I Have an Angel and His Name is Harry.

They say to brace yourself for some culture shock when you go anywhere outside of the United States especially those where customs are different. Mexico, whatevs. Canada, who wants to go there anyw-eh? Hawaii, pretty much like a more awesome version of Florida except the locals really hate white people. These things being said, traveling somewhere I had never been before -alone- was a little bit of a challenge.

Arriving in Paris wasn't the problem, once I got off of the plane there was limited English but if you can't speak French you'll be just fine. Things took a turn for the more complicated when I arrived at Montaparnasse train station; I really hate trains, it's a personal anxiety that I try to avoid at all costs even in America. I'd rather drive, walk, boat, or fly to my destination because I feel those things have more room for error than a train does. Once I was inside the train station I realized I had no clue what to do, but that's fine because things figure themselves out. I went to the ticket counter to purchase a ticket and my debit card was rejected -mother eff-, I went back a second time to use my credit card and I was rejected a second time -double mother eff-, so I went to withdraw some more cash and it was without fail rejected; having limited amounts of euros on my person with an account that had been frozen by my bank had caused my blood pressure to rise exponentially. But soft! A solution! I could purchase a ticket online and print it at the train station! I called my father at 3am central time and pleaded for him to buy me a ticket so I could print it and not have to wait 6 hours for my bank to open and resolve the issue. He did so (superman) and lo and behold I could not print the ticket because I didn't have the credit card. At this point, I am so close to anxiety failure I can feel my hair frizzing. To avoid complete melt down I went to a young gentleman, Harry, who spoke perfect English, and he told me I needed to buy another ticket but to choose the option of 'print at home' so he can print it in the office. Twenty minutes later I have a ticket -hallelujah!- and I have one half hour before my train leaves, I get to the train platforms and look at my ticket only to realize it's for March 3^rd. Frazzled, I go back to the counter to change the date and they do so for a fee.

Here's what they don't tell you about trains in Europe: you don't know what platform your train will be on until 10 mins before it leaves, the train number is not on the train itself, and the cars are not numbered. Walking by the train I hoped was mine, I tried to find car 16, not knowing that NONE of them are marked; in the last 5 minutes of desperation I found a woman who explained the first car is number 11 and they continue on from there. I fail to see this logic. Up to this point, every single french person I came in connection with was incredibly friendly, so I asked an old lady if she could help me -because all old people are friendly- she however didn't respond to my plea and two young lads in front of her confirmed that this was, in fact, car 16. YUS. Got in the car. A friendly old man who could see I was new to this took my giant roller bag, placed it for me, and explained how the seating worked. Thank you friendly old man.

You would think the troubles are over and all is well? False. I had a connecting train in St. Pierre de something that I had to get off at. For the hour train ride I refused to fall asleep incase my luck decided to fall short again. The train platform at St. Pierre de something was incredibly bleak: there was no train schedule, the platforms had numbers AND letters -doesn't God know algebra doesn't belong in real life or train stations?- , and there were no station attendants as far as I could see. Oh! Is that a uniform off in the distance! Madame! The one and only attendant told me exactly what platform and train to get on, she even came and found me right before I was to get on to make sure I would. Ten minutes later I was in Amboise. It took me, from flight take off, 15 hours to arrive at my destination. 15 hours of brain melting and heart palpitation.

BUT, I will say the trains are incredibly fast and efficient... if you know what you're doing. Which I do now. Next weekend I'm taking a train to Paris to visit my friend Megan to see the Louvre and drink at a bar called Wos, which happens to be the official Packer bar in Paris. End blog 1.

                                                              Le Pont de La Loire