Sacre Bleu! The Tour - A Triumphant Arrival...Of Sorts

Can you think of a better way to start off your first official international holiday than almost missing you train?

I can. I can think of plenty of better ways. Of course, these ways and my paths were never to cross.

It can honestly be said that none of it was my fault though. Walking into San Pancras station in London I would have said that I had, as a rough estimate, all the time in the world. Or, conversely, at least an hour. 10:00am read the clock and 11:05 read the departure time on my ticket, plenty of time to check in and get the breakfast I'd deliberately skipped when leaving Laureen's house that morning.

'Excuse me, sir, do you mind just stepping over here for a quick, random security check?' The policeman and his dog were hardly going to be taxing on my time, but random? Really? Because numerous “random” explosives tests at Brisbane airport have left me suspicious about just how much chance there is in these checks. If the same amount of fortune followed me to a roulette table, I'd be a very rich man with a positively thriving gambling addiction.

So with time to spare and a keen sense for self preservation wanting to keep me out of prison, I let the man's English Springer Spaniel sniff away, only at my bag, never at my crotch. Not that I really wanted it too, it's just that it's nice to get the attention sometimes.

Then, over the loudspeaker, a cheery voice that seemed to believe what it was announcing was not a major inconvenience:

'Passengers for the 11:05am train, we would like you to note that your train has a new departure time of 10:23am. Check-in is about to close.'

Oh shit. It was 10:10am. I extricated myself from the security check, ensuring it was in a manner that indicated I was not a potential terrorist attempting escape, and dashed off, debating with myself the entire time as to whether I had overpacked my bag, as it and gravity joined forces in their attempts to introduce me to the floor in the most humiliating manner possible. After once again question the reason for the number of bags swinging uncomfortably from my body as I loaded them all onto the X-ray machine, I finally made it onto the train with minutes to spare, the fact of my carriage being located at the farthest end of the platform leaving me wondering if I had slighted the British rail sysytem in some way that I was yet to be aware of.

Now, my displeasure of being made to partake in physical exertion aside, for a train that was supposed to depart at 11:05am, with a ticket that said to arrive 30 minutes prior to departure, changing that departure to time that is before that 30 minute period, that's not a minor irritation, that's just plain rude. Exactly how many people would have arrived at the station what they thought was on time, only to find their train had already left? There would be chaos, anarchy, tea cosies and scones flying everywhere! Although, I shouldn't really complain, the now suspiciously empty carriages on the train allowed me to relocated myself from my booked seat to a far more ideally located window seat all to myself.

Two hours, several popped ear canals and endless amusement at passing signs in a foreign language later, I was once again loading myself up like an over-confident pack mule and exiting the train at Gare du Nord station, Paris. That's in France, in case you were curious. The cheery music that preceeded the train station announcements, and the French woman's voice that they were made in, reassured me – despite her incomprehensibility – left me with a feeling of entirely unwarranted confidence that I would have no trouble finding my hotel. A feeling that was only matched by the confidence that I was not so convincingly kidding myself.

Oh, and what a kidder I was.

Firstly, the ticket machines seemed to think it was a ludicrous suggestion that someone might want to pay with notes, and therefore did not afford me this option, leaving me no cnoice but to buy a bottle of Coke for 2.80 Euros (about AU$5.60) – something I would soon learn to be a common theme in Europe – just to get some change for a ticket to board a train that I still as yet had no idea how to locate.

The train obviously wasn't too keen on being found by me either, seeing as, while all the other Paris Metro stations that linked from where I was were perfectly content to be slutting themselves out on signs all over the place, Metro stop Number 2 was a shy little bastard with an aversion to publicity. Hand me a Where's Wally book and tell me he was standing on the platform and I would have more luck finding it.

Never mind, I could catch a bus! After staring intently at a public transport map for a number of minutes which I refused to count as a matter of self-respect, and doing my best impression of a person who was not at all lost or confused, I managed to figure out that I had the option of two different buses I could catch. With such choices, how could I go wrong? All I had to do was find the required bus stop. It sounds so simple, doesn't it?

In what I didn't see as too much of a stretch of logic, I follwed the sign and the arrow that said “Bus”. All the while my spine was beginning to get less and less happy with being forced to carry around a weight that it was not used to – that weight being any at all – and was expressing that displeasure with a steadily increasing level of pain. After walking out of that station and allowing my eyes a few minutes to take in what was around me and appreciate the fact that, holy shit, I was in Paris, I set back to work in my search, as my shoulders were beginning to sympathise with the plight of my spine. So I scoured the bus stops for my numbers in question, my own miniature game of Public Transport Bingo. A game I quickly realised I was losing. It seemed all of these bus stops contained the numbers for every single service apart from the ones I wanted. Merci beaucoup, you French bastards.

Back to the sign it was, despite how quickly I was losing faith in it, my eyes and the world in general. Around the corner from the train station seemed my next best bet - although all odds were swiftly making their way in the other direction of my favour – and I had to be quick, my legs were beginning to hear whispers of dissent coming from my spine and shoulders.

Aha! I discovered what appeared to multiple dedicated bus stops in one location. This could only be a good thing. Not according to the bus numbers that were presenting themselves to me. In fact, none of them were the ones that I wan...wait...there was suddenly a sign staring me. A direction arrow which I had to allow time to ensure wasn't a delusion induced from all my directionless wandering. But there it was, Metro stop Number 2! Out of a combination of idiocy and ineptitude I had managed to find the train station I had long since given up on finding. Who says a quitter's attitude gets you nowhere?

Two stations later – yes, that's right, I was only two measley stations away from where I had to be – and after undoubtedly irritating many public transport passengers for neither the first or last times with my cumbersome backpack, I was there. The hotel entrance was staring back at me, the fact that it was located next to a McDonalds leaving me no doubt as to it being real, as I'm certain my hallucinations would be far more interesting than that.

And in I went.