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Our Journey to Avignon

🇫🇷 Lost in Transition: Our Journey to Avignon (Part 1)

When everything that can go wrong—does—sometimes grace still finds you.

Our Monday morning trip began on the quiet island of Noirmoutier, where salt marshes and sea breezes whisper of simpler days. From there, our early morning drive was uneventful; we arrived at the Nantes station with plenty of time to spare. From Nantes to Paris Montparnasse, everything went smoothly—so we thought, until it didn't.

That's when things started to unravel.

If you've never traveled the Paris Metro, imagine a vast underground maze pulsing beneath the city—corridors twisting into one another, trains roaring in and out of the dark, staircases that rise and fall like riddles. It's efficient, yes—but only if you know where you're going. We had over an hour and a half to make our next train to Avignon—plenty of time. Or so we believed.

We needed to reach the Gare de Lyon station, where our TGV (high-speed train) was headed south. Luggage in tow, we hauled our bags through stairwells, platforms, and one bewildering transfer. At last, we surfaced at a familiar station. Perfect. My Apple Watch buzzed: Track 18.

Through the rush of travelers, we made our way toward the platform. Relief. Time to spare.

Then came the text from my cousin, Virginie:

"J'ai entendu Ă  la radio qu'il y a des perturbations Ă  cause d'un acte de vandalisme. Ça va pour vous?" ("I just heard on the radio that there are disturbances because of an act of vandalism. Are you okay?")

In the Metro chaos, I barely gave it a thought.

We stood on Track 18, catching our breath. We had beaten the city. Until Lori said, "Let me see that schedule." She scanned the details once—then her eyes widened—a heavy pause.

"Oh merde—we're at the wrong station! We need to be at Gare de Lyon!" The name of the correct station sounded like a bell tolling. "Should we take a taxi?"

"No," I said, trying to sound calm, clinging to optimism like a lifeline. "Le MĂ©tro est le plus rapide." ("The Metro is the fastest way.")

Famous last words.

With fifteen minutes until departure, we dove back into the Metro—bags thudding against our knees, voices echoing in tiled tunnels, the smell of metal and motion thick in the air. Somewhere between lines 4 and 5, it hit me: What if Virginie's message was a warning?

When we finally surfaced at Gare de Lyon, breathless and hopeful, the digital board confirmed what we dreaded: Train 6115 — DĂ©part. Gone.

That's the moment your mind begins to spiral—overnight in Paris? Rebooking at full fare? Renting a car to Avignon? Every option seemed to flash past like scenery from a train we'd just missed.

Then I remembered something else: the kindness of the French.

"Let's find someone," I said. "We'll explain, calmly."

In the cavernous station, everything looked the same—signs, staircases, endless queues. Finally, I spotted a cluster of security guards.

"Excusez-moi—est-ce que quelqu'un ici parle anglais?" I asked the group. ("Excuse me—does anyone here speak English?")

Five faces turned toward me. One smiled. "Un peu," he said—a little.

It was enough.

We explained what had happened, and the officer pointed us toward the ticket office. "LĂ -bas, Ă  gauche."(Over there, to the left.)

At the counter, the agent listened, nodded, and tapped her keyboard.

"Avec la perturbation," she said, shaking her head as she referenced a busy screen, "tous les trains sont complets. Le vandalisme a crĂ©Ă© un chaos Ă©norme."("With the disturbance, all the trains are full. The vandalism has created enormous chaos.”)

She scanned our original tickets. Then her tone softened. "Mais attendez… peut-ĂŞtre…" ("But wait… maybe…")

Part II . . . 

I'm Patrick Ball. This is On the Fly. Stay curious. Ask questions. See you soon.

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