Tickets, please!

Posted on October 25, 2008 by Hails

In Tallinn, as in most European cities that I’ve visited, public transport fares are paid using an honour system – that is to say, you buy your book of tickets at a kiosk and then it’s up to you to be honest and stamp one of them once you’re on board.

I always do this, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, I’m a good girl. Honest, obedient, law-abiding – a model citizen. Secondly, I like using the machines. I think it’s fun. And thirdly, I could not handle the fear of being caught riding without a ticket. Despite my declaration that I always have a ticket, I’ll never forget the one occasion when I made quite a lengthy bus journey without one. I was in Bratislava, and it was not at all my fault, obviously. Bearing much luggage, and having just arrived from Vienna or somewhere like that, I stumbled around the decidedly frightening and smelly station, engaging in my favourite pastime of asking random strangers if they spoke English.

Absolutely no one did. Not even enough to understand the question, which was a first. All I wanted was a bus to the airport, but not even an intensive gaze at information posters was any help to me, since the Slovak word for airport is nothing even remotely like it is in other European languages. Normally you can at least take a guess, or they’ll have a helpful little plane symbol next to the word, but not here! I stood there, surrounded by rather scary, greasy men in Rab C. Nesbitt vests, and regretted having given up smoking several hours earlier.

Thankfully, as I was purchasing cigarettes (by way of pointing, miming smoking, and nodding frantically), I overheard a backpacker couple leaving the shop and talking in French about the airport bus, which left the station every half hour or so from stop 45. Having completely abandoned all hope of ever figuring out how to purchase a ticket, never mind where, I located the stop and got on to the next bus without the faintest idea if it went to the airport or to a small impoverished ghetto where I would be stabbed and eaten by hungry locals upon my arrival. I sat there, becoming increasingly nervous with every stop the bus made. Never mind the fact that I might have been on the wrong bus; there was also the deep fear that an inspector would appear and throw me into a very scary prison cell with cockroaches and a crack addict called Marge, for not having a ticket. The sight of the locals dutifully stamping their tickets – to the extent where, if it was not possible to get through the crowd to the machine, a ticket was solemnly passed along from hand to hand until it reached the person nearest the machine, who stamped it and passed it back to be returned to its owner – did nothing to reduce my terror. I spent the entire journey playing out all the possible Getting Caught scenarios in my head and trying to come up with a better defence than bursting into tears and playing the clueless foreigner card. I was never so relieved to get off a bus and enter the relative familiarity of an airport.

Anyway, to return to the present day, on my way back from the supermarket I saw the Tallinn tram police for the first time. Since July, they’ve started conducting random spot checks to ensure that people aren’t abusing the system. Sneakily, they park by the tram lines and stop the tram between two stops, so that nobody can sneak off out the back door or anything. Nosily (and almost getting run over in the process), I watched as several luckless stowaways were hauled off and – to my horror – taken into the back of the ominous-looking green van. The door was slammed shut. Filled with morbid curiosity, I lingered for a while, but no one emerged, and I reluctantly left the scene. What do they do to you if you haven’t punched your ticket? As a deterrent to fare-dodging, this sighting has certainly worked on me. Online sources say they fine you, but this definitely looked a lot more worrying than that.

I’m going to be so nervous when I’m on a tram now. There’s the added complication, you see, of the machines being different here. Unlike the electronic ones to which I’ve become accustomed during my travels (which make a reassuring BEEP and spit out your ticket with the date and time clearly printed across it), these ones are nothing more than glorified hole punches. Insert ticket, pull lever with some force, remove punched ticket. I always worry if my ticket doesn’t punch properly. Sometimes I attempt to repunch it, and inevitably find that this makes matters worse, since the holes don’t line up properly and it looks as if I’ve reused an old ticket, and the whole thing just makes me panic horribly and wish I had a car. In addition to this, the pattern of holes on the ticket is different every time (I believe they have a different pattern for each tram, so that you don’t just use the same ticket over and over again), and I have an irritating habit of shoving the ticket back into my pocket, only to realise to my dismay that there are also half a dozen old tickets in there, too, all with different punched-hole patterns, and there is no way of knowing which one is the right one, which would be difficult to explain in Estonian to a ticket inspector torturing you by inserting sharp things underneath your fingernails in the back of a van, when you’re still struggling with the present conditional tense.

