A missed train.
February 2, 2014 ~ I arrived in Bourg-en-Bresse train station thinking I was going to take the three o'clock train, just in time for my Covoiturage* reservation in Lyon at 4:00 P.M. First thing I did when I woke up that same day, I checked the train website and the schedule was correct. Although Covoiturage was half the price, if only I was able to get a reply from my reservation request, the train ticket was not bad at 12 euros for an hour trip. Yes, I went to the station only to find out there was no scheduled train for Lyon at 3:00 P.M. Nada, rien, nothing, niets."C'est bizarre, c'est trop bizarre! Ce (n'est) pas possible." I muttered repeatedly under my breath practicing my French accent in real situations, as I tilted my head up to stare at the static train schedule board. I stared for a solid 5 minutes hoping to see a flash of miracle but the act only disproved my telekinetic powers. I made a big sigh by bursting an exhale from my larynx forcing my flatly sealed lips to open from the air pressure release, the French way of expressing frustration. Considering my efforts, I was stunned that I got it all mixed up, while taking mental note to make quadruple checks obligatory, as well as in being more expansive and careful in translating websites. C'est vraiment necessaire. (It is truly necessary).
"Ce (n'est) pas grave," elle me dit, coupled with a smile and a brisque stance out of the Bourg station. My fairy godparents, Chantal and Daniel, took me to my next destination by car. On va aller à Lyon. I fell into a nap at the backseat and was awoken by Daniel's remark: il fait beau.
A few encounters.
My second ride from Lyon to Les Allues was with a young French woman named Alizé. She was a year younger than me. She had long, brown hair styled in a messy half-bun. Her sunglasses pushed back up to the middle of her head somewhat serving as a headband. A few strands of hair sway through the visible side of her face as she swivels her head to my direction as we talk, and then back to the road as she drives. I was seated at the back, another middle-aged French guy from Lille was seated in front. Both cheered me on having mentioned it was going to be my first ever experience to do ski."Where are you from?" Alizé asked. "Philippines." I said. I saw her face lit up. She has not been to the Philippines but her friends have had and she was told nice things about the country. So good were the stories it made her regret not stopping by when she traveled the world for fve years in a boat. First two years with her parents, the next three years with her friends. She's determined to still visit someday.
During a stopover, the French guy offered us chocolate bars with grated coconut. J'aime bien la noix de coco, he said. I politely refused. Où est-ce que tu habites? I asked instead. Lille, he said. J'habite à Gand pour presque une année, I said. I meant to say I lived in Ghent for almost a year but has not arrived at my French past tense lessons yet. I meant to be polite, too, just that my brain was in familiar French mode. The guy hardly spoke English, I was struggling with my French, he chatted with Alizé, I went on to read my journal, only interrupting their conversation when I overhear something familiar.
The guy got off, I transferred to the front seat and was able to speak to Alizé without causing her a stiff neck. We communicated well in English, and Alizé is that type who makes it so easy for people to talk to her effortlessly. I asked her about her experience in the boat. She knows how to drive a boat. When I asked if she had to pay for the boat's parking, she said they have to report to the navy's office with their and the boat's papers and pay the fees.
Some realizations.
Alizé dropped me off at a bus station, I stood outside a small chalet while waiting for Bus D to come. A girl went inside the chalet and I was close enough to hear her talking in English over the phone. I stepped inside hoping to fuel my chatty mood. "Are you going to Mottaret, too?" I said as soon as her glance met mine after she puts down her phone. "Yes," she said. The non-committal reply ejected me out of the dim-lit chalet. Ahhh, the snow is out of ice yet some people can still manage to be colder.It was around 8:00 P.M. and tall street lamps lighted up the roads in a non-aggressive, cosy manner. Except for the main roads, everything was covered in snow but the distant views were almost pitch black. Along the pedestrian, my head was bent down looking at my feet alternately kicking off shaved frozen water, i.e. snow, as I took a stroll. I stopped by the lamplight and rested my arms unto a low wall, still waiting for Bus D. I couldn't wait for tomorrow morning's view, I kept thinking.
Still under the streetlamp, my thoughts went from anticipation to that of wonder when I saw silver dusts in the air. They immediately reminded me of our art subject in gradeschool when we would use refined silver foil for our DIY Christmas card projects. Who could be doing crafts at this very hour, I thought to myself, for I must warn her that her stash of silver dusts are flying in the air! I traced the dusts and found nobody, personne, doing crafts. It was snow! The white, fine snow falling from the sky was getting light reflection from the lamp providing a silverdust-like appearance. It was a brief magical moment of being inside a snowball. So this is how a white Christmas feels, I thought. Bus D arrived, I hopped in and said bonsoir to the driver with a smile.
A first time.
Everyone was up at 8 in the morning, by 9:00 A.M. I was out and told to slide through the mountain of snow to get to the Tourist office. I was petrified! "But where are the stairs, Julien?" "There are no stairs. You have to walk, it's okay." Remotely embarrassed by my inability to walk down a mountainous snow, I told Julien my legs are too stiff and too scared to move. Still, I managed not to cry.While everyone flew me by in their skis and snowboards, I was focused on my breathing and followed Julien's suit. Reading capital F-E-A-R on my face, he gave me constant reassurance I won't fall. I needed every bit of that reassurance. Slowly, I made it down without a scratch and earned 0.5 of self-trust to physically handle myself on ice. Next stop, ski lessons. From the tourist office, to the ski equipment rental, to the kiddie slope, my heart was a big thug. I don't recall being that shit scared my entire life.
