Luck.

     Today things got very interesting. We woke up exhausted and were running a bit late. For those of you who know me, I do not do well when I’m running late. I was alert enough to realize we needed to get off at a different stop than someone had advised us to. This was stroke of luck number one.

We made it to Gare de Nord where we couldn’t find the platform we needed to be on. We were looking for RER D with a stop at Gare de Lyon, but the signs just disappeared, and all that was left was the RER D that didn’t have that stop on it. I asked for directions, didn’t understand them completely, and we went to the wrong platform. 2 minutes later, a man approached us and started speaking in rapid French. Actually it probably wasn’t rapid, it just seemed that way. I spread my arms apart and said my favorite French phrase, “Je ne sais pas” (I don’t know). He then talked to two women next to us who spoke to us in English, telling us we were on the wrong platform and where we should go. I am amazed how above and beyond this man went to make sure we got to the right place. This was stroke of luck number two.

We made it to our TGV train with one minute to spare. However, we forgot to get our Eurail passes stamped. The instructions say you MUST get it stamped before your first day of travel or else you will have to pay a fine and possibly for the train ride. I kept drifting off, only to wake whenever I heard the door open, thinking it was someone who would discover our mistake. In the entire six hours we were on that train, not once did someone come to check our tickets. Stroke of luck number three.  By the way, traveling the TGV through the French countryside was incredibly beautiful. We went through the Alps and passed farmhouse after farmhouse, all constructed in that particularly French way.

This was not the only train we rode today. Oh no. In total, we got on five trains and did not arrive at our destination until 9:30pm. Each stop had anywhere from a 9 to 21 minute wait before we had to be on the next train and thank goodness I wrote the name of each stop, each train number, and the expected duration down. It was the only thing that ensured we made every train, every time, stroke of luck number four. A few times we had to ask people if it was correct, a process where I pointed to my notes, attempted to pronounce the name of the city, and then pointed to the train, hoping to get across my question. Then we had to trust their nod of affirmation was correct. One leg of the journey followed the Mediterranean, weaving in and out of the villages on the mountainside. Everything is so colorful, even amid the clouds and rain.

When we finally got to Manarola, there was not a soul to be seen. It was raining, it was dark, and there was absolutely no one around except for an orange cat following us and meowing.  My directions were (thankfully) right again, and we walked up the steep hill to the church square and spotted our hostel right behind it. Things got dicey here. I had sent an email to the hostel telling them when we would be arriving because they said to contact them if we would be coming later than 4 pm. They said this might be a problem and to call them. We had no way of calling them and no way of emailing them. I was banking on the “might” and hoping it “might not” be a problem as well. If it turned out to be a problem, my plan B was to sleep in the church. If plan B failed, well, I decided we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

We got to the hostel door only to discover it was deserted and dark due to the holiday.  What to do now? Not thirty seconds later, a young man with a black umbrella came up. He opened his mouth and out comes American English. Turned out he was from Ann Arbor, Michigan and doing a masters program in Norway. He had access inside and we immediately asked if we could crash on the floor in his room. He said sure, if his roommate didn’t mind; in fact there were four beds available in his room. This sounds sketchier than it was, I promise. So we followed him upstairs and met Steve from Malta before getting sheets from a thankfully unlocked cabinet and returned upstairs. Stroke of luck number five.

 They shared the WiFi password with us, Steve brought in some tables and chairs, and we passed a bit of time catching up online and taking about the fiscal cliff and the debt crisis. At this point, Taylor and I were starving, but nothing was open and all we had were granola bars, a packet of soup from Paris, and goldfish. There was no kitchen. So Steve pulls out a little camp stove and a pot to cook with and we made soup on the floor of the hostel, eating it with these miniscule spoons we saved from our flight over from the states, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Stroke of luck number six. And now I know: when you travel, always bring a set of silverware! Someone was looking out for us today; we shut out the light at bedtime quite thankful for the kindness of strangers. 

View of the Alps from train #1.

More pretty scenery.

Illegally cooking over the camp stove.