Francemyadoptedcountry: What time is the train?

A poem by Patrice

He sat beside me uninvited and asked my name.

I told him and he repeated what he’d heard twice.

When I corrected him he said,

“What’s in a name?”

He talked of the weather and said “looks like rain.”

I looked to the horizon admiring blue skies and clouds like bunny tails,

the sun my witness.

I didn’t disagree - what’s to gain?

He shifted on the bench toward my thigh.

whispered toward my ear - “your place or mine?”

Hoisting my bag I walked away.

I heard him stand and call my name - the one that was not mine,

For heaven’s sake,

“What time’s the train?”

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What time the train by Sarah (16.07.2024)

“What time does the train leave?” asked Thomas. He was the one who did the deliveries, although today exceptionally there would be no deliveries.
“At 10:40,” said Catherine, the baker. “We don’t have much time. But I have something to do first, so you go and make sure Gillian has everything she needs. I’ve packed her bag but make sure she’s got some music and things to distract her. She’s going to need it.”
“But whatever are you doing now? Isn’t Gillian the most important thing?”
“Yes, of course. But the next most important is to get somebody to replace her. I’m seeing some candidates this afternoon, but first I have to add a few items to the contract.”
“What items?”
“Some restrictions.”
“What restrictions?” Thomas knew that his mother had some odd notions sometimes, but then, as she did not answer he went off to see if his sister wanted to take some music to the hospital with her. She and he had never had a contract, of course, but they had had a gardener once and Catherine had put it in his contract that he could not smoke on the premises, not even at the far end of the garden.
“How are you doing, sis?” he asked.
“It hurts,” she said. “It hurts like--”
“Don’t say it.” Why was it he had to watch over everyone in the family now that his father was gone? Gillian had a way of using swear words, and Thomas did not like to hear improper language in the mouth of a girl.
“Well, it hurts bloody awful.”
“There you go again!”
“What’s Mum doing? Why isn’t she here? What time is the train? Why the devil can’t we buy a car? OK, Dad took the other one, but we aren’t that poor, are we?”
“I’m afraid we are,” said Thomas, “and watch your language.” But such advice was peine perdue, he knew.
It was bad enough living far from a hospital and the ambulances all on strike, but thank goodness the taxis were working and free immediately, and they could take Gillian to have some x-rays and see what was wrong with her. She probably had something broken, and it was pretty clear she wouldn’t be able to help Mum with the baking for a while. By then they could hear the printer’s purring noise, and Catherine’s footsteps coming upstairs.
“Ready?” she asked. “Got your music?”
“What music?”
“Thomas was supposed to help you get some music ready. You might not be coming home right away.”
“Oh, I can’t even think of that now. Let’s go, please!”
“Thomas, you pick out some stuff. She’ll change her mind once she’s there and has nothing to do.”
They heard the taxi tooting faintly outside.
“Thomas, get the man to help us carry Gillian downstairs,. We mustn’t move her too much.”
And from then on they were concentrated on Gillian, who suffered at the least uneven step they made.
Once they were settled in the car, however, Catherine couldn’t help making a remark. “Why ever you decided to take up soccer, I don’t know. It’s not a ladylike sport.”
“Mum!” That was Thomas, guardian of the peace as usual.
“She could have--”
“Mum! Let her choose her own sport. She’s eighteen now, you know. You can’t give her orders any more.”
So Catherine stayed mum, though you could see she was itching to give a lecture.
It turned out Gillian had broken her collarbone. The doctors were shocked that they had come by train.
“You aren’t aware of the ambulance strike?” asked Catherine tartly.
“Well, she’ll need extra rest now, what with the shock and the strain. You can count on a week in hospital, at least, and another six weeks’ rest at home.”
“I expected as much,” said Catherine “and I have taken the necessary measures.”
The doctor looked at her, uncomprehending, but then they were saying good-by to Gillian and hurrying off to catch the train home.
“So,” asked Thomas, when they were at last seated in the train, “what additions have you made to the contract? Besides no smoking. You can’t just add anything you like, you know.”
“Oh yes I can. The candidate can accept it or refuse it. But I don’t want to be caught in a mess suddenly, as I am now.”
“So?”
“I’ve added a provision that none of my employees is allowed to play football or any other game of the sort, even in their spare time. Maybe you can’t give orders to your grown children, but a contract is a contract!”
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Jackie

The kitchen is simple with a small gas stove, a fridge that hums and shudders from old age and a cracked linoleum floor that hides years of dust from 50 years of use. He sat in his old wooden chair stained with a life of wear. He is asleep, or seems to be, his chin sunk deep into his chest, head heavy, his hands holding a chipped metal coffee mug and just able to read “God is good” .

