Bordeaux by train

Garage Clothing coat (c/o Ivanhoe Cambridge)
H&M sweater
Sezane skirt (similar)
Sezane boots (similar)
RayBan sunglasses
& Other Stories necklace
Elizabeth Lyn Jewelry necklace (similar)
Madewell rings
Urban Outfitters earrings (similar)
Location: La Maison Fernand – Bordeaux, France

Dear friends –

I haven’t slept. At least, not properly. Early morning train trips always make me anxious. What if we can’t find the station? What if we oversleep and can’t get there in time? Or, worse still, what if the train leaves without us? I’ve heard that worrying is like paying interest on a loan you haven’t yet taken out, but in some scenarios, I can’t help it. Train trips get me every time. I was up every hour on the hour last night. All of my sleeping pills were powerless to counteract my overactive imagination. I expected it to be 5 am each time I woke up – until the alarm went off and it actually was. At that point, I was dead asleep.

Typical.

I stumble my way through my morning routine, straightening my hair at the kitchen counter in between applying layers of make-up in the bathroom. The effort is sincere, but I am so tired that I feel like I look smudged. I feel smudged, or maybe it’s blurred, like my whole self is just slightly out of focus. Ian makes a trip to the patisserie to pick up breakfast, but even the fresh pain au chocolat, the chocolate inside still soft and melting, isn’t enough to perk me up.

To make matters worse, Google Maps fails us utterly. This is predictable, but somehow we never learn – we charge, heedless, into the darkness of the morning, suitcase clattering along the heaving sidewalk behind us, and immediately miss our first turn on the way to the train station. We walk along for blocks before we realise our mistake. Relying on analogue maps attached to bus shelters, we manage to reorient ourselves and find an alternate route. But we waste precious time and my tired, nervous brain just isn’t up to this kind of cognitive gymnastics.

Eventually, we find what looks like the car park attached to the train station. Another error to blame on Google Maps. This, improbably, is where it thought we wanted to go. To make matters worse, the station (like everything else in Paris) is under construction and the main entrance, wherever it is, is likely to be covered by scaffolding. We find someone who looks like they know where they’re going and follow close behind. The gambit pays off – within a few minutes, after dodging a few taxis, we are in the station. We even have enough time to stop for caffeinated beverages and a magazine.

Finding the train is the easy part. All my anxiety about the train and it was the city itself that screwed me up. This is why worry is like paying interest on a loan you haven’t taken out. The only bad things that happen are the ones you never think to consider ahead of time. We find our seats and settle in with more pastries, ready for the off. With the wrong turn and the lack of obvious station entrance, we really didn’t arrive with much time to spare. Soon, the train is easing out of the station into the early dawn.

The only trains I’ve taken in my home country are novelty versions at carnivals and the zoo, so I will admit freely to an utter fascination with travel by rail, which was entirely foreign to me until I first visited Europe at fifteen. What always intrigues me the most are the five kilometres nearest the station, where the tracks run close together, in between concrete walls and barbed wire fences. The concrete is always, without fail, covered in colourful graffiti, and I will never cease to marvel at the dedication of the neer-do-wells to make the effort to climb over the wire, at risk of life and limb, to paint it there. It occurs to me, every time I see it again, that the same dedication, applied to an endeavour like scientific research, could be universe-altering.

The end of those first five kilometres passes in a colourful blur as the train speeds up. I snap a photo of the sun rising over the looming countryside to post on Instagram stories – and then, immediately after posting it, fall asleep.

When I wake up two hours later, we are pulling into the station in Bordeaux. There is a direct message in my inbox from an acquaintance back home, remarking that she took the same train once before and remembers how beautiful the scenery was; she hopes I’ll enjoy it. I can only laugh at myself, because I missed absolutely every minute of it. But I needed that sleep. I run my fingers through my hair, inhale my croissant (almost literally, because I am starved) and, just like that, it’s time to disembark. We’ve arrived in Bordeaux, and adventure awaits.