Lost in France

As I reflect on my European experience, I look on it with nostalgia. It's been a pleasure living among such an interesting culture, meanwhile witnessing other cultures from around the continent as well. Thinking about it I want to say that I grew as a person, but a cliche like that is best reserved for a novel or inspirational quote. Instead, I'd like to say I grew into the person I always was.

One of the places I visited that stole my heart was France. Staying for 5 days, I experienced multiple cities along the northwestern area of France; Starting in La Rochelle, I crashed at my friend Maya's apartment. 

The apartment her and her sister rented was overlooking a quiet street in the student city of La Rochelle. The view from the apartment showed old grey stone buildings, archways with businesses underneath, and bicyclers and cars making their way through the town. Enchanting and interesting.

While I enjoyed my time thoroughly with Maya and her friends, One of the best experiences I had was on my way to Paris. 

It started when I decided not to buy a ticket to Paris. Maya had told me the likelihood of a conductor checking the ticket was slim to none. This proved a valid claim because on my way to La Rochelle from Paris when I had first arrived, I bought a 70 euro ticket and didn't have it checked. A big waste of $100 American to say the least.

So I took my chances. A roll of the dice and an incubus album on my ipod later, a conductor trots through the train checking tickets. She says something in French. Nervous I speak neither English or French, or anything verbally for that matter. It ended up being more of a hand gesture and the physical body language of "let me find my ticket" that was communicated. I search my bag knowing there is no ticket. She waits. 

French countryside

She tells me in French she is going to check other passengers and come back. I understand her the same way she understands me.

She walks down the cart. I search for an escape. I ask myself, do I just get up and walk away? Go through the sliding doors to the next cart and hope for her mercy? Do I just pretend I have no idea what's going on, play the foreigner card?

Instead my window of opportunity opens. The train slows down and I catch the brief passing of a blue sign in white lettering that says "Beauvoir-sur-Niort".

Maya had originally told me I had to tranfser at Noirt to get to Paris. To me, I figured maybe Beauvoir-sur-Niort was Noirt, just with, you know, an 'add on' at the beginning of it's name. This is my way of rationalizing my decision to jump off the train to avoid a hefty fine.

I wait till the train stops. The conductor is at the end by the door. The door opens and she walks outside to view boarding riders. I calmly gather my things and walk past her as if nothing was wrong and this was my stop.

Reflecting on what I experienced later on, her face was quite appropriate. She had the look of "Does this kid even know where he is going?". Her intuition was correct. I had no clue.

I find myself in a small country side town, somewhere in France. As the train departs, I survey the area. The train station information center was closed. It looked like people had not worked at this stop for over a decade. The building was growing vines and sprouting vegetation from crevices and cracks in it's bricks.

I look and see serenity. A quiet Sunday in a humble town. The solace you could taste as the sound of peaceful insects buzzed pass me and circled growing gardens.

I debated my next course of action. I looked at the train information posted in the waiting booth. Written in French, the directions were a bit unclear to me. It was clear though, that nothing was very clear.
 
Seemingly from out of nowhere, I see an old woman and a child sitting on the platform. The child was running around, making due with his surroundings. The woman with a grey poof of air watched what appeared to be her grandson appreciate the little things.
 
I approach the woman and asked her if she knew when the next train to Paris was. Not speaking a word of English, she tried her best in elementary forms of sign language to describe what I needed to do.
 
She brings me over to the same sign I had been looking at. She points to the time. It says 1730 is the next train. At the moment, it was 1330. I asked if she was sure. She says yes.
 

The road's view next to the train station

After a few incoherent attempts at communicating, she departs. I realize I am stranded somewhere in France for at the very least 4 hours or possibly more. 

I think to myself, who knows what could happen? Maybe it's not an updated train itinerary. Perhaps the schedules have changed. All I know is, I'm alone, with a dead phone, in a tiny town, with nothing to rely on except pure instinct.

I sit around for about a half an hour. Smoking cigarettes, pacing, I debate trying to walk the town and search for resources. Maybe a payphone? Some food? Someone who speaks English? Help? Anything at that point would have been pretty helpful.

So I walk. I pick up my carry on bag and take a walk.

The street closest to the station was pretty desolate. A closed credit agency, a recreational center across the street, and nothingness from that vantage point. A few picturesque houses and speed bumps lined the roads as far as I could see.
 
Deciding which way to walk was by far the most testing of instinct. To the right, more houses, no sign of active society. To the left, less houses, more road. I go left in hopes of leaving the residential neighborhood to find an open business.
 
