I'll start, in fact, with the night before. It was a rare, sleepless night. The exciting thrills and concerning stresses associated with taking the plane (never an experience I enjoy in a group, let alone solo), travelling some distance across a country I hadn't visited since the age of four, and meeting a girl I'd grown ludicrously attached to over the previous few months were all more than enough to keep me from drifting off to the land of nod that particular evening.
I "awoke", by which I mean the alarm clock I'd set just in case I did somehow tumble unconscious sounded, at around 6am. To the best of my recollection, my flight didn't leave until around 11, but I was especially prudent in my preparation for this journey right up until take-off.
A shower, a nervously-gobbled down bowl of corn flakes, and a quadruple-check of my baggage later and I was into the taxi on my way to the airport. Arriving a good three hours before a flight is, of course, the traditional move of the discerning traveller, but it's certainly not particularly inspiring to stare at those flight boards watching the minutes go by.
Regardless, that's what I did for a few hours until finally the gate was announced. Onto the shockingly - and to my mind, dangerously - tiny aircraft we clambered, and off we took. So far, so good. Everything had gone surprisingly well, in fact. Almost too well, the pessimists amongst us would say. Well, this time they were right. The English leg of my journey had gone without a hitch but the French had a few surprises in store.
Arriving at Brest airport just on schedule, I enjoyed the ever-empowering experience of seeing my bag arrive first along the carousel. Beginning to hear and see my first bits of French around the airport, I felt worlds apart from the home I'd left only a few hours before.
My French study experience prior to my arrival consisted of a year in high school, which taught me little more than "French isn't for me!" and a hasty few weeks spent scurrying about online completing basic worksheets and watching tutorial videos. I wasn't exactly fluent, you might say. In fact, I wasn't exactly anything, intermediate, advanced, novice, my French was below basic. Thus, the experience of suddenly being surrounded with it was actually quite intimidating, and not the sort of thing I'd like to relive. One lesson I learnt that day was to always prepare linguistically when travelling abroad.
Bags in hand, I made my way towards the exit. Brest is a very small airport, you climb off the plane, through the passport booth, collect your bags in the little next room and you're out before you know it. I recall seeing something like two gift shops just before the exit, it's quaint, and my sort of airport. The labyrinths and shopping centres of places like Heathrow only make the whole "flight experience" that much more daunting, I always think.
A taxi had been booked for me, and the driver had agreed to hold up a sign bearing my surname in order to make the process as easy as possible. Couldn't be any easier, you might say. Well, you'd be wrong. He was nowhere to be seen. The reason I just mentioned how small the airport is is to highlight the surprise I felt in this situation. Short of disguising himself as a tree or "Caution: Wet Floor" sign, there were not many places this taxi driver could hide. There's one set of exit doors, and about two dozen people were waiting to greet the passengers of my flight. He was not one of them.
I circled the incredibly small greeting/exit area three to four times, eyeing up the face of every individual before realising what I believe to be the solution to this mystery; he simply wasn't there. Perhaps there had been a problem with the booking, or I'd arrived a few minutes late and he'd taken off, but I swear to this day that I did not overlook or fail to spot the phantom taxi driver; he never existed.
Panic began to set in, I'm a creature of routine and habit, and all of the day's schedule had been crafted meticulously and centred around the presence of this taxi. The taxi was supposed to take me to the station, where I was to catch the train for which I had already been delivered the corresponding ticket, which was to transport me directly to my soon-to-be-girlfriend's town, where her mother who had adjusted her work schedule would be able to pick me up.
The absence of the taxi has disrupted the plan. Of course, I had backups, but they weren't as reliable. A bus service left the airport to the local metro station, and naturally there were other taxis on standby for just such an occasion. The former, however, involved finding the bus and then dealing with the metro, the latter required me to convey my destination in a pathetic amalgam of languages and gestures. I didn't have much time to waste, and my split-second decision favoured the taxi.
That was a mistake.