It’s not easy being me.

Filed under: airport, bus, confusion, Estonia, Fear, foreign languages, trams, travel, uncertainty, worry | 3 Comments »

Worrisome Walking

Posted on October 11, 2008 by Hails

I’ve just been reading one of Bill Bryson’s hilarious books and laughing merrily to myself all the way through it. The man both delights and saddens me: the former because he writes like I can only dream of doing, making the most mundane things seem utterly hilarious; the latter because, well, he writes like I can only dream of doing.

I was particularly amused by his observation that in some places it’s virtually impossible to to be a pedestrian in this age of getting into the car and driving 200 yards to the shop for a loaf of bread. While I must confess to having been guilty of this on many occasions, I now have a slightly different perspective, being well and truly Without Car, and Bryson’s observation has proved to be accurate for me on several occasions over the past few months. The reason I laughed so much at his earnest tale of trying to walk to his destination (to the horrified disbelief of the man he’d asked for directions, who tried to urge him to take a taxi because it was at least a mile away) is that I’ve experienced the same sort of issues – but, being me, I thought it was just because I was slightly dim-witted and was choosing to walk in the wrong places. It never occurred to me that actually there’s nothing crazy about walking a short distance through a city centre, and that it’s just a reflection of our general laziness as a species that there are large areas that are virtually impossible to traverse with only your own two feet to carry you.

Bryson was enjoying his saunter through the town, extolling the virtues of a walk on a nice sunny day. You saunter. You amble. Then you come to a mad junction at Burger King and discover that the new six-lane road to K-Mart is long, straight, very busy and entirely without facilities for pedestrians… I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve found myself in a situation exactly like this. I’ve had some frightening moments when trying to do something as simple as get to the other side of a road. In several places, I was forced to conclude that you simply are not meant to do so, if you don’t have a car. The other side of the road is not for you. It is forbidden. In other places, I persevered and either made the suicidal dash across what Bryson calls six lanes of hostile traffic, or found an alternative route, usually adding at least half a mile to my journey, cutting through muddy/rocky/private grounds, and/or getting completely lost.

By far the craziest set-up I discovered was Budapest. The day that I explored the city on foot will remain forever etched in my mind. Vividly. With sound effects. My enduring memory is of the road along the Danube, between the river and the parliament building. I’d been walking all day and was exhausted, but I’d just crossed over the Chain Bridge from Buda into Pest and figured it would be a shame to not do the river walk while I was there. This was not as simple as it sounds. I could see the road, but I had absolutely no way of getting to it. Traffic was flowing quite madly in all directions, and I did my usual dance of crossing about 15 roads just to get to the other side of the one I’d started on. Once on the correct road, I had to figure out which side I should be walking on. The side nearest the river had an ankle-high barrier separating a narrow, pebbly pathway from the zooming traffic; the side that I was on had a separate lane that could plausibly have been used by pedestrians, but was instead occupied by hundreds of parked cars stretching as far as the eye could see. I opted to stay where I was, on account of the zooming traffic and the slightly dangerous appearance of the river “path”, and began to walk along the side of the road, getting odd looks from drivers and trying to weave in and out of the parked cars without setting off any alarms or actually getting wedged in (which almost happened on two occasions). Several times I had to wait for a brief gap in the traffic and step out on to the road to get around a badly-parked car, which was great for getting the adrenaline going.

When I reached the end of the row of parked cars (after about 15 minutes), I discovered that the lane, too, had ended and that there was not, in fact, any way to proceed on foot. Gritting my teeth and looking all around me in bewilderment and annoyance, I realised there was only one thing for it.

