Bought a Ticket for a Runaway Train

I know, I know; I've been in France for almost a week, and am still not even caught up to my departure on my blog. Well here it is, folks {sort of}, the first entry that concerns in some way my journey to France. Enjoy! And worry not - I haven't written pages upon pages for every day of my life here, so posts will be less frequent and less overwhelming.

{Thursday, September 4 – somewhere between Geneva and Paris}

What a nightmare. This morning started off well enough; I got up on time and hoped to watch the sun rise, but it was too gray and cloudy to see anything. Olivier wanted to leave at 7:15, which left me 45 minutes for Rice Krispies and green tea {breakfast of champions}, and to label my suitcases – piece of cake, right? Except when you take the rain into account; I spent a few minutes hauling the suitcases down the stairs, then covering every millimeter of the labels in Scotch tape {it took long enough, in fact, just to find the tape; I couldn’t think of the word until Carole mentioned “du Scotch”, which is actually what they call it. It’s like inadvertent product placement}. Somehow, after that and saying goodbye to the ladies of the house, it was already 7:30. I hopped into Olivier’s car, and he said that we weren’t really early, but it wouldn’t be a problem.

Flash forward an hour and forty-five minutes; my train is set to leave in two minutes, and we’re still not at the station. As it turns out, they even have traffic jams in Switzerland – who knew? So, at 9:17, when we arrived and I was sure my train had already pulled away, Olivier parked very illegally outside the front door of the train station in the pouring rain, and we ran like never before. The trains for France? All the way at the back. Fabulous. They didn’t even stop me at customs, pointing us in the direction of the train, which they thought was still at the platform…but they weren’t sure. Then came the real running – up two long ramps with one heavy suitcase each. Just as I reached the first ramp, I noticed that my backpack had come unzipped, so I must have looked absolutely ridiculous – panting, one arm lugging a rolling suitcase, one behind my back attempting to keep my laptop, journal, camera, and essential documents from flying off and taking up residence on Platform 8 of the Gare de Genève.

Then {Brenna, you’ll be so proud}, I had a perfect movie moment; we threw my suitcases into the nearest car, Olivier kissed me on the cheek, and I jumped up onto the train, waving goodbye as the doors closed, Olivier shouted “Give us a call!” and the train pulled away. All that it lacked were cameras, a glamorous protagonist, and a white lace handkerchief. I’m pretty sure I used up all of my good karma for quite some time on this particular moment of good fortune.

Now came the less miraculous feat of getting my bearings on the train; I somehow got my suitcases on to a shelf and plopped down, panting and grinning, into a seat, which a few minutes later turned out not to be mine. I’m actually certain that this is not even my car, so I’m now in an individual seat, trying to make myself inconspicuous, a task which is rendered virtually impossible by the fact that a. I’m wearing my long multicolored skirt, b. I have a huge backpack, c. I seem to be much younger than everyone here save one girl, professionally dressed and with an elegant accent and d. I’m pretty sure that I’m in first class. Oops. I’m hoping this luck will last; my only real issue now is that this is a four-hour train ride, and I haven’t exchanged any money for food. The adventure continues :)

As for yesterday, which was hectic but somewhat less so, it went well. I managed to find a lovely watch, which Isabella absolutely refused to let me pay for. If I’d fought her any harder, I’d have had to pry the wallet from her hands. Then we all had a delicious lunch while Virgil was taking his first economics exam, which he said was the hardest exam of his life. Yikes.

After Marie’s violin lesson, she, Isabella and I drove out to Sophie’s house in the farmlands, where we saw her goats, rabbits {Pomme, Prune, Myrtille and Melone}, bees, and springer spaniels. Unfortunately, we left a bit later than we wanted to, so we only stayed there for 15 minutes before having to rush back to drop me off at the bus station to meet Carole.

This is where my favorite part of the day commences. Carole, her very nice friend Amina, and I went to the bus station and paid about $14 for a bus ticket {yikes} to go to Fribourg where they both take a theatre class at a conservatory. The hour-long bus ride consisted of chatting, music, and their English homework {including John Lennon’s family tree}; by the way, to all my PHS chorus kids, they totally knew about “Where is Brian? Brian is in the kitchen. Oh! It is raining out! I forgot my umbrella!” They even finished the story, in which he asks his sister where his umbrella is, because it is raining. Once in Fribourg, we had about 45 minutes to kill, so we wandered around the huge Manor superstore which is like Target-meets-the-grocery-store, then walked to the conservatory. Having not done anything theatrical in quite some time, I was a little bit nervous, but I convinced myself that I could always sit in the corner and play the shy, quiet foreigner who doesn’t understand what’s going on.

