I had a plan, written the night before in the little living room of my Bayeux attic. Up at 7:30, yoga exercises, shower, eat the yogurt, granola and fruit I’d brought along, pack up the Normandy cheese and butter from those gorgeous brown and white cows with brown sunglasses rings around their eyes, head to the train station at 9:15 to be very early for a 9:58 train to Caen. I still had an unopened bottle of Jordan Chardonnay, and I wrapped it carefully in the shopping bag. In Caen, I would change trains for Lisieux, then change again for a train to Trouville-Deauville, where I would eat lunch at the fish market and walk along the boardwalk just like Gigi did in the movie starring Leslie Caron. It was a good plan.
First, I became lost walking to the train station. No phone, no GPS, but I trusted my sense of direction. Still I asked somebody, and this American from Kentucky sent me in the opposite direction. After making a loop and ending up where I had started, I just followed the birds and found the station. I trotted along with three minutes to spare when I climbed up the ramp to the platform. The train to Caen plugged to a stop, and I lifted my roller bag with the grocery bag falling off, the wine bottle clanging to the platform. Somebody handed it to me and I nearly fell off when I leaned over as my backpack was crammed with reading materials. Found a seat in second class, and off we went.
Caen looked pretty cool, but I had only 4 minutes to find my platform and board the next train. Neither the Bayeux nor Caen stations had arrival/departure boards, so I depended upon the electronic updates above the platforms. When a train labeled “Lisieux” arrived at the correct time, I boarded it, with more grace than the train from Bayeux. (So many awkward moments in entering and exiting trains. None of these elegant, scrappy pumps descending the stairs by a woman with a perfect outfit, coiffed hair, and not a care in the world images I was constantly counting my bags and hoping I wouldn’t knock anyone over.”
When I arrived in Lisieux, my train just stayed on platform #1. The conductor got off for a smoke. I went inside, for my ticket said the Trouville-Deauville train would leave from platform 1. I asked the lady at the ticket booth about that, and she said it had already left. I showed her my tickets and the connections and she said the schedule had changed. I asked why I wasn’t notified and she shrugged her shoulders. Meanwhile, I saw my previous train was heading back to Caen, and I figured I could go there instead. As I headed back over to the platform, it was already moving. No luck. I couldn’t take the next train to Trouville as it left Lisieux in three hours and I would miss all of my connections. What to do in Lisieux?
I overheard a woman, in broken English, ask about the same train. She had arrived from a different station and intended to take the same train, but no luck. I couldn’t place her accent as it wasn’t Spanish but Portuguese? A third woman, exquisitely dressed with platinum blonde hair, a Hermes satchel, and size 6 shoes I would given anything to have, started yelling at the agent in French. Right at this time, I had an idea. Maybe I could get a refund for the Lisieux-Trouville legs of my trip, since I couldn’t go and it was the fault of SNCF. I jumped up to talk to the agent, and she lowered the shade when I arrived. Harumph.
When I turned around, I saw several frustrated women. I walked up to the one who had spoken English, and asked her if she was going to Trouville. She said her train had left, and I said I had the same problem. We chatted for awhile, introduced ourselves, and commiserated. Anna and Vera were from Brazil. We shared pictures of our children, and their grandchildren. We laughed and got along instantly. They were in their early 70’s and asked me, “Are you alone now? We are.” It was a poignant moment.
I had chosen to be alone at this point in my life, and had chosen to take this trip on my own. I love traveling solo, even though I should be traveling lighter. These women included me in the cadre of widows and divorcees who were still chasing their dreams, and it was wonderful.
Anna suggested we find an Uber and split the trip three ways to Trouville. I told her I had no phone service but I did have cash and was happy to share the fare. No Uber showed up for 45 minutes. When a taxi with a nice woman arrived, we asked her if she would take us to Trouville. She said she had a fare, but called an associate. He said he’d be there soon to take us. 75 euros. We looked at each other and agreed.
The Parisienne came outside and lit a slim and fragrant cigarette. The Brazilians joined her. I asked her where she was going in my pidgin French, and she said to a baby shower in Trouville, but her train had left. We told her she could share ours, and we tried to have a conversation. She prepaid a taxi and waited with us. I was tempted to bum a cigarette off of her, since I’d never smoked one, but her manners were difficult. Every time somebody said something in English, she said “Speak French. You are in France.” And when we couldn’t understand her rapid fire speech, she said the same thing at the same speed, but twice as loud. She started yelling and we sympathized with her frustration. “You can come with us,” we said.
Her taxi showed up, she shoved the large present in the back, entered on the side of the driver and sped off without looking back.
Two more women of senior age came up, and one started talking to me. Her English was better than my Italian, and soon the five of us agreed to share a taxi to Trouville. The Italians were celebrating their 75th birthdays, and I learned Vera and Anna were sisters. Many laughs, then a serious conversation about war after I told them about my writing project. All had experienced violence and had lost relatives in some squirming or other