Rushing through St Pancras Station in Paris with my 3, yes 3, brightly colored rolling suitcases in tow… several thoughts swirled through my train addled and sleep deprived brain.
First: I was beginning to actually regret the additional “just in case” pumps, cocktail dress, and 3 extra blouses that pushed me over the edge from a manageable 2 suitcases to a completely unreasonable and unruly 3. And
Second: In which of my almost bursting bags was my train ticket!?!
I did my best to corral my cases as I slowly rumbled towards the exit gates. I saw all of the other better organized travelers calmly slip their tickets out of front pockets, fanny packs, and wallets, easily scan them, and be allowed through the automated gates to exit the station. The gates were getting ever closer, my bags were getting heavier, and the sweat on my lower back was getting dippier as I labored along with the huge crowd uphill towards the exit. Almost at the gate I was visibly panicking now. I looked around frantically for any kind of staff or official who might be able to help me. Not only was I not going to be able to make it through the gates with all of my luggage, but I had no idea where my ticket was to open the automated gates!!
Just as I was picturing the mob of angry and tired travelers moaning about having to wait behind me while I unsuccessfully fumbled and flailed trying to exit— I spotted the answer to my prayers to the left of the gates! A lovely lady official in a well pressed uniform was giving some other travelers directions… In English! (being from New Jersey, I am lucky I even speak English, so French has always felt completely beyond my ken)
I shoved and shimmied my bags and myself out of the swarm of exiting traffic to behind the travelers receiving directions, made eye contact with the official to indicate I would like to chat when she was through with what she was doing, and politely waited my turn. Hoping to resolve at the very least my missing ticket issue, I thumped my largest suitcase over and began to dig through my piles of pants, praying to find my forgotten ticket somewhere inside the mound. When I finally looked up from my heap (completely embarrassed at my American Hot Messiness) to see the official looking down at me with a pitiful look, I was slightly relieved. Stammering I said, “Excuse me… I’m so sorry… but, I am not able to find my ticket…I am so sorry to ask… but could you please open the—” I stopped stuttering apologies mid sentence, completely confused. My angel, my hero, my savior in a navy blue suit jacket’s once smiling face had completely soured! I thought I was being polite or at very least apologetic. Suddenly it dawned on me. I hadn’t said “Bonjour”! I quickly blurted out, “Bonjour! I am so sorry. Bonjour! I know I am supposed to say ‘Bonjour’ first. Bonjour!”
Whether it was the clear honestly of my mistake, or the fact that I had just tried to make up for it by saying, “Bonjour” 4 times in as many seconds, my guardian of the exit gates had clearly forgiven my foreigner faux pas. It’s like the train station was in Kansas, with a black and white sign reading, “Bonjour!” brought on the technicolor tornado to the wonderful land of Oz. The station official smiled broadly and waved me through the open exit gate. All I could think was, “Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore -and I speak their language.”
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