Timing

The wind from the arriving train blew my sweetheart's hair, but it stayed on her head--mine didn't have a chance. That wind carried an odor of diesel and burnt rubber, or it could've been the cheap cologne the guy next to us was wearing. Passengers spilled onto the platform like blood from a head wound. Fortunately, they didn't hang around to stain our shoes. We boarded the train with the rest of the cattle. The doors closed behind us with an ominous clack that resembled that made by the release of a firing bolt in an automatic weapon. 

It was a short ride to Gare Montparnasse, the last stop on the line, the end of the line, the terminal. There might be other words for it, but terminal fit for us. We didn't know it when we rolled into that station, but our carefully scripted plan was about to die, to die like a young child's happiness when he finds out that the circus is in town, and all his friends are going, but he, instead, has to go to a funeral for a great aunt that he has never met. 

I knew exactly where I was going. In just under an hour, our train for Compiegne would depart from Gare du Nord on the other side of Paris. The M4 metro line connected Gare Montparnasse and Gare du Nord. That guy who calls himself internet or google something had told me that the ride would take about 20 minutes or so. We wandered around trying to make contact with M4. I knew M4 should be there. My sweetheart didn't know what was going on, but she did see the signs that showed M4 with an "X" through it. Someone had bumped off M4 before we got there. The line was closed for repairs for 3 months.

We had to take a more circuitous route, changing lines twice before we got there. The trip took nearly an hour. NEARLY AN HOUR. We had only minutes to spare before our train left the station. If you look, you can find many pictures of the stately facade of Gare du Nord on the internet.

What you probably won't see are the entrails of the place. We were indeed in the bowels of a beast (and now I'm getting an unfortunate mental image of Wheel of Fortune, the black market organ version: "Yes, Pat. I would like to buy a bowel, please.") Stairways, and video screens, and arrows left and right, and up and down, indicated everything except where we needed to go to catch our train. It was as frustrating as getting directions from Max Headroom in print.. It was perhaps more confusing than The Voynich Manuscript but just slightly less confusing than why people care about the Kardashians, or why anyone would intentionally listen to rap. Time continued to slip irretrievable away as we searched for our destination. 

Finally, I decided that the railways out of the city would have to be at ground level. When I had taken trains to Compiegne from this station some 30 years before, we had been up at the ground level. Up we went. 

We ascended like the departed souls of this life for the gates of eternal glory. St. Peter, or the guy in the information booth on ground level who looked like he was about 16 years old, informed us that Elvis had just left the building; Elvis being our train to Compiegne. "Missed it by that much."

Next time: A steely-eyed negotiation for replacement tickets. 

I should apologize for that buying a bowel remark, but I think we all know that's not going to happen.