As I walk, I catch a woman outside gardening. Her tiny little house was surrounded by a well maintained garden. By herself I feel awkward to approach. Not knowing what her reaction would be, I slowly walk towards her. I see her notice me from a distance. She continues her work and ponders what my arrival may bring.
 
I ask her if she has a phone I can borrow. She doesn't speak a word of English. I try with difficulty to communicate my needs. I pull the little yellow post it out of my pocket with Maya's number written on it. I show her and use the universal thumb and pinky to ear to show her I need a phone. She signals with an index finger 'one minute' and walks inside.



She returns a few minutes later with a cordless house phone. I say in French thank you a few times and dial the number. I explain to Maya what has happened. I am lost in a town that claims to be Noirt. It's a tiny town with almost no one around. This was the second person I found out willing to help. The next train is not for 4 hours. She says she wish she could help, but being an hour away she could not help much, and her arrival would be unnecessary. I tell her I just want to let her know what the situation was.

I give the phone back. I thank her again and then hand signal that I want to find somewhere that has food. 

She looks at me perplexed. At first I think she thought I was asking if she had food, but I pantomime that I am looking for a store that sells food. I point towards what I think is the center of town while simultaneously putting my hand to my mouth.
 
She says in French there's a place near by, I ask her how long by walking. She puts up 5 fingers. A 5 minute walk to the center of town? Sounds good to me.
 
I begin my journey in the direction she tells me. In the meantime, I am walking through the back streets of this French town. The houses, quiet and peaceful, sit by side in separate but synchronized sanctity.

I took photos like a tourist. Every moment I found a more beautiful garden than the last, an even more picturesque house, a well designed archway. So old, so gorgeous. The quiet was everywhere.
 

Walking through the residential neighborhood

I walk down what seems to be the main street in town. A few minutes down the road I arrive at the only place open for another kilometer. A tiny pizzeria/bar. 

The man who owns the place is middle aged. Grey haired, black shirt and jeans, he stands leaning against the doorway, viewing the landscape.
 
I walk in past him and he follows in behind me. I say "Pizza?". That's pretty universal. He says yes and proceeds to make a pizza.
 
I take a seat in the empty restaurant. I look on the wall and there's a very detailed map of France. I study the railways, the highways, the cities, the names, the geography. Before I know it a freshly made pizza and glass bottled Coca Cola arrive at my table. I eat with glorious victory of a well received dinner.
 
After my eat I walk back to the train station. Still 2 1/2 hours until the next train. Scrupulously but enjoyably 
I reflect on my experiences throughout France. From partying in clubs with Maya and her friends, to the wonderful dinners and conversations I had with her family, to the sights and sounds of France on our long drives through the French countryside traveling from city to city. The people I had met, the opinions I shared, the thoughts I received, the sensations I had felt of being independent and observing. Humbled by the unknown and intrigued by the contrasts of life in France, I was on the precipice of true nostalgic introspection.
 
All this and I ended up here. In a tiny town with no one I knew. Disconnected from the world. Completely and utterly alone. Not a single person within miles that knew where I was. Not a drop of familiarity, not a sprinkle of preconceived notions, not an ounce of resource to draw on. Just me, my wits, and my carry on luggage in a small town called Beauvoir-sur-Niort.
 
For this experience I am thankful. It was the type of disconnect I needed to understand what connection is. 
By discarding all that is known one can gauge the value in familiarity and comfort. Being thrown into a completely alien world, left to fend for myself and discover what is out there was truly enriching.
 
Of course I was only there a few hours. What is a few hours in the grand scheme of things? Not much. But what I learned in that few hours is much bigger than a few hours in a small town in France. It was the opportunity to experience something not many people have experienced. I was placed among a language unknown, surrounded by nothing to draw on, and left to rely on only myself to discover what was there.
 
Most people in a situation like that would freak out. I embraced it. I took in the chance to explore, to discover and to learn. It was one of my more memorable experiences from France, even Europe as a whole.
 

Main street in Beauvoir-sur-Niort

While many would say this story is not that exciting, even entertaining, I say, why does it need to be? Why does everything need to be so dramatic, overexposed and decorative? Why can't an experience as 'dull' or 'slow' as this one be one worth of value? To me, an experience like this was much more valuable than any fast paced, high octane type rush that sky diving or cliff jumping could offer. I feel like little things like this are under appreciated in our age of instant gratification.

My only conclusion from this experience is to take what you are given and live it. Live in that moment and do what you can while you are there. Draw out the benefits and limit the negatives. Go beyond the superficial nuances that dictate our lives and jump into it. Do what you can while you can, be less human and more humanistic.

I must say, I should probably skip paying for trains more often.