus. The 12:40 train was to be a "short" train and terminate two stations before my usual stop. In the optimistic haze that still surrounded me that early in the day, I figured I could work with that and would just find another train or a bus to take me to my destination.

Oh, the naivity!

I had suspicions from the get-go about this 12:40 train. To begin with, according to the screen, it was scheduled to leave from the opposite platform--meaning it would purportedly be going AWAY from the destination I had in mind.

Despite my inner voice telling me that something was off, I boarded the train anyway. Instincts? Who needs them? Apparently not me. But I did take some proactive measures. To squelch my initial concerns, I had asked two separate people about the destination of the train. They both gave me the "typical" French look which seems to say: "You are a moron and are wasting my time," before confirming my information about the train's alleged destination.

By way of justification, I thought that due to the limited train schedule because of the strike, that they must have worked out some sort of anti-collision schedule. But it still seemed bizarre. Yet these other people seemed convinced. So, in true "pay-it-forward" fashion, I confirmed for two other people that the 12:40 train was, indeed, headed to the said destination.

These latter two people may or may not have spent that evening constructing voo-doo dolls in my likeness.

Because I evidently believe there is safety in numbers and/or follow the credo that one ought to not look like an imbecile unless there are others buying lots on the land of idiots at the same time, I felt comforted that all five of us boarded the train assuming we "knew" where it was headed. A bunch of others came along too, but I was primarily concerned with my team of imagined comrades.

When the train terminated, not at the posted destination (surprise, surprise!), an angry mob of Parisians surrounded the train personnel to complain. The particular target, a man, was utterly unfazed. He managed to pull off that typical French look (again, "you are all morons and wasting my time"), even with 25 Parisians yelling at him. Well 24, as I am not Parisian. Nor was I yelling for that matter. Not that I was not also peeved, and the fever of the crowd was rather contagious, but I have enough trouble formulating simple sentences en francais. Expressing anger is a little advanced for me right now.

I then hitched myself to a smartly-dress woman who also wanted to go to Versailles, and who had an air about her that she was going to make things happen. Taking no for an answer did not seem to be her mantra. I kind of trailed along behind her as she (we) was then instructed to take a bus. I waited 30 minutes for this bus and then it seemed to be driving into oblivion.

Ironically, the music on the bus was Queens: "We are the Champions."

Somehow I feel like "Another One Bites the Dust" would have been more approrpriate, but whatever.

I was let off when the bus terminated (yup, everything was terminating all over France with no pre-warnings of any kind) and instructed to take a different train. That train would be leaving in...an hour and 40 minutes.

Okay, so, brilliant me, I think I can take a train back to Paris and catch another line out to the University. Yes, I sure can. And that train was to be leaving in...an hour and a half.

Life was not all doom and gloom though. For one thing, I have to say that the train personnel at this station in the middle of nowhere could not have been nicer. They were all sort of small, smiley, and welcoming. I felt a bit like Dorothy in Oz with the munchkins.

I even experienced a bit of delirium in the form of a giggle fit when I realized how in the merde I was with regards to never making it to work. As I dissolved into giggles, the train guys joined in. I have no idea what they were laughing at but we all enjoyed a jovial and giddy bonding moment. It was like a Hallmark commercial.

Sort of.

As I weighed the pros and cons of taking the train that would make me really late versus taking the train that would also make me really late, I listened to some French guy rant about strikes for ten minutes. He was really, really angry, and may have been crazy. I would have walked away after 30 seconds, but it proved to be a rather useful impromptu French lesson. A lot of vocab from the local papers was being used, and I found that helpful.

When one of the late-late trains was cancelled, and the decison had, voila!, been made for me, I realized I really had to use the restroom. I was then escorted to the bathroom by one of the train guys. Along the way he stopped and had two somewhat lengthy conversations with other people and it was slightly awkward because I thought perhaps he had forgotten about me. But, 15 minutes later, we arrived in a cafe where he demanded that the proprietor let me use the bathroom. It may have been that he thought I was mentally challenged (giggle fit+garbled French does not convey high leveles of intelligence). But still, very nice. I just love those train personnel in that town!

In conclusion: I never made it to work. But I did spend 6 and half hours in train stations.

And now...the strikes go on! In fact, yesterday I was dropped off at yet another foreign locale due to train termination, and three people asked me for directions. You might congratulate me on my ability to mesh, and think that maybe I am look quite French these days. I am more inclined to think that the train strikes have me so utterly infazed me at this point that I seem to be the only one who is not about to pop a blood vessel, and therefore people think I must know what is going on. I don't know. But I know that I don't know. And that is the difference.

Now my biggest problem is whether or not the strikes will affect our trip to Rome this weekend. Even the munchkins might not be able to alleviate the sadness that will ensure if we miss that trip. But, we have no control. Strikes=c'est la vie.