On Getting Lost And Being Lost

​I needed to get away from Paris. Work was tiresome; my recent move to a new apartment was tinged with regret; I was having mixed feelings about the imminent end of school and beginning of my 40+ hour/week unpaid internship; not to mention planning my 3-month summer trip had given me insatiable wanderlust.

Leaving Saint Lazare station at noon on one of the clearest, brightest days we've had recently, I took the opportunity of having the compartment to myself to do something that doesn't often happen: I read a book. (A physical one, mind you, with real pages). Immersed in Émile Zola's mid-19th century vision of Paris, the first two hours passed quickly. Only when I disembarked in Lison to make a connecting train did I learn that there was a problem; a union strike had disrupted service, meaning that the closest I could get to my ultimate destination was about halfway there. 

Suddenly I was reminded of spring break during my first year at university, when I traversed the east coast to visit high school friends in Boston, New Haven and New York. Everything went smoothly until leaving Newark airport, when a delay caused me to miss my connection to San Francisco. And because I had purchased the tickets on a third-party website, the airline initially refused to re-route me. ​Frustrated, tired, alone and ready to go home, I was forced to spend the night in Pittsburgh. (The airline at least paid for the food and hotel, I'll give them that).  

As a meticulous planner, I felt a little like a cartoon character who's just had the rug pulled unceremoniously out from under her. Luckily, this time I had the saving grace ​of the English-speaking owner of the bed and breakfast I had made reservations at. When I called to explain the situation she pulled up the bus schedule (incidentally also interrupted that day), and calmly dictated a new route. While I had missed the last bus to Pontorson, she told me, I could get to the next town and continue the following morning to Mont Saint-Michel. Afterwards her husband would pick me up and take me to the inn.

The irony was not lost on me that my mid-week getaway to what used to be a pilgrimage site in medieval times had turned into an unexpected journey in itself. Was it worth it? More on that next time.

​MSM from the causeway; I did get there eventually.

Night Riding

Thursday night, merely twelve hours after my father and brother landed at CDG airport (mom arrived the day before), we boarded a train headed towards the middle of nowhere, France. Arriving at Culmont-Chalindrey station shortly before midnight, we sleepily crossed the platform for the next part of our journey, an Intercités de Nuit train to Nice. Whereas a normal direct train to Nice takes about five hours, the night train takes a leisurely route that stops at the major cities and towns from Provence to the Côte d'Azur, reaching its final destination around 9:30am.

The four of us crammed into a sleeping car, which thankfully had just enough couchettes; the space was so small it would have been awkward to share with a stranger.

I had reservations about how comfortable the ride would be, but I slept surprisingly well. The makeshift beds were padded enough, and the quasi-sleeping bags (or bed condoms, as a friend called them, since they prevent you from ever having contact with the mattress) that adorned them were quite warm. The movement of the train took some getting used to, especially when it took turns and bumps that momentarily sent the blood rushing to my head.

Unfortunately there aren't any shower facilities on-board (the trains are actually pretty old school; see: powdered soap in the bathroom), but it's a more efficient way to travel than flying or taking a direct train. The result? Full days of sightseeing before and after the journey.

Alternative Modes of Transportation

About a month ago I signed up for a Vélib membership, granting me easy access to Paris' vast public bike-sharing system. Biking, along with having a private chef to prepare all my meals, is probably one of the things that I miss most about Stanford. I like that it's quicker than walking, less hassle for going short distances than descending into the subway, and physically stimulating enough to make me feel like I'm working out even though I rarely break a sweat. (Paris is relatively flat, but the weather is consistently chilly now that it's November).

Despite how frighteningly aggressive Parisian drivers are, the city is quite bike-friendly. On the main roads cyclists share the center lane with buses and taxis, and most other streets - even the small ones - have designated bike lanes. The biggest challenge is not getting lost, something I struggle with enough even just pounding the pavement on my own two feet.

Recently, however, I discovered the real use for Vélib bikes; the one that its founders probably did not intend but that which I shall probably use my membership for the most in my remaining time here.

You see, the Metro closes relatively early (about 1am on weekdays and 2am on weekends)*​ and taxis are much more trouble than they're worth. (Not only are they expensive but you can only catch them at designated stretches of the sidewalk. So on a Friday night in say, Bastille, you could be waiting a very long time for a ride).

But now, after a night out, I can simply bike home. I will admit from personal experience that biking in heels after a few drinks is not the easiest feat, but it can be done. There's also something quite refreshing about cruising down Boulevard du Montparnasse at 3am when it's practically devoid of cars with the cold early morning air whipping through my hair - a welcome respite from the sweaty, suffocating atmosphere of the dancefloor.

Many Parisians are game to simply stay out long enough for the Metro to reopen at 5am. In fact, I'm told that's the reason why they tend to go out later. But even after living here for almost 5 months I still haven't fully adjusted to their downshifted schedule. Whereas at home I'm used to eating dinner at 6, pre-gaming by 10 and going out by 11, everything in France happens a good 2 or 3 hours later.

Maybe it's a sign that I've already exceeded my partying prime, but I'm lucky if I can make it to 4am without falling asleep.

*I once read somewhere that this is for cleaning purposes, but quite honestly I don't know who they're kidding. NYC's subway system managed to operate 24-hours a day and still feel safer and cleaner than the Metro.