So holy moley, I'm in Paris. What the hell?! Not sure who among the readers knows this, but I started planning to come here during winter break of my freshman year. Two and a half years later, I'm chilling in my room in some random French family's house. I can't friggin' believe I'm here. I get the goose pimples (translated: goosebumps, chicken skin, etc. Rat Race reference) sometimes just thinking about it.
My first day in Paris was almost two weeks ago, but I will never forget it for the rest of my life. It will forever be the start to this European endeavor. I started it like I start too many days here: a flustered hot-mess. I set my alarm early so I'd have plenty of time to shower, finish packing, and double-check everything. I was determined to not leave anything behind in London. I woke up at the right time, but when sleeping in a flat with seven girls and two showers, it's not exactly easy to take a quick shower. I ended up getting access to the shower 20 minutes later than I had anticipated. I still left myself plenty of time though, or so I thought.
I triple checked everything and walked out of my friend's flat with her and three of her roommates as they went to class. This was at like 8:30, and my train left at 9:22. It was a quick five minute Tube ride to King's Cross, and a ten minute walk to the Farringdon Tube Station. At worst, I thought, I would get to King's Cross at 9:00 with 20 minutes to get on the train. In hindsight, even if everything went smoothly (it didn't by a long shot), I would still have cut it too unnecessarily close. Anyway, I get about halfway to the Tube and start patting myself down (a bad habit I've picked up in Europe to make sure I have everything, looks terribly awkward to passersby). I instantly realize I don't have my CAMERA! Of all things in my pockets, camera is third (behind wallet, then passport) of things to make sure I have. A shitty cell phone, loose change, random receipts, etc. completely fine to leave behind. I'm in Europe, I need my flippin' camera.
I quickly turn around and start racing back towards my friend's flat with my 50 pound suitcase. I try calling my friend: phone is off. I call her friend that's with her: goes to voicemail. At this point, I'm thinking I either won't have a camera in Paris for at least a week or so, or my 68 dollar, non-flexible train ticket gets flushed down the tubes. Then, I spot this one guy I met for 20 minutes one night in Oxford. Thank the lord I'm great with names and yell, "ERIC," to get his attention. He looks at me like I'm the creepiest thing to walk the Earth, but I manage to spit out (I'm out of breath of "running" with my stuff) that I met him in Oxford, that I'm his friend's friend, and I NEED him to let me into the Fort Knox like ND London dorms. He obliges, and I storm into the elevator (leave all my belongings in the lobby). In retrospect, this was dumb, but I was desperate. I get to my friend's door and bang like hell. Her flatmate let's me in, we exchange pleasantries as I grab my camera and sprint towards the elevator.
I get to the street and it's 8:45... I have 37 minutes to get my stuff to King's Cross, then get my ticket, go through security and get on the train. I make the executive decision to take a cab to the station. This was a good idea for the first two blocks, then massive traffic jam. Then I just pay the cabbie to let me just RUN to King's Cross. There was a bit of a snafu because I still had effing Scottish pounds that the Brits are too good to take.
Tangent: People from England think they are better and distinctly different from Scotland and Wales (and Northern Ireland). They think they are their own countries. This is NOT true at all. You are the United Kingdom. England would be worse off if they reduced their land by 3/4. Accept the fact that you are the UK and get on with it. Ugh, I was furious with my cab driver that she would SCOFF at two Scottish pounds. I gave her no tip after that and didn't even thank her for the two block trip. Screw that.
Regardless, I run as fast as I can to King's Cross. Then, I ask someone for directions to the international trains, and they tell me I have to go to St. Pancras. It was only an extra block, but with a 50-plus pound suitcase and poor cardio, it was a lot. I get inside the station at 9:05.... 17 minutes till departure.
I go to the ticket retrieval machine and insert my credit card for verification. I get my tickets and run through the ticket gate, security, and passport stamp stand. I get on the train at 9:15. I had seven minutes to spare. At 9:20, two minutes prior to departure, I look in my wallet for my credit card, and it's not there. I start freaking out again about how it's left in the ticket machine, and I have no way of going back to get. I quickly call my dad at home (it's 3:20am...., I'm so sorry) to tell him to cancel the card. 20 minutes after that, I find the ******* card behind my license. At this point, all I could do was laugh. I made my train with everything. Extremely stressful, but before I had too much time to fret over it, the train was already pulling into Gare du Nord.
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