a lucky strike
Today—a hot spring day—cranky voices, evil thoughts and stinky travel-breath are steaming up and swirling out of the gare. I can smell this heat, once trapped under shirt collars, now wafting through the waiting area. For all this effort and sweat, no trains are coming and no trains will be going. The national train system, SNCF, was striking again.
Small groups settle into corners or empty patches of cold floor space inside the station. Scarves morph from neck adornments into pillows. Jackets are untied from waists and draped over napping passengers. Hungry kids wander and wonder out loud. They finger the Bounty bars and Kit-Kats in the snack shop. The fat manager clenches his teeth behind the counter and with harsh quietness, shoos them back to their moms.
This scene has replayed itself for the past eleven days, but today’s heat makes it especially unbearable. Talk of the exploding volcano over Iceland settles over the travelers. Those who thought air-travel was a quick, though expensive alternative must find more creative transportation options.
Lines of tired-eyed travelers queue behind yellow automatic ticket machines. Others wait in line, zigzagging between yellow ribbons repeating SNCF SNCF SNCF, hoping to find a compassionate human behind the yellow counter top. I’m standing in this line, and watch as one by one, through-travelers approach the information desk, speak into an impersonal metal grill and walk on.
Once I heard from a cable decorating show that bickering couples should avoid yellow paint. Don’t paint a room yellow, not canary or mustard or sunflower, because arguments are more likely to occur in yellow spaces than in any other colored room. The small station is screaming with yellow.
Soon, I can see the man sitting behind the yellow counter. He looks pensive and pious and the woman in front of me draws in a breath and moves towards him. “I was supposed to be on the train for Paris at 2 p.m. It never came. My daughter needs my help to move into a new apartment, and I don’t know how she will handle a double bed and box spring and five flights of stairs with no elevator. Is it at all possible, sir, that you have any information for me? Maybe you know when the next train will come?”
I shift to my left leg and got a good look at the lone SNCF worker. His official nametag hangs limp in front of his baby blue polo, the color of a car mechanic’s jumpsuit, but cleaner. There is no fear of oil stains in this line of work. He rests his bony elbows on the yellow counter, interlaces his fingers and stares ahead, focusing just below the bottom of the customer-service window. He isn’t hearing a word of the daughter’s box spring.
In fact, he is spending his day listening to stories of complicated travel, some tragic, some pathetic, some sweet and maybe funny. Unfortunately he appears unable to crack a smile or frown with sympathetic concern, or to communicate at all with the screwed passengers. The woman slowly side steps from this statue of a person, maybe even more confused about how to get to Paris. She wonders where she can get some facts during these crazy days of misinformation. I quickly step out of line before his scathing, but silent remarks humiliate me.
I actually didn’t have a dramatic story. I had taken a free bus to Carcassonne, intending fly to Belgium for the weekend. The volcano cloud canceled the flight and I needed a free bus back to Toulouse.
But I can only imagine the romantic tales of the stranded. The SNCF worker, a union member, will never find solidarity with the weary passengers. Luckily, outside the station, the soft spring sun is setting and giving off a magical glow. It doesn’t matter if it is a little yellow. Alone on the bus back to town, I jealously imagine record numbers of hitchhikers weaving through the south of France, making new acquaintances in Peugeots and finding new loves in Renaults.