I went outside and had those traditionally awkward taxi moments of not knowing if the guy is free or waiting, whether to sit in the front or the back, is he going to take my case or shall I approach the boot, etc. We then moved on to more specific awkward taxi moments that only occur when you're in a foreign country and try to make yourself understood, poorly.
"Le.. la.. le.. - oh bugger, my mind's gone blank, what's the word for station? - La station? La train?" I garbled at the man, before resorting to every Brit-on-tour's favourite French phrase, "Parlez-vous anglais?" "No." He belted back quite definitively. A few moments of gibberish later, during which I basically said the words "train" and "station" with a variety of accents, he appeared to understand and off we went.
A very brief ride later, I was dropped off at a station. I wasn't 100% sure, but the few minutes it had taken to arrive didn't seem like the approximate twenty minute journey that Google Maps had suggested, the fields surrounding us didn't look quite like the town centre of Brest I expected, and this station's single platform out in the open wasn't quite true to the images of the large brick train station with its multiple platforms, ticket machines, and convenience shops I'd seen online in the days before. My Holmes-like suspicions were accurate; it was the metro station.
I'd already had such problems with this taxi driver that I feel my frustration with repeating the word "train" had gotten too much for me. I attempted briefly to make myself understood that this was not at all the destination I had requested, but he frankly wasn't having any of it, freeing his vehicle of myself and my baggage with almost superhuman speed before jetting off to his next misadventure. I pray that all of the customers he has since received speak French, otherwise a few have probably found themselves in some unwanted locations.
Anyway, I found myself at the metro station with approximately twenty minutes to get to my train. It wasn't impossible but things were looking grim. Luckily, I'd planned for this eventuality as well, and had prepared the requisite €1.80 ahead of time in my pocket. A queue for the ticket machine had formed, and I made my way to join it, tilting my head from one side to the other in an attempt to catch a view of how the thing worked and what I needed to press for a simple ticket.
The woman in front turned to face me, "fjksf hkjgn al ajdlkjg djxkf tj wori t?" she inquired. Well, not exactly in those words, but I'm trying to convey the level of comprehension I had at the time. It sounded like everyone was speaking a language I'd never even heard of, all of the simple little sentences from my online videos were replaced with this almost elven-sounding tongue. My face must have worn a startlingly confused expression because no sooner had she finished her question than she gave a sigh, a flap of the hand, and turned back around.
"Hope that doesn't happen again." I thought to myself, becoming increasingly concerned about my communicative prospects in this country. A metro car arrived behind us, greeted with the sighs and groans of those in the queue that suggested most of us (myself certainly) wouldn't have time to buy our tickets and climb aboard. Those at the front of the queue were evidently feeling the pressure and attempted to hasten their transaction, but no sooner had the car arrived than it sped-off again.
I eventually reached the front of the queue, and luckily French is easier to understand when it's written down. I saw the word "Acheter" and pressed the screen, feeling a sudden sense of patriotism as I saw the Union Flag appear amongst a selection of languages. Here, I must just take a moment to commend the French on this feature. Whether you're buying train tickets, paying for petrol, or using a cash machine, there's nearly always a selection of languages available to ease the process. It's a function that's saved my bacon on more than one occasion, and this was the first.
After muddling my way through some translations that weren't entirely comprehensible, I collected my ticket and awaited the metro. It arrived quickly enough and I climbed aboard, promptly being treated to my first glimpse of what I now call the "French Stare". Maybe it's just me, but I've noticed the French people seem to have a certain predisposition for staring at almost every human being they come across. My partner tells me they're quite a judgemental nation, and all enjoy observing one another. I also feel that my look betrays my foreign identity, rendering me more prone to glances as a result.
Regardless, it's a disconcerting experience when it happens, and in this case, it was very disconcerting. I felt like a penguin who'd wandered into a monkey's-only bar. Genuinely, it's very easy to feel completely out of place when you have a dozen people staring at you like that. After catching one too many sets of eyes, I decided to spend the remainder of the journey looking out of the window, and began trying to remember the order of metro stops.
