MOVING DAY ON A EURO TRAIN

It’s feels odd to have a moving day so soon on a travel trip, but here I am killing it on a London bound train from Bruges to Lille with a change in Kortrijk.

To keep things exciting the taxi came late to The Pand. He blamed dispatch. I would have blamed dispatch too.

During my time in Bruges I complained quietly about cars, buses, and bikes all driving too fast. I’m the quiet complainer in the group, the one who tries to understand how no one gets smashed.

I didn’t complain when the taxi guy hauled through the same ally/streets even faster. And we got to the station and standing on the right platform with five minutes to spare.

This time we watched for numbers on the train cars. One and Two. 1 and 2. One is first class and that’s where we landed on the train from Paris. Instead of moving five bags and two backpacks to second class, we paid ten euro for a first class upgrade.

My first time in first class on anything moving. The conductor took our card, then came back and comped us the upgrade because his machine wasn’t working.

That was the first step in my Paris therapy after nine days of Paris Perfect. You see, on the last leg of Paris, with time on my side where I wasn’t late for anything connecting to the next stop, I had a slight moment. Maybe two.

One of the common rules of travel is ‘Carry Your Own Bag.’ Which I agree with.

However my husband instincts often kick in. When they’re not needed. I’m strapped with my man-purse that carried everything important to get out of Europe and land in Portland. In other words, Ze papiers.

 I had a thick and heavy backpack hanging from my shoulders, an over-stuffed carry on sized bag in each hand, walking the whole load up and down the stairways between the connecting tunnels and subway platforms.

After humping the whole mess down the stairs of the Ecole Militare stop on Line 8 near Hotel Duquenes Eiffel, I had it made. I’d learned my Metro pass had expired the day before so I bought two tickets to get back to the hotel from the cooking class, and two more for the run out of town the next day.

I made it down the steps. Based on that effort I knew I could do the same thing all day long if needed.

I put my ticket in the front slot of the turnstile, which won’t work until I pull the ticket out of the top slot. But my hands were full of heavy luggage. I got one bag and one leg through along with the backpack hanging from my shoulders. I’m stuck in a bad way, half in and half out.

With a move I’ve seen during Olympic men’s gymnastics, I executed a Thomas Twirl in the turnstile to free my back leg and the second bag, And stuck the landing.

My iPhone also stuck it’s landing.

While my high leg splits wowed the crowd, it also squeezed my phone out of my pocket. The moment was so fast and instinctive, like I’d been doing floor exercises all my life, that my phone was an after thought.

At the connection stop I didn’t feel my phone. My first thought was I got picked while I was asking Elaine to give me her pack for safe keeping. I asked again, explained I was asking because I noticed a guy edging around to grab and go at the next stop. He edged around me, too, and left at the next stop.

I reported my phone lost to the authority, my wife, choked down my lameness for not securing the phone asset, got a measure of forgiveness, and continued on. Elaine moved away, then up a set of stairs. I followed with my stacked pull along bag.

Except it fell over this way, then that way. The thing wouldn’t pull right. For a split second I knew just what to do: a lost phone and a reluctant bag both needed a good stomping. For an instant I felt like the maniac I’ve seen going berserk in public. 

Instead of committing luggage abuse I regathered and zipped up the stairs headed for Bruges on moving day.