The 9:31 to Paris Nord was to be five minutes late (still no track though)
I’m not shy (and believe me, anyone who is oughta get over it quick when travelling in foreign countries.) When my trip started, I knew I was on the right platform in Schiphol train station in Holland, but get this, the nice man at the information desk told me “five or six” meaning the train could arrive on track five or it could be track six. There was a rising anxiety in me as we got closer and closer to the time the train was due to arrive. So what did I do? I picked out the person who looked the least likely to want to help me (they are always the friendliest!) and asked my favorite question. “Yes, little bit,” he responded. He told me that the stationmaster decides at the last minute which track is preferred and it is posted on a public information board overhead.
The high speed Thalys to Paris, France
As it turned out (as it always seems to turn out) there was no problem, at all…until…we approached Paris and the voice on the intercom announced in French (of course) that there would be a delay. Believe it or not, I understood that there was a delay without understanding all the words. The same announcement was repeated in Dutch (the train came from Holland, right?) so I knew (or hoped) the next version would be in English; but by that time everyone was talking to each other about the delay and the consequences, I’m sure; so I couldn’t understand the English announcement.
Again, not shy. My seatmate explained that we would be delayed thirty minutes. Just long enough for me to miss my connection; I was sure. I was right. Once in Paris Nord, I asked a cab driver how much to get me to Gare St. Lazare. “35,” she said. “Three-five?” I replied. “Oui, 35 euros,” she assured me. I took the metro. (It cost one euro seventy cents.)
Hurry up and wait...missed my connection; oh well
Hopelessly late for my connection, the person at the information desk spoke a tiny bit more English than I speak French. It was an interesting conversation, to say the least. Here’s the skinny: if I took the train to Cherbourg I could get off in Caen (instead of taking the train that terminated in Caen.) Ooohhh, yeah, I getcha. I follow your meaning!
Once in Caen, there was a little matter of a rental car reservation which didn’t process properly. I knew it hadn’t but after three tries, I gave up and just hoped for the best. No worries, there were several rental car companies, some with the names we all recognize. (What I didn’t ask for though was a GPS; more on that later.)
In these medieval towns, the streets are narrow and a tiny bit tricky for guys from Essex who are used to a shotgun navigator. After an impromptu tour of downtown Caen (featuring the use of the same traffic circle three separate times!) I got to a place I was sure was somewhere on the original set of directions. Um…yeah…most people are aware that highways run in two directions. I knew I needed the “N13” toward Bayeux (problem was it also runs toward Paris; yeah, see the problem?) No kidding, I knew I was headed in the exact opposite direction, and I couldn’t get off. Seriously…there were no exits. I drove about eight kilometers in the wrong direction and couldn’t fix the problem. Finally, I saw an exit so I got off only to discover that the N13 is toll road—free to get on, seventy cents to get off. (I’m going with God again on this one. I had some change in my pocket. All’s well; right? Wrong.
I traveled far enough without the opportunity to turn around that I started to get panicky. Instead of enjoying the French countryside, I started imagining myself lost in Normandy! Just when I figured I was right about God to begin with, He showed me a traffic circle! Easy peasy, zip around, back to the toll booth—on the other side this time—(had another seventy cents, again God), and off to Bayeux I went.
Seems like every little town has a magnificent old church!
Here’s the problem. I never saw I sign for Bayeux. Seriously. I saw plenty for Cherborough so I figured I was headed in the right direction. Without a clear mental picture of where I was or where I was headed, I was truly driving blind. After about thirty kilometers, I got off. I figured that I had screwed something up and things whuttent workin’ out for me. I was sincerely regretting the GPS snafu. Got off, immediately found a traffic circle and before I could get to the correct turn I passed the sign that said “Bayeux”. Once more around the traffic circle (no kidding, I go these traffic circles figured out) and I was on the right road to Bayeux—the same road I had been on before I got off.
The Bayeux Cathedral
Shortly thereafter plenty of road signs counted down the distance to Bayeux. I even pulled out my Google directions and found a direction that actually matched the road signs (rare, believe me). Who knows what happened next? Two traffic circles, and a bunch of snap decisions, and I saw the Bayeux cathedral. I wasn’t lost, but I had no idea where my hotel was in relation to where I was. Just as I turned into the cathedral parking lot to study my maps and Google directions, I noticed a beautiful little sign, which, I guessing, you-know-who had conveniently placed for me:
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Hey, I’m here.
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