Unfortunately, I hadn't quite prepared thoroughly enough for this turn of events. I knew I had to get off the metro a few stops into the town, but wasn't sure on the name. Meanwhile, my partner was frantically and fearfully texting me as she and her parents began to worry for my arrival. In short, it was all going badly.
The metro sped into the town and I began to recognise some of the stop names from the list I'd read the night before. I had some basic idea of the layout of the town, and decided to get off a few moments later with a large group of people. Looking at a town from a bird's eye view online and attempting to reconcile that image with the view from down below is pretty difficult, however.
I found myself with about six possible streets to take, and luck must have smiled on me that day as I semi-randomly made my decision. A short walk later and I spotted a signpost "Gare SNCF". The station! A sigh of relief left my lips, muted by the grind of the rolling wheels of my suitcase. The French Stare continued to follow me as I made my way through the town, following the signs and breaking into a brisk jog as I realised my train was scheduled to leave in a little less than two minutes. I knew it was already too late, but I was eager to put my partner and her family's minds at rest by at least making it to the station.
A little while later I did just that. I entered the station doorway, looking up at the grand clock that dominated the lobby; the train had long since gone. Now it was time to find the next one. Following SMS instructions, I had a look on the ticket machines (again, in English) and found trains leaving every hour or so in the direction I wanted. That's not so bad, I thought, but it interfered with the plans of my girlfriend's mother and suddenly we weren't sure what to do.
Luckily, after an afternoon wrought with misfortune, a little miracle arrived. My girlfriend got in contact with a friend whose mother offered to collect me. I only had to wait about ninety minutes or so for the right train to come. Honestly, the time flew. Despite repeated and creepy moments of the French Stare in full effect, I sat quite comfortably in the waiting area, listening to the people around me talk with words I had no chance of understanding.
Despite the scary side of it all, there's something immensely calming about being in a situation like that. When you can't understand what people are saying, you feel quite at peace. You don't attach to their conversations, you don't wonder whose baby those two women are chatting about or why that guy is so angry on his phone; you just hear the lovely sounds without the often less-lovely meanings.
Thus, the time flew, soon I was on the train and finally on the last stretch of the journey. The ride itself went without a hitch and I was off before I knew it, straightening my shirt and fixing my hair as I began the long walk to the car park where she was waiting. Thus, that's where I end today's post, the remainder of the day will be discussed another time. Despite the hiccups, it's a journey I would relive again and again, and the lessons I learnt remain valuable to every traveller; always be prepared, learn a bit of the local lingo, and for every plan B, make a plan C.
Arriving at Brest airport just on schedule, I enjoyed the ever-empowering experience of seeing my bag arrive first along the carousel. Beginning to hear and see my first bits of French around the airport, I felt worlds apart from the home I'd left only a few hours before.
My French study experience prior to my arrival consisted of a year in high school, which taught me little more than "French isn't for me!" and a hasty few weeks spent scurrying about online completing basic worksheets and watching tutorial videos. I wasn't exactly fluent, you might say. In fact, I wasn't exactly anything, intermediate, advanced, novice, my French was below basic. Thus, the experience of suddenly being surrounded with it was actually quite intimidating, and not the sort of thing I'd like to relive. One lesson I learnt that day was to always prepare linguistically when travelling abroad.
Bags in hand, I made my way towards the exit. Brest is a very small airport, you climb off the plane, through the passport booth, collect your bags in the little next room and you're out before you know it. I recall seeing something like two gift shops just before the exit, it's quaint, and my sort of airport. The labyrinths and shopping centres of places like Heathrow only make the whole "flight experience" that much more daunting, I always think.
A taxi had been booked for me, and the driver had agreed to hold up a sign bearing my surname in order to make the process as easy as possible. Couldn't be any easier, you might say. Well, you'd be wrong. He was nowhere to be seen. The reason I just mentioned how small the airport is is to highlight the surprise I felt in this situation. Short of disguising himself as a tree or "Caution: Wet Floor" sign, there were not many places this taxi driver could hide. There's one set of exit doors, and about two dozen people were waiting to greet the passengers of my flight. He was not one of them.