I turned and walked all the way back. I couldn’t cross the road at that point; it would have been complete madness, and I would not be here now telling you the story. No, I had to walk all the way back to where I’d started, and go in search of a safer, quieter spot to cross. I still ended up having a horn blared at me, but at least I was on the “path” now, with the relative safety of potholes, protruding objects, boat ropes and a sheer drop – mere inches from my feet – into the River Danube should any of these things cause me to stumble. All this, together with the slippery surfaces caused by the constant rain, made it a walk that I will never be able to forget.

The roads in general in Budapest were genuinely confusing, and I had several Brysonesque moments just trying to proceed along a single road before I realised that the reason for the complete absence of footpaths and crossing points was that there were ramps leading to a series of tunnels underground – you crossed the roads by going under them, not over them. Ingenius concept, except that for a foreigner with (a) no knowledge of the city and (b) absolutely no sense of direction anyway, it was near on impossible to figure out which exit you wanted to take when you went down there. I tried at least three at every one I came to, repeating the embarrassing process of emerging into the street, looking around to figure out where I’d been before I went underground, realising that I’d actually crossed to the wrong road, going back down and trying a different exit.

Still. It was much better than running out into the middle of six lanes of traffic, dodging three of them, and causing the fourth one (coming unexpectedly from the opposite direction) to screech to a halt and start blaring their horns as I stood frozen to the spot and panicking about whether to keep going to the other side or turn and run back. Not that that ever happened to me at any point, of course.

Filed under: books, confusion, decisions, driving, Fear, Hungary, laughter, road rage, sheer silliness, uncertainty, walking, worry | Leave a Comment »

Drugs are bad, mmmkay?

Posted on September 4, 2008 by Hails

Would you like a smoke?

Random backpacker dude passed the joint to me and I looked suspiciously at it. I dunno I said warily, It smells potentially lethal. He shrugged, assuring me that it was pretty mild. Barely stronger than a cigarette, really. I sniffed it uncertainly, and was suddenly overcome with the desire to block out all the woes of Amsterdam. I realise that this was a little hypocritical, given that one of my woes was that everyone just seems to sit around getting stoned all day, but hey – if you can’t beat ‘em…

It was great, initially. I suddenly thought that these guys were the wittiest, most entertaining people I’d ever met. We laughed and laughed and laughed, and everything was now great fun. Until I stood up, at which point I realised that the room had been transported in space and time, and was now hovering dangerously on a magical flying carpet over an undefinable space-agey mass of land. Interesting.

Trying to appear cool and in control, I said my goodbyes and headed upstairs to the dorm. The dorm is on the third floor, which hasn’t caused me any problems to date other than a bit of sweating when lugging my bags up the stairs, but last night the stairs multiplied most unexpectedly. Seriously – they went on, and on, and on. And with every step, my ears behaved more and more strangely. They weren’t flapping around or anything (although, who knows?), but they popped and started to buzz quite alarmingly. Sounds started to fade into the distance.

As I entered the dorm, I became horribly aware of my own breathing. It sounded so distant, and my warped reasoning caused me to fear that if I could still hear it from so far away, it must be really, really loud to everyone else. I tried to hold my breath as I walked to my bed. I failed, and suddenly worried that I might pass out.

The next issue, of course, was the fact that I was sleeping on a top bunk – and the bunk beds don’t have steps, in hostels. You just have to sort of… haul yourself up. I contemplated my bunk for quite some time, worrying about all the disastrous possibilities that hadn’t been nearly apparent enough to me the night before. Most distressing was the presence of three girls playing cards on the floor at the foot of the bed. If my attempt to ascend failed spectacularly, they would all see.

I don’t know how I eventually got into bed. All I know is that as soon as I was there, I became as thirsty as someone who’d been trekking in the desert. Getting up and going back downstairs in search of water was out of the question, so I found a TicTac in my pocket and made do with that. I closed my eyes. That’s when it started: my body was suddenly being pushed and pulled in all directions. But by magnets. For a few minutes, magnets on the walls pulled my limbs in opposite directions, before suddenly switching sides, so that my left arm was being pulled through my body to my right side, and vice versa. This can’t be normal, I thought to myself, struggling against the forces. Wham! replied the invisible magnets, changing position so that they were on my mattress, trying to suck me inside.

