The train ride from hell

I walked the entire length of the train at Gare Austerlitz. No car 47. I asked the one of the two SNCF conductors checking tickets at the entrance of the voie. “Ask him,” one said pointing to a young man with a crew cut coming my way.

I did. He said it was there, sweeping his hand along the train. Despite being tired and dragging a suitcase full of my holiday stuff, I walked the entire length again. Nothing. I found five other people all looking for the same car.

Back to the conductors.

“It’s between 46 and 48,” the same young man said.

“Five people can’t find it,” I said wondering why as the only non native French speaker I was spokesperson.

He rolled his eyes and pointed to a man with a Salvador Dali mustache. “Ask him, he’s the chef.”

I did.

The man picked up a piece of paper. “It’s here.” He rattled it at us.

“You have the paper, not car 47 on the train.”

“Ask her.” His moustache quivered as he pointed to a young woman not more than 25.

She at least believed us and called someone on her walkie-talkie. “He says it is at the head of train.”

We all walked back to the head of the train.

No car 47.

I decided to jump on a car that had only seats rather than the wagon lit that would have given me a comfortable bed for the night.

I don’t mind someone messing up and not attaching a car. I do mind rudeness, lying, and the lack of willingness to solve the problem.

The car was air-conditioned to a point that would have thrilled a penguin. I pulled a long skirt from my suit case and wrapped myself up as best I could. Finally I dropped off to sleep only to wake to a woman who felt the need and didn’t resist it singing La Vie en Rose.

Maybe it wasn't the train ride from hell, but only because of the temperature.