🇫🇷 Lost in Transition: Our Journey to Avignon (Part II)
When plans derail, sometimes the story gets better.
"Mais attendez… peut-être…" the agent murmured, fingers flying across her keyboard. Lori and I leaned in, holding our breath. She frowned, typed again, then sighed.
"With this disruption, all trains have been rerouted—and they're already full."
Just then, another, older agent appeared beside us. He spoke in clipped, military French. "Where are you coming from? Did you miss your connection because of the incident—the acte de vandalisme?"
We both began to explain, recounting the wrong station, the Metro dash, the missed train—but before we could start, our first agent leaned close, her eyes wide with urgency, and whispered in a conspiratorial tone:
"Juste dites oui. That's all. Just say yes."
So we did.
All around us, voices rose—people pleading, waving papers, trying to be heard. But somehow, our quiet young agent stayed focused on us. With a swift nod, she ushered us from the kiosk to another, shorter service line—one marked "Assistance" but manned by a guard who barely glanced at us.
"What's happening?" Lori whispered.
"I have no idea," I said. "But I think we just discovered the secret bypass code for the French railway system."
We stood there, feeling like co-conspirators, while others looked on—some envious, some exhausted. Then, like a scene from a spy film, our young agent reappeared from the crowd. She slipped between two disgruntled passengers and pulled us gently aside, tucking two slips of paper into my hand.
"I was able to get you on the next train," she said softly, "the one leaving for Avignon in ten minutes. But—" she hesitated, smiling, "you must go directly to Le Bistro TGV INOUI—the bar car. When the conductor comes through, ask if he has any seats available."
For a moment, we just stared at her. Guaranteed seats? No. A bar car ticket? Yes.
"The bar car?" Lori said.
"Oui. Le Bistro. C'est bon?"
"C'est bon, merci!" we said in unison, grinning like we'd just been handed golden tickets to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
In the swirl of travelers, she was gone—swallowed by the chaos, just as mysteriously as she'd appeared.
We clutched our new tickets, barely believing our luck. Thirty minutes to departure. No guaranteed seats. And a rendezvous in the bar car.
We were among the first to arrive at Le Bistro TGV INOUI in Car 6. Already there was a young mother with three children—each of whom seemed powered by an invisible espresso IV. While she tried to carry on a phone call, the kids turned the aisle into a racetrack, commandeering most of the available stools.
Two young men had staked their claims as well: one tethered to a laptop and noise-canceling headphones, the other bouncing to music only he could hear. That left exactly one stool—Lori took it—while I leaned against the counter, our luggage wedged beneath me like a makeshift barricade.
Soon, more passengers poured in, drawn by rumor or desperation. Then came a man and his bulldog—a pair so alike they could've shared a passport photo. The man snorted. The dog sighed. Without ceremony, the bulldog flopped onto the cool tile and sprawled like he owned the place, indifferent to the chaos of humanity above.
Within fifteen minutes, the train lurched forward. The crowd swayed, children squealed, and the bartender calmly opened for business as if none of it mattered. The scene was equal parts comedy, sociology experiment, and mild panic.
Then the conductor appeared, holding a handwritten list of numbers that looked like they'd been pulled from a magician's hat.
He stopped in front of me. "Car cinq, siège quarante-cinq," he said. Car five, seat forty-five.
"Merci!" I replied, as if this were all perfectly normal—that one could be plucked from the bar and assigned a seat by divine decree.
Of course, it meant Lori and I were now separated. I texted her once seated.
I sat in an aisle seat in a cabin near the door. The air was cool, the seat soft, and the countryside rushing by like a watercolor painting. Turning on my noise-canceling earbuds, I found a moment of quiet reflection I hadn't expected.
Ten minutes later, Lori replied: "Guess what? I'm still in the bar car—no more seats available."
I could almost hear the bulldog snoring in the background.
And so, somewhere between Paris and Avignon, I sat in quiet reflection—while Lori shared the bar car with a bulldog, three children, and one very patient bartender.
It was chaotic. It was absurd.
It was perfectly French.
Yes, we finally arrived at our hotel in Avignon, about two hours later than planned. Lori cheerfully noted that the Bulldog was the most polite train passenger during the entire trip.
I'm Patrick Ball. This is On the Fly. Stay curious, stay kind—and when life hands you a bar car, take it.
Comments