I circled the incredibly small greeting/exit area three to four times, eyeing up the face of every individual before realising what I believe to be the solution to this mystery; he simply wasn't there. Perhaps there had been a problem with the booking, or I'd arrived a few minutes late and he'd taken off, but I swear to this day that I did not overlook or fail to spot the phantom taxi driver; he never existed.
Panic began to set in, I'm a creature of routine and habit, and all of the day's schedule had been crafted meticulously and centred around the presence of this taxi. The taxi was supposed to take me to the station, where I was to catch the train for which I had already been delivered the corresponding ticket, which was to transport me directly to my soon-to-be-girlfriend's town, where her mother who had adjusted her work schedule would be able to pick me up.
The absence of the taxi has disrupted the plan. Of course, I had backups, but they weren't as reliable. A bus service left the airport to the local metro station, and naturally there were other taxis on standby for just such an occasion. The former, however, involved finding the bus and then dealing with the metro, the latter required me to convey my destination in a pathetic amalgam of languages and gestures. I didn't have much time to waste, and my split-second decision favoured the taxi.
That was a mistake.
I went outside and had those traditionally awkward taxi moments of not knowing if the guy is free or waiting, whether to sit in the front or the back, is he going to take my case or shall I approach the boot, etc. We then moved on to more specific awkward taxi moments that only occur when you're in a foreign country and try to make yourself understood, poorly.
"Le.. la.. le.. - oh bugger, my mind's gone blank, what's the word for station? - La station? La train?" I garbled at the man, before resorting to every Brit-on-tour's favourite French phrase, "Parlez-vous anglais?" "No." He belted back quite definitively. A few moments of gibberish later, during which I basically said the words "train" and "station" with a variety of accents, he appeared to understand and off we went.
A very brief ride later, I was dropped off at a station. I wasn't 100% sure, but the few minutes it had taken to arrive didn't seem like the approximate twenty minute journey that Google Maps had suggested, the fields surrounding us didn't look quite like the town centre of Brest I expected, and this station's single platform out in the open wasn't quite true to the images of the large brick train station with its multiple platforms, ticket machines, and convenience shops I'd seen online in the days before. My Holmes-like suspicions were accurate; it was the metro station.
I'd already had such problems with this taxi driver that I feel my frustration with repeating the word "train" had gotten too much for me. I attempted briefly to make myself understood that this was not at all the destination I had requested, but he frankly wasn't having any of it, freeing his vehicle of myself and my baggage with almost superhuman speed before jetting off to his next misadventure. I pray that all of the customers he has since received speak French, otherwise a few have probably found themselves in some unwanted locations.
Anyway, I found myself at the metro station with approximately twenty minutes to get to my train. It wasn't impossible but things were looking grim. Luckily, I'd planned for this eventuality as well, and had prepared the requisite €1.80 ahead of time in my pocket. A queue for the ticket machine had formed, and I made my way to join it, tilting my head from one side to the other in an attempt to catch a view of how the thing worked and what I needed to press for a simple ticket.
The woman in front turned to face me, "fjksf hkjgn al ajdlkjg djxkf tj wori t?" she inquired. Well, not exactly in those words, but I'm trying to convey the level of comprehension I had at the time. It sounded like everyone was speaking a language I'd never even heard of, all of the simple little sentences from my online videos were replaced with this almost elven-sounding tongue. My face must have worn a startlingly confused expression because no sooner had she finished her question than she gave a sigh, a flap of the hand, and turned back around.
"Hope that doesn't happen again." I thought to myself, becoming increasingly concerned about my communicative prospects in this country. A metro car arrived behind us, greeted with the sighs and groans of those in the queue that suggested most of us (myself certainly) wouldn't have time to buy our tickets and climb aboard. Those at the front of the queue were evidently feeling the pressure and attempted to hasten their transaction, but no sooner had the car arrived than it sped-off again.