Carole introduced me to everyone waiting outside, who clearly already thought I didn’t know much, because they didn’t even try to do les bises with me, and said, “‘ello, ‘ow are yoo?” upon hearing that I was American. Even the teacher, when she arrived, tried to speak English with me. Bummer, but at least it meant that the expectations were low. Once inside, everyone had to fill out a form because it was the first class of the year, and they all goofed off because everyone already knows each other from previous years. I sat silently in my chair, wishing I’d stayed at the Rozumeks’ house.

We circled up and had little introductions: “My name is Manon, I am sixteen, I go to such-and-such a school, I live in Fribourg, and I like theatre and don’t like math” {the last part was a common theme}. Not only did I feel awkward being at least 3 years older {usually 4 or 5} than everyone else; I also felt self-conscious about my speaking abilities, and there was a hobo peering in the window. No, really. He wouldn’t go away; it was really creepy.

Warm-ups helped; we played the game where you pass the clap to the next person, but you can reverse direction or skip people as you please, as long as you keep up the rhythm. Then we had one individual walk up to another and make a sound, which the second person had to repeat back before doing the same to someone else, with another sound; it was clear that, even without words, people were reluctant to approach me. Great. I’m the American leper.

Isabella, the teacher, then handed out a poem for diction practice, called “La balade de chalclintlicuc} {“The ballad of [completely made-up word]”}. I was reassured by the fact that no one else knew how to pronounce this word, but intimidated by phrases such as “De pernanbouc au Potomac/L’antique Inca lègue aux métèques” and “Maintes statues en stuc d’azteques/Maints masques de caciques en stuc”. Diction practice, indeed. We were given some time to practice, then individually read the poem to the class. When my turn came, Isabelle said kindly, “Caroline, tu veux essayer?” {“Caroline, would you like to try?”} I nodded and stood up, feeling like a kindergartener. “La balade de chalclintlicuc,” I began, but Isabelle quickly interjected, “Tu es de langue maternelle française ou anglaise?” {Is your native language French or English?”} How could she not know that? Hmm. Timidly, I replied, “Anglaise”, cleared my throat, and started to read. “‘La balade de chalclintlicuc…avec un grand accent américain” {“‘The ballad of chalclintlicuc’…with a thick American accent”}. Here we go.

Three stanzas and two or three small mistakes later, everyone was cheering. No way. I turned bright red, took a small bow, and walked back to my seat. “Merci,” I said sheepishly, “Pas mal pour une Américaine” {“Not bad for an American”}. Whew. Alright, the hard part’s over, I thought, watching the rest of the class read. What a relief. That is, until everyone else was done and Isabelle handed out monologues. She said to read it through, practice, and think about how you would act it out.

Just one little paragraph. Not bad. Someone debating which of two chairs to sit in, and the character’s name was even “L’angoissé” {“the anguished person”}, so not too much characterization required. I went third, and got through it just fine. Yann, sitting next to me {who spent a good deal of his time singing the line “I love to love you, baby” in mocking falsetto}, said, “Bravo. Très bien fait” {“Very well done”}, which was encouraging. After each individual performance, the student received a card. Mine said, “fier” {proud}. This time, I had to practice in my head while others were reading, because we wouldn’t be given more time than that. But by this point, I was really excited, really enjoying the performances, and really glad to have come along. It was especially fun guessing the adjectives that other people had on their cards, like “polite”, “curious”, “careful”, etc. Yann got “gaffeur” {blundering}, and turned out a perfect piece of melodrama that ended with the improv’d addition of “Oh, desespoir!” {“Oh, despair!”} with his hand to his forehead. Fantastic. I snapped a quick group photo before leaving, the full weight of my imminent departure now settling on me.

Clockwise from top left: Yann, Isabelle, Carole, Léticia, Benoît, Amina, Manon.
Middle: Leyla

Olivier picked up Carole, Amina, and I, and Amina spent a few minutes of the car ride boosting my ego.

Amina: Tu m’as vraiment choquée; j’aurais dû filmer, mais j’étais là, bouche bée. [to Carole] Elle a des talents cachés {You really shocked me. I should have been filming, but I was sitting there openmouthed. She has hidden talents}.
Carole: Tu ne la connais que depuis quatre ou cinq heures! {You’ve only known her for four or five hours!}
Amina: Alors, ils étaient cachés pendant quatre heures! {Well, they were hidden for four hours!}

We discussed her coming to visit me back home or in Wisconsin, and as she left, she said to me, “Si je peux te dire une chose, c’est ça: fais du théâtre” {“If I can tell you one thing, it’s this: do theatre”}. Needless to say, I was exhilarated.

At this point it was about 9 PM, and we returned to the chalet one last time, famished and fatigued, and feasted on seven pies from the pizzeria down the street {including one with capers and anchovies, and “The Tunisian”, which has eggs on it. Whoa}. I said goodbye to the gosses and the boys, and went to bed, i.e. ran around my room putting the finishing touches on packing, and finally collapsed in Carole’s bed.