Troyes, France: An Adventure All the Way

Trip Start Feb 08, 2008
Trip End Sep 11, 2009

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Flag of France  , Champagne-Ardenne,
Tuesday, August 11, 2009

In an over 24 hours of train and bus rides I have come from Ljubljana, Slovenia to Lusigny-sur-Barse, France. The trip was an adventure the likes of which I have not before experienced in my travels. And it happened this way.

In Ljubljana, Slovenia I went to the train station to see if I could get a planned trip to my destination for a meeting with my friend in Troyes, France, which is about 150km east of Paris (More about my friend later). A fellow produced a printed itinerary that provided just what I needed. His office mate just next to him then provided me with the tickets for the trip.

The next day Mill, one of my two hosts in Ljubljana, took me to the station. The train was about a half an hour late; coming, I believe, from Zagreb, Croatia. And this lateness started a chain reaction that reverberated down through the rest of my schedule.

I'll say here that the scenery from Ljubljana north into Austria is of low alpine beauty: of forest and fields and rocky  mountain tops. It makes  me think that anyone wanting to experience the greatest beauty and most serene city and towns, without the western european tourist crush, Slovenia is the place to  come. If you're not after art and main line history and such, but, rather, how people live in tranquil beauty, this may be the area to visit.

Just across the border into Austria there was to be a transfer to a different train. But, being behind schedule many of us missed that connection. We had to wait around a very hot platform for about two hours for another, different train, with a different forward routing to take us on. For most of us the next point was Munich, Germany. But this train only took us as far as Salzburg, Austria. There we were met by "security" personnel and led to two busses, which took us on to the bahnhof (train station) in Munich. Then it was every person for themselves. For some, of course, Munich was their destination.

By this time, around midnight or later, I was about two and a half hours behind my planned itinerary. I had kept up a running tracking of the comparative times but this tracking ended at Salzburg. But, needless to say, had missed my onward connection from Munich which had about a 45 minute difference.

Off the bus, my seat mate with whom I had been conversing (Most unusual for me to initiate a conversation with a stranger. But she was young and attractive, so what the hey. She was an environmental studies student from Dresden, Germany. She (darn!) went off to her rendezvous in Munich). I watched an unorganized group walk off in a direction, and followed. They went into the bahnhof and to a service counter, where I also got into the queue.

When my turn came the gentleman there produced for me an on-going itinerary from Munich to Troyes. It was to depart at 3:17 am. The itinerary print-out--I just note--was timed at 01:06. So I had about a two hour wait in the Munich bonhof. Fortunately there was a food stand still open, so I at least got something to eat, even if I had to eat it on the huge, dark bonhof platform.

The routing from Munich was altered from my original one, but the times had been reconciled, so the lost time was made up and my scheduled arrival in Troyes, France was the same as the original projection. Which, by the way, would have been by way of Paris. I assumed my in-hand tickets would suffice.

From Munich I went to Stuttgart, Germany. In Stuttgart I had an hour wait, then to transfer to another train for Strasbourg, France. When I went to make the transfer as indicated on my "new" itinerary, I needed to asked a question of a train official on the platform. Big mistake. He said the train was full, and that I had to purchase a new ticket for the next train. Doing that effected my arrival time in Troyes, where I was to be met by my host, Olivier. At  the ticket desk, in purchasing a new ticket, I inquired about a refund since my on-going journey from Munich no longer was in a sleeper coach, and the whole on-going leg was invalidated as well. In Ljubljana I had to purchase that higher price ticket as the rest of the train was full. In any case, to no avail. I was  told I had to take my case to the Slovenian rail authorities. (Lots of luck trying that one once home in the States). In that third itineray there was to be a 42 minute wait for yet another transfer at a town named Mulhouse. That's pronounce something like Mul-jose(Spanish j like, I believe).

With the new ticket my arrival in Troyes would be later, and I had to call my host to tell him I would be in later. My cell phone was good only for Turkey, and I had no experience with public phones in Europe. So I stood by one until someone used it, and after he was  finished I asked him if he spoke English. No. But he did talk French to me, out of which I understood I could purchase a call card at the nearby news, cigarettes and stuff stand.

The woman at the counter did not speak English. But she called a younger girl who did. She sold me not a  card, but a coded number; then explained the sequence of activating it. I was able to  negotiate the procedure and get a call through to Olivier.

I had time for bite to eat before my new train would leave.

In Mulhouse, France, where I had to make the last transfer there was a 42 minute interrim. There I also had a problem. One of my own making. The social and political climates of Turkey and some of the other areas (I certainly wouldn't be so sure of Albania) had lulled me into a quasi-trusting mode. Travelers' baggage is respected, I'll just say. I never, however, leave my "day pack," containing my passport, camera, binoculars, eye glasses, laptop power cable, and whatever reading I have. (Four years ago I averted my eyes from my luggage just long enough for a fellow to make off with my day pack. It was in Valencia, Spain, if anyone wants to know). But in Mulhouse, having a few minutes wait, I left my two luggage pieces in a small platform waiting room while I went into the main station to get a coffee--since I had been falling asleep, and I like to look a the scenery.

When I got back to the waiting room my luggage was missing! You can imagine. . . .

There were three identical platforms. So I raced up and down stars to look into the other two, lest I'd forgotten the platform I'd come from. Nothing. I checked the first two again. Empty.

Well, I thought, either they were stolen or perhaps confiscated. I recalled that now I'm in France. And they have bomb problems. Perhaps someone turned in some sighted "unattended luggage." I  ran back into the main station and to the ticketing counter. Now fortunately, though it was around 9 am, there was not a crowd. However, as most might know, the French are not as generous about learning English as other peoples of Europe. Again, fortunately, though, an older gentleman concluding business at the counter was able to translate my anguished plea to the young woman at the ticket counter. She told me to go downstairs to the "security" office, or whatever.

I raced down there, 3/4 expecting to be met with what I call the Gallic shrug. Meaning, "I don't know  what you're talking about," or, "There is nothing I can do."

Rather, as soon as I was through the door into the  tiny office I saw my quite distinguished backpack and black suitcase in a corner. Whew, whew, whew! He turned them over to me without any issue, and I raced back to the platform. It was empty of passengers. I had missed the train by about two minutes.

Back at the ticket counter I was told my present ticket was also good for the next train. But there was to be another transfer, and  for that she sketched out the last schecule

Another call to Olivier was managed, this time for a still later arrival time.

And from then on all went well. At that last transfer point, Belfort, I had a lay-over of about 2 hours. I had a hamburger at a restaurant across the street from the train station. After starting to eat at the sidewalk table four guys came out and casually stood around me, lighting up cigarettes. Then I noticed the words  on the paper beneath the hamburger: Döner Kebap. These guys were all Turkish! Later when I spoke Turkish to the waiter he didn't bat an eye. I had thought I'd get a reaction.

There is nothing more to say here. The rest played out according to the final script. Olivier met me in Troyes, and in the fading light we drove directly to his village of  Lusigny sur Barse, about 20 km east of Troyes. But more about that in a subsequent blog.
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geezergal on

You passed through and did not stop. I am so aching to go there. It just fascinates me, the food, the canal, the flowers in summer. OH.........Sis

runningdong on

it is a beautiful town,more green ,more fresh air..I love it

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