Exchange - Part II - the journey to Brest

Now the purpose of this series is not that the junta eagerly waiting to hear about my exchange escapades is able to satiate its curiosity. I am well aware of the fact that there may not be any of the afore-mentioned junta in existence…

I just want to have an account of my experiences – for posterity’s sake. For when I am old and bald, for when I cannot remember where my dentures are, for then - when I stumble across these memoirs and smile in fond remembrance.

N the junta, if any, is most welcome to amuse itself.

So we set out. The journey to Paris via Dubai was normal, as it is wont to be. Dubai airport is huge though. And the duty-free section is delightful. We bought a lot of booze meant to last us for the duration of our stay.

Paris is where the game began.

Paris airport (Charles de Gaulle - CDG) seemed normal. Huge and everything. There were the metro lines and the inter-city lines (Grandes Lignes) on different floors. Brest was supposed to be a few hours from Paris. We figured out the timings of the train that would take us there and that we would have to stop enroute at a place called Rennes to reach Brest. You see, you may have heard of the super fast TGVs which run in France at the speed of 300 kmph and all, but these trains do not run from Paris to Brest – they have been introduced only along select routes. We had to make use of the ordinary sounding RER.

It turned out that our train to Rennes was just around fifteen minutes away and we had to find our platforms, lugging around forty kilos of luggage, simultaneously. We somehow got separated and I found myself on the platform – hoping it was the right one.

The train stopped. I tried to haul in my forty kilos, no prizes for guessing – it was near impossible. Ah, but never fear, when the French are near! A nice French boy standing in the doorway got my luggage in; he offered to drop it to my seat. Midway, I realized I didn’t have the bag which had some of my money and my passport! That moment – was undoubtedly the worst moment during all of my stay there. I went back-tracking my route along the train and found the bag.

Heaved a sigh, found my compartment, thanked the French boy, settled in - Loved the scenery, the clouds, the meadows, the cows. So green, so country. Met my gang – they too had had their share of adventures.

I pondered. I have always suffered from the ‘Superwoman complex’. I think I am great, mighty capable, never needing help, my natural resourcefulness at run-time ensuring all inconsequential screw-ups are ironed out. But today, in a foreign country, where people don’t understand the languages I speak, where my passport is my identity, security and safety – I should have ensured that screw-ups never happened in the first place.

Forty kilos – shout all the slogans you want, burn all the bras you can get your hands on – sometimes empowerment is about knowing when you may need help and ensuring it is around.