I eventually reached the front of the queue, and luckily French is easier to understand when it's written down. I saw the word "Acheter" and pressed the screen, feeling a sudden sense of patriotism as I saw the Union Flag appear amongst a selection of languages. Here, I must just take a moment to commend the French on this feature. Whether you're buying train tickets, paying for petrol, or using a cash machine, there's nearly always a selection of languages available to ease the process. It's a function that's saved my bacon on more than one occasion, and this was the first.
After muddling my way through some translations that weren't entirely comprehensible, I collected my ticket and awaited the metro. It arrived quickly enough and I climbed aboard, promptly being treated to my first glimpse of what I now call the "French Stare". Maybe it's just me, but I've noticed the French people seem to have a certain predisposition for staring at almost every human being they come across. My partner tells me they're quite a judgemental nation, and all enjoy observing one another. I also feel that my look betrays my foreign identity, rendering me more prone to glances as a result.
Regardless, it's a disconcerting experience when it happens, and in this case, it was very disconcerting. I felt like a penguin who'd wandered into a monkey's-only bar. Genuinely, it's very easy to feel completely out of place when you have a dozen people staring at you like that. After catching one too many sets of eyes, I decided to spend the remainder of the journey looking out of the window, and began trying to remember the order of metro stops.
Unfortunately, I hadn't quite prepared thoroughly enough for this turn of events. I knew I had to get off the metro a few stops into the town, but wasn't sure on the name. Meanwhile, my partner was frantically and fearfully texting me as she and her parents began to worry for my arrival. In short, it was all going badly.
The metro sped into the town and I began to recognise some of the stop names from the list I'd read the night before. I had some basic idea of the layout of the town, and decided to get off a few moments later with a large group of people. Looking at a town from a bird's eye view online and attempting to reconcile that image with the view from down below is pretty difficult, however.
I found myself with about six possible streets to take, and luck must have smiled on me that day as I semi-randomly made my decision. A short walk later and I spotted a signpost "Gare SNCF". The station! A sigh of relief left my lips, muted by the grind of the rolling wheels of my suitcase. The French Stare continued to follow me as I made my way through the town, following the signs and breaking into a brisk jog as I realised my train was scheduled to leave in a little less than two minutes. I knew it was already too late, but I was eager to put my partner and her family's minds at rest by at least making it to the station.
A little while later I did just that. I entered the station doorway, looking up at the grand clock that dominated the lobby; the train had long since gone. Now it was time to find the next one. Following SMS instructions, I had a look on the ticket machines (again, in English) and found trains leaving every hour or so in the direction I wanted. That's not so bad, I thought, but it interfered with the plans of my girlfriend's mother and suddenly we weren't sure what to do.
Luckily, after an afternoon wrought with misfortune, a little miracle arrived. My girlfriend got in contact with a friend whose mother offered to collect me. I only had to wait about ninety minutes or so for the right train to come. Honestly, the time flew. Despite repeated and creepy moments of the French Stare in full effect, I sat quite comfortably in the waiting area, listening to the people around me talk with words I had no chance of understanding.
Despite the scary side of it all, there's something immensely calming about being in a situation like that. When you can't understand what people are saying, you feel quite at peace. You don't attach to their conversations, you don't wonder whose baby those two women are chatting about or why that guy is so angry on his phone; you just hear the lovely sounds without the often less-lovely meanings.
Thus, the time flew, soon I was on the train and finally on the last stretch of the journey. The ride itself went without a hitch and I was off before I knew it, straightening my shirt and fixing my hair as I began the long walk to the car park where she was waiting. Thus, that's where I end today's post, the remainder of the day will be discussed another time. Despite the hiccups, it's a journey I would relive again and again, and the lessons I learnt remain valuable to every traveller; always be prepared, learn a bit of the local lingo, and for every plan B, make a plan C.
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