The plane trip over was typical, complete with mildly entertaining movies with recognizable actors yet unrecognizable plots. I am convinced that Vince Vaughn doesn't actually know what acting is and thinks each character is supposed to be a version of himself. I mostly read and daydreamed about my upcoming three months, complete with orchestral accompaniment. You heard me right. A full overture beginning with the high-pitched energetic excitement (flute)...the gloriously romantic views of the countrysides (viola and oboe)...the loud discotecas and laughter of new friends (trumpet and, well, techno)...thinking we are on the correct train but instead having the conductor laugh at us as we trek into the northern france countryside (dun dun...dun dun...definitely bass).
Long story short, we missed our metro stop in the UK bc apparently even those accents were difficult for us to understand (crikey!), proceeding into France where we were supposed to train to Paris from Lille. But following directions... boring! After viewing the quaint French villages and realizing that frenchies were exiting the train onto dirt roads, we finally asked the conductor, who spoke not one lick of English (awesome), "to Paris?" Shaking his head no and laughing to himself, he finally wrote us a note as a teacher writes to a parent of an ill-behaved child. It was somthing along the lines of "These silly girls made an error and I give them permission to board the correct train without paying." Who ever said the French were snooty?
Finally arriving in Paris, we were challenged a bit more as we subway-ed from the Parisian ghetto station to Austerlitz (which I mistakenly continued to call Auschwitz. Wrong, Mathilde). Buying a sleeper ticket for an extra €18-oui. Thinking we would be able to have a sleepover void of four elder European men in the beds below AND above us-no. Fortunately an elder Spanish man turned out to be Guardian Angel numero dos, as he decided to take us under his wing and point out exactly where we should get off, where to buy the remaining train ticket from Irun to Madrid, where that train was, and where on that train our seats were. It is really a good thing that old men like young girls. And that Megan speaks Spanish.
We arrived in Madrid FINALLY after literally 36 or more hours of travel. It was a trek of champions that tested our sign language skills, problem solving skills, and freaking back muscles. All in all I say it was a great way to get intimate with European transportation, but really and truly if you're taking an international flight...just fly into the city where you will spend a few days and THEN travel! (I can hear my father pompously thinking "Told ya so" ;)
Today is our second of three days in Madrid. Wanna hear our crazy adventures here (oh, they have happened already!)? Welp, you'll just have to wait till we finish having them.
You crack me up!
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