Ten minutes later, and I was flying. Really flying. I’d always thought it would be great to be able to fly: liberating, exciting, exhilarating. It was not. It was most disconcerting. Mainly because I couldn’t seem to open my eyes or move my limbs to check where I was flying. What if I accidentally flew out the window? I could hear the girls at the foot of the bed, talking in Spanish, and I was interested to note that I could now understand them perfectly. I suddenly had the gift of understanding foreign languages, and I knew that they were talking about me as I flew around the room. Discussing my ability to fly. Envious of my talent.

I woke up twelve hours later, with an extremely severe headache. I really don’t think you could get dope like that when I was a student in the UK, you know. I’m staying well away from it from now on…

Filed under: confusion, contemplation, drugs, escapism, flying, freak-out, paranoia, unexpected, worry | 14 Comments »

Good Food and Feeling Foreign

Posted on August 20, 2008 by Hails

Food in Belgium is Good. That’s Good with a capital G.

I arrived in Brussels on Saturday afternoon after a long train journey, during which I was forced to share a carriage with a couple of teenagers who were eating the most delicious-smelling chips that ever existed, and a girl who was enjoying a waffle that dripped with syrup. It blinded me to everything else. The sights, the sounds, the buzz, the crowds, the great weather, the buskers… no, the only thought in my head was lunch. I stopped at a little wall hatch that sold Belgian Frites, and ordered what we Irish would call a poke o’ chips. I don’t know what they call it over here. I settled for saying “frites” and holding up one finger.

I was not disappointed. These chips were the nicest I have ever tasted (with the possible exception of the ones I had for lunch in a cool little restaurant on my first day in Tallinn, which fell into the category of Food that is impossible to eat without going ‘Mmmmmm’ with every single bite).

Then I had a waffle, as advised by Croquecamille. It was like taking a little trip to Food Heaven. Everywhere, everywhere, were the waffle carts and frites stands. Weaving my way through the crowds, I saw people sharing frites, eating Belgian chocolates, and tucking into waffles that were heaped with strawberries and cream, chocolate sauce, and various other delights.

It all looked incredibly appetising – until, that is, I followed the signs to Bruxelles-Midi station to catch a train home. I’d been amused at my guidebook’s description of the area surrounding this station. Do not, under any circumstances, go there alone at night! it warned in ominous bold print. Use one of the other stations if you can. Be on your guard. Don’t carry a handbag, and if you do, be prepared to wallop somebody over the head with it if you want to have any chance of keeping it (it didn’t actually say that last bit, obviously, but you get the idea). They were going a bit over the top, I felt.

The scent of frites and waffles gradually disappeared and was replaced with – strangely – the sickly sweet aroma of incense. Swanky restaurants with pretty pavement terraces became grubby street cafes selling scary-looking concoctions (most involving unidentifiable chunks of meat). Names of shops and posters on walls were no longer in French or Dutch, but in a Middle Eastern language of some sort, with unfamiliar symbols as letters. Youths skulked in doorways, smoking fragrant cigarettes, and I realised somewhat nervously that I was the only female in sight who was not wearing a head covering. People were watching me suspiciously. I had to swerve to avoid a brawl that spontaneously errupted on the pavement in front of me.

Choking on the clouds of incense, I entered the station. It was the first time that I’ve ever seen signs in French and heard it being spoken all around me that I actually felt comforted and in familiar surroundings. I don’t think I’m quite ready for non-European travels just yet, you know. In fact, I was very pleased with myself on the way home, when I started to get a horrible, uneasy feeling that I was once again on the wrong train. Do you speak English? I asked the woman next to me. She shook her head, saying something in Dutch, and I slumped back in momentary defeat. Francais? she asked. Oui, un peu, I said, brightening. I explained my train worries, and we had a very basic but helpful conversation. This is something that has really impressed me on my travels – seeing people meet and establish a common second language before easily entering into conversation. And now I’ve done it, too!

I was slightly less calm and confident after a long and complicated train announcement about an hour later, when the train was stopped at a station. Everyone stood up and began speaking in urgent tones, grabbing bags. Some left the train, others sat back down. I sat in the middle of it all, wondering what was going on and feeling increasingly nervous about where I was going to end up, as the three people I stopped and tried to ask for help shook their heads blankly and continued to speak Dutch. I must admit that I panicked slightly, which might explain why I suddenly leapt to my feet like a madwoman and yelled Does anybody speak English?! over the general babble.

Still. At least I got back. And I seem to be getting over my fear of drawing attention to myself…

Filed under: Belgium, Brussels, conversations, day trip, Fear, food, French, paranoia, travel, worry | 6 Comments »

I think the house is bugged

Posted on August 6, 2008 by Hails

There was a huge bug on the kitchen floor last night.

Big, black, nasty, crawly thing wearing some sort of armour. I thought it might be a cockroach, but I’m not very well educated as far as bugs go, being as I tend to run away quite quickly when I see one, and therefore don’t spend an awful lot of time observing them. Anyway, this was the Biggest Bug I Have Ever Seen. I seem to have a (completely undeserved) reputation as someone who likes to exaggerate, so I felt compelled to fetch my camera and take a photo of the monster bug so that people would believe me when I told them that it was the size of a small rodent.

Unfortunately, the thing kept leaping about an inch into the air and buzzing loudly at me just as I was about to take the picture. As a result, I now have about six blurry shots of the walls and ceiling, taken accidentally as I squealed and leapt back in fright. Getting more and more jumpy each time, I decided to give up on the photograph and come up with some sort of escape plan before the monster bug leapt on to my throat and killed me by sinking its fangs into my jugular. Just as I was standing up, the monster bug took flight most unexpectedly. I had presumed it to be a crawly thing, not a flying crawly thing.

I screamed the place down, backing away and flapping my arms around. It was at this point that I discovered monster bug #2 in my hair. My screams became howls as I leapt about the kitchen, trying to extract said monster bug from where it was trapped and struggling in the Mad Hair, and simultaneously trying to avoid angry and murderous monster bug #1, which was buzzing loudly around my head.

Eventually I killed both of them, plus an accomplice that I found lurking in the doorway, and returned nervously to the living room. That’s when the buzzing started. The loudest buzzing I have ever heard. This bug was quite possibly the size of a very large rodent. I spent some time sneaking stealthily around the house with my Bug Gun, jumping and squealing at every noise, with the dog following me around and looking a little confused as to whether I was playing a new game or just losing my mind.

I had to go to bed in the end. Shaking out all the sheets first, of course, lest there be a monster bug crawling through them and waiting to devour me in my sleep. Closing the door to keep out the invasion. Whimpering quietly in the darkness.

And so as you can imagine it was utterly terrifying, this morning, to be awakened by buzzing so loud that it had to belong to a monster bug three times the size of the dog. Only after much fear and trembling under the sheets did I emerge, apply reasoning, and recognise the sound as that of a lawnmower. Sure enough, I peeped outside and saw (someone who looked remarkably like) Keanu Reeves mowing the lawn. Shirtless.

That’ll be my gardener, then. I feel safe with Keanu Reeves in the garden. I am confident that he will protect me from the monster bugs.

Filed under: bugs, Fear, freak-out, hair, itching, paranoia, stress, worry | 12 Comments »

Birdwatching

Posted on August 1, 2008 by Hails

And don’t let that bloody bird bite you! warned House Owner as the family left for its holidays yesterday.

She’d been quite adamant about the parrot and its general hatred of humankind. There’s not a chance of me trying to befriend the thing now, animal lover or not. No, House Owners have shown me how to feed it by taking its dish out of a side bit of the cage – sort of like how you’d feed a cannibal in a prison cell. Slide the food through the slot and keep your liver. The parrot and I shall have minimal contact, I’ve decided. I talked to it as I was making my dinner. Politely, you know – friendly conversation. I told it what I was cooking, and it did a superb impression of a computer’s ‘error’ message warning tone. Familiar language – we were getting along quite well, I thought.

Then I walked back past the cage to put my plate in the dishwasher, and saw the bird sitting on top of said cage.

Wait, I said suddenly, staring intently at it, you weren’t there before. How did you get out? It looked smugly at me. Apparently the parrot can open its cage all by itself. Clever.

Throw a towel over it, House Owner had advised on the subject of parrot catching. It can’t bite you any more, that way.

The parrot wouldn’t bite me. I love animals, and animals love me. We have a bond. There was no way I was throwing a towel over the poor thing’s head. Here, Parrot! I crooned softly, edging up to it with a sunflower seed. It stared benevolently at me and I gained confidence. Good parrot! I added reassuringly, sidling over. It knocked the seed out of my hand, caught hold of my finger, and squawked loudly.

Argh! I shrieked, trying to salvage some of my finger. Get off me, you vicious monster!

I retrieved a towel from the bathroom and, sucking the blood from my finger, crept nervously towards the scary bird. It attacked the towel somewhat aggressively. No amount of gentle reasoning would persuade it to get into the cage, and now the dog was starting to bark because I’d locked it in the room with us in the fear that the parrot would make a bid for freedom out of the back door.

Unable to console myself at having failed so immediately at housesitting, I retreated to the garden with champagne and dog, and sat there wondering how many mosquitoes would bite me if I slept by the pool.

Hayley? I jumped violently, honestly thinking that the bird had followed me out and was taunting me from the side of the house, but it turned out to be two teenage boys, friends of the family children, whom I’d met earlier. They were calling in on their way past to check that I was OK and see if I needed directions to anywhere. With some miming and simplified English, I explained the parrot situation, and they leapt into boyish action. Of course, when we went inside, the bird was sitting innocently in its cage. One of the boys closed the cage door, and looked questioningly at me.

Erm… thanks, I said, feeling a little foolish. They left, grinning and talking in Dutch. It’s not too hard to take a decent enough guess at the type of things they were saying. I suspect that they’ll be back to check on me every few hours, as, let’s face it, I would clearly not survive for very long if left to my own devices…

Filed under: dogs, Fear, how embarrassing, Mishaps, pain, parrot, pets, rescue, unexpected, worry | 2 Comments »

Itchy and Scratchy

Posted on July 22, 2008 by Hails

It’s an impossible dilemma, as far as I can see.

Close the windows and suffocate in my sleep? Or keep them open and be eaten alive by insect intruders?

Unable to bear the sticky, clingy heat as I attempt to get to sleep, I tend to opt for option two in the hope that at some point during the night there might possibly be the slightest hint of something vaguely approaching a mild breeze to keep me alive. I didn’t notice many insects, to be honest, until a few days ago. This was something of a surprise to me, as insects love me. Clearly, they just didn’t know I was here. Then, one night, a little fly drifted into my room by mistake and had a nibble on my left arm.

Wow, he thought to himself, hardly able to believe his luck, this is the best meal I’ve had all summer! Buzzing with excitement, he returned to his friends in the neighbouring district. Spread the word! he cried excitedly, Free food over in the 6eme arrondissement! Amazing Irish cuisine! Eat as much as you like! All of this was probably in French, of course. I’m not arrogant enough to expect that all the flies here speak English.

They arrived in swarms, queueing up at the window to await their turn at the newest buffet in town. Now it’s like my bedroom is The Place To Be, if you happen to be an insect in Lyon. They don’t even wait until I’m asleep any more – I’ve killed 15 of these mini vampires upon discovering them happily feasting on my blood while I was still conscious! The sheer nerve of it. My skin, which was finally a nice, healthy, glowing brown from being out and about in nice weather instead of sitting whitely at a desk in a room with no windows every day, is now covered with puncture wounds and the occasional trickle of blood.

I hope I don’t die before I get to see what Paris is like.

Filed under: blood, decisions, food, how rude, insects, itching, Lyon, worry | 6 Comments »

Not the sort of adventure I was looking for…

Posted on July 14, 2008 by Hails

It’s never a good idea to make a comment like “Must go out and do something tomorrow – I have nothing to blog about!”, as I did yesterday.

That’s just asking for trouble. Today’s post, therefore, originally intended to report on the Bastille Day festivities on France’s national day, is instead about the scumbag who stole my purse when I was on the Métro on the way to said festivities. I have no idea how this was possible, given that they must have opened the velcro seal of my handbag, lifted the flap, unzipped the compartment, and removed the purse, and that I wasn’t sitting next to anyone, nor was there a big crowd of jostling people. I suspect a thief with powers of invisibility, actually, although I didn’t know how to explain this in French to the police, so I had to settle for Non, je n’ai pas vu lui.

As I climbed the steps out of the Métro station, I noted the sudden lightness of my bag and did the frantic, stricken rummaging of a person who knows perfectly well that they’re not going to find what they’re looking for. I was a long way from the apartment, I didn’t know the area, and my cash, bank card and remaining Métro tickets were, of course, in my conspicuously absent purse. In a panic, I approached the first person I saw: a tough-looking biker chick, who was removing her helmet and locking up her bike outside her workplace. In my own unique version of stumbling French, and trying not to cry, I explained my predicament and looked pleadingly at her in the hope that she would take control of the situation. Which, thankfully, she did.

Sandrine, my knight in shining leathers, put a cigarette into my trembling hands (now is not the time, OK?!) and took me to the nearest police station. Neither Sandrine nor the policeman spoke English, but they were admirably patient with me as I battled with tears and a limited vocabulary. Today, while certainly opening my eyes to the Big Bad World, also gave me a touching experience of the kindness of strangers. Sandrine even gave me her contact details, saying that she’ll make any phone calls I want to the Objets Trouvés office. The policeman, apparently saddened by my vulnerable appearance, actually apologised on behalf of the decent people of Lyon! I wanted to laugh, but I had to nod very solemnly and graciously accept his apology. Eventually I left with my copy of the police report and instructions to show it to the people at the Métro ticket desk, who would then let me on to the train for free in order to get back and cancel my bank card.

Not that the ticket desk is open on a national holiday, as I soon discovered. Tempted at this point to just slump to the floor and start to bawl my eyes out, I instead grabbed another perfect stranger and gave him my woeful, grammatically horrific tale. He let me squeeze through the ticket barrier at the same time as him. I feel decidedly like a beggar, but at least I made it back.

And the bank won’t send my new card to France, nor will they send it quickly. So by the time it gets to my parents’ house, and then to me, I reckon I’ll have starved to death or been beaten up as I beg for dinner money on the streets. So this is more of a goodbye post than anything else, really.

Au revoir…

Filed under: charity, conversations, French, Lyon, money, mysteries, pick-pockets, police, sad, sod's law, stress, tears, unexpected, worry | 13 Comments »

Au Secours!

Posted on July 3, 2008 by Hails

It’s all just one big, giant conspiracy. So said Ally McBeal, and I often find myself quoting her wise words – such is my experience of The World.

So, I’m about to leave for France and my laptop breaks down. This is not even the same laptop that bit the dust a few weeks before I left Northern Ireland. No, it’s official. All computers hate me. Every single one of them. They know that internet access is important, nay, essential for my line of work (and therefore my survival), and they quite simply do not want me to be happy. Or survive, for that matter.

Le Flatmate, being someone who knows a bit about computers, spent my first night in Lyon hunched over my despondent laptop, muttering in French (Le Flatmate, I mean, not the laptop, which was barely managing a stubborn beep by this point) and scribbling technical-looking notes to himself, which might as well have been in a foreign language. On closer inspection, it turned out that they were, in fact, in a foreign language, but translating them into English made very little difference to my understanding of them.

Alas! The laptop does not want to obey Le Flatmate, and must go away to be repaired. It could take weeks, for all I know. This leaves me high and dry. I’ve managed to track down an internet café, but using it for work is completely impractical because (a) it’s so expensive that it would probably cancel out my earnings, and (b) the layout of French keyboards is completely confusing to me, and it’s taking me at least twice as long to type anything. It’s AZERTY instead of QWERTY over here, and it’s making my head hurt.

I have so many amusing travel moments that I want to share with you, but panic about how to do my work is now cancelling out my ability to think clearly. What to do, what to do? I had an extremely wobbly moment last night, exhausted from travel, worried about money, more than a little dehydrated and sick, and feeling very isolated – I didn’t realise how much I depended on internet access until I lost it. As I lay in my new room, trying to think calmly and failing miserably, I almost decided to go home. This would be silly, of course. I’ll get it sorted out somehow, even if I have to buy a new laptop and clear out my bank account altogether. It’ll be fine, won’t it?*

I feel a little better for getting that off my chest. Cheers. I even feel up to telling you that I’ve had several conversations in French! It’s a little scary to suddenly try to think and speak in French again after not doing so for about 8 years. I can read it much better than I can understand it being spoken; they speak very quickly, and I find myself pleading plus lentement, s’il vous plaît! at irritatingly regular intervals. Still – they seem to understand me. I’d be enjoying it if I wasn’t staring unemployment in the face and picturing myself begging on the streets, playing air guitar for about ten cents an hour. Not that I’m one for being melodramatic.

Blogging may be less regular for a while, for all the reasons here mentioned. If I disappear completely, assume I’ve run out of money and am doing the air guitar busking thing as described. Other non-computer career suggestions welcome.

*There will be a prize for the first person to confirm this.**

**Actually, there won’t really. I’m about to crash into computerless obscurity and pennilessness, didn’t you read that bit?!

Filed under: Ally McBeal, blogging, confusion, contemplation, conversations, Fear, foreign languages, freak-out, French, Lyon, sad, sod's law, stress, woe, work, worry | 6 Comments »

Heading off

Posted on June 30, 2008 by Hails

I find heat difficult to cope with. I’m not even talking about the sunburn factor – just the wamth itself is enough to make me spend my days groaning miserably and fanning myself ineffectually with a magazine. When I was in Nashville a few years ago I had to be rushed from air-conditioned building to air-conditioned car in the fastest possible time, lest I dehydrate and/or collapse, landing in an overheated heap on the melting tarmac, where my body would instantly sizzle and evaporate into the hazy air.

Anyway. With this in mind, I don’t know what possessed me to opt for the south of France as my chosen destination for the month of July.

I’m actually having panic attacks about it, as I sit once again in a sea of unpacked clothes and general disorganisation. Tallinn has been pretty hot, but temperatures have never gone above what I might reasonably be expected to endure in Northern Ireland. It distresses me terribly, therefore, to observe that the temperature upon my arrival in Lyon promises to be 32°C.

There’s only one thing for it, I decided yesterday, as I returned from a mild stroll in even milder temperatures and spent ten minutes gulping down water and pushing sweat-soaked locks of Mad Hair out of my eyes, the Mad Hair has got to go. And so it was that this afternoon I located an English-speaking hairdresser’s salon and marched resolutely towards it. Having less hair on my head is, let’s face it, probably my only hope of survival in 32°C. All intentions of growing it into a chic, sleek bob have been abandoned: this is an emergency situation, and it is time to return to the insane spikey look. It is a matter of life and death.

Alas! I am too late, for the hairdresser had no appointments available today. I leave tomorrow morning, with the hair equivalent of a 15-tog duvet on my head.

Woe is me. Woe.

Filed under: contemplation, decisions, disorganisation, Estonia, Fear, hair, packing, sun, weather, woe, worry | 6 Comments »

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