The television is blaring but he doesn’t hear.

Far away in his dreams he could hear his wife calling him from her tomb in the nearby cemetry. Don’t let yourself go dear husband, – don’t forget that I’m here and watching you from above. Cheer up and get on with life. We had a wonderful time together – look at the photo album and remember how lucky we were to have had each other.

Sad and unable to gather strength to face another day without her he buried his face on his folded arms on the table and sank into a more profound sleep.

It was there that his daughter found him and shook his arm gently – Papa - wake up its midday and I’ve brought you some lunch and also there is an envelope for you. After consuming his lunch and tea he relunctantly opened the envelope fearing that it was another condoleance letter from family or friend.

Inside was a ticket – looking closely he saw that it was a train ticket. Its for you Papa a gift from me to you. Oh no he said, what is this? I can’t accept it and anyway where would I go to – I don’t know anyone except from my village and I’ve never even been on a train in all my 83 years of life. I look at the tv and that’s the extent of my travelling – handing back the envelope to his daughter.

But Papa you need a change after everything that you’ve been through – this will open you up to new scenery and people make friends and see a bit of life.

Sitting on his seat with a brand new suitcase on the rack above him he couldn’t help feeling a sense of excitement. Watching the rolling countryside go by he was amazed at the beauty of France, the variety of nature and the rumbling cities he went through. The train travelled slowly, he was allowed to absorb everything he saw –landscapes he had never dreamed possible, he met people getting on and off at stops and exchanging news and ideas – sometimes putting the world to rights and wrongs and having a laugh and listening to other peoples lives. The train ticket was an Interrail Global Pass, allowing him to travel through several countries – stop off or stay on the sleeper.

They went through, France, Spain, Portugal and then back up through Italy, to Germany and back

Feeling rested and a new man he arrived home. Thanking his daughter profusely for having painted the kitchen, replaced his appliances and made his home welcoming.

Christmas was coming and he was asked what he would like to do

When is the next train? He replied

___________________________________

Geraldine's story

What time’s the train

Lucy knew she was to go back to her parent’s place in Normandy that Sunday for a very important event.

She had started her Theater course, rue Blanche, in Paris last September and this had completely changed her life. She had always dreamed of theater since her early childhood, when she would act, as from 4 years old, Snowhite, Alice in Wonderland, the Little Mermaid or even later, boy’s characters such as Robin Hood or Harry Potter.

She’d lived in the small village in Normandy, where her parents held a milking farm. Her main friends, as an only child had been the cows she would patt while they were being milked by the machine : she would give them, in turns, armfuls of hay and talk to them in the ear.

The schoolbus would take her to the school situated in the nearby little town. She would leave quite early in the morning, hop on the bus and greet her friends. Lunch was taken at the canteen, more classes in the afternoon, and homework started in school. Then, the bus back home and… Mun and Dad and the cows !

Week-ends were also mainly spent on the farm, because as we all know, but some don’t, a milking cow needs milking everyday…. Maintaining a farm is a real vocation. So week-ends were the time when Lucy could dream of being somebody else.

She was tall and slender, with a body closer to a reptile than an elephant ! She loved playing with her long fair hair, leaving it, in turns, stroling down her shoulders and back in long waves, the next being a casual bun held by pins, or platts roled around her ears. Her eyes reminded the nearby sea, bluish-grey, big and round making her look as if she was always astonished by something or other. On the whole, she was a very good-looking young girl feeling good about herself.

These personal small trips into another world were what held her together. She would go for long walks with « Dick », the farm’s dog, usually in the nearby forest with her earphones on, broadcasting rap music, helping her with her pace. And she would learn them all by heart and play them back home in her room, disguising herself each time into the main character. That’s probably what gave her this deep taste to theater, including French and Literature were also her very favourite subjects in school.

So, after her Baccalaureat, which she succeeded with a « Très Bien » mention, she braved her timidity and presented about 5 or 6 entrance exams to the different theater schools in her Region and Paris, that was not that far away, and got into the well known Rue Blanche Theater School.

At the begining, she so missed the farm, the freedom in the countryside, her parents and her favourite cows, she almost dismissed to run back home. But her parents who knew farming didn’t have a great future, were wise enough to let her go and then to help her in her first steps into her new life, not to turn round or come back.

After nearly nine months in her new life, Lucy had adapted, had learnt a lot about herself and interpreting the others, and had also met a friend with whom she felt cosy, intimate, and maybe was a little in love…

Back to this Sunday where she has to be there for this extremely important event, we follow Lucy to the station where her train is due to leave at « 3.20p.m.

Lucy missed the first metro from Bercy to Gare St Lazare, and because it’s a Sunday, had to wait for 13 minutes for the next one. She hopped on and nervously looked at her phone, counting the minutes needed : 12 minutes ! She might make it. It’s 3.02 pm.

- « If I get there up to « 3.16 that leaves me 4 minutes to run from the metro to the platform. Keep near the door, ready to move and run. I should be able to make it ».

But, at Châtelet, the metro stopped for a while when the voice came :

« For reasons of security, we will de delayed by 4 minutes »

She felt her knees wobbling, her breathing accelerating, she would be missing the train ! That wasn’t possible.

Lucy got her phone and started typing « What time’s the next train for Cabourg ». The schedule came up on the screen : 4.28 arriving in Cabourg at 5.42p.m. She quickly counted mentally : 10 minutes walk to her village : it’s should be all right. Her heart beating started slowing down to normal again and she relaxed.

At the station, she had plenty of time to discuss with her friends on the network while waiting for her train. Then the train started off to Cabourg and fortunately, which is not always the case, there was no delay.

As she got off, she starting running towards the village with her rucksack shaking on her back and saw the clock on the Mairie showing 5.54 p.m. Three more minutes…. It should be OK now….

Two minutes before the end, Lucy put the little square bit of paper with, we hope, the right name on it, into the slot, a voice came up saying loudly « has voted », signed where she was asked to, and left the townhall with a feeling that she had, for the first time in her life participated, in her own country, to he own future.

--______________________________________________

Paula's story

Here you go.

**************

Deadlines. Appointments. Obligations. Our lives have been constructed and conditioned to revolve around time. It’s time to get up. It’s time for dinner. It’s time to have a baby. It’s time to buy a house. It’s past time to call it quits on the marriage. Or: My period is early; I’m not prepared. I arrived too late; I spoiled the surprise party. “Please be on time,” my mother would always say. “You know your father hates cold food.”

Time seems to govern everything.

So as I sit on the platform waiting for the train to Paris, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if the train was two minutes early? Or two minutes late? Arriving in the city earlier, or later, than expected — would I meet someone by chance? Would my life take a different path? Would such a small difference in minutes or even seconds result in a metaphysical difference in the universe?

I check the board again. The train is on time. As it pulls into the station, I climb aboard and find my seat, and I feel a little sigh escape my lips. All the what ifs have disappeared. I will arrive in Paris at the appointed hour. Hans will be there to meet me, as arranged. We will walk to his mother’s apartment at noon, as arranged. We will share lunch, until 2 p.m. After lunch, Hans and I will shop for a gift for his friend Alec, whose birthday party is at 8. Hans will want to leave the party before 11. All will go according to plan. My life is governed by time.

As Hans and I stroll back to his place in the 4th arrondissement shortly after 11, I feel an inexplicable urge for a dozen oysters. I can almost feel the salty, tangy goodness sliding down my throat. Turning to Hans, I say, “You go ahead. I’ll join you shortly. I have a brief errand to run.” “At this hour?” he asks, but he shrugs his shoulders and turns toward home. He has always indulged my whims. I head to the St. Paul metro stop.

Two stops and seven minutes later, I exit at Gare de Lyon, cross the street, and within seconds, I am installed at a table at L’European, where I order a dozen oysters and a glass of chilled Sancerre. I am alone in this alcove of the grand cafe and I am undeniably happy.

A few minutes later, as I contemplate my nearly empty plate, and my nearly empty glass, I notice a man two tables away. He has the exact duplicate of my meal. He meets my eyes and shrugs, in that French way. We exchange smiles. And then, he is standing beside my table. “Can I buy you another glass?” he asks. He has blue eyes and a shock of brown hair. I realize he is American. So charming in his forwardness. So charming in his openness. So charming.

I let two seconds go by, then nod. “And may I join you?” he asks. “Oui,” I respond.

For the next hour, time has no meaning. We talk, we laugh, we enjoy our wine. We realize we share a love of travel and adventure, a desire to escape from the world every so often, an urge to experience life by leaps and bounds. The oysters are gone, our wine glasses are empty, and the waiters are standing in a row near the door, watching us.

Suddenly he bolts out of his chair. “Oh! The train to Marrakesh! I must be late! I’m such an idiot! I’ve forgotten, what time is the train?”

I pull out my phone to check the app. He has 15 minutes to collect his things and sprint for the train, I tell him.

“Come with me,” he says. “Let’s have an adventure together.”

Time stands still, for just a moment. And in that moment, I think of Hans, back at the apartment, glancing at the clock and wondering when I’ll return. I think of my life up to now, prescribed by that same clock, the minutes ticking away inexorably in a comfortable world where very little changes and very little matters. I think of what it would mean to not go back to that world, ever, no matter what happens with this stranger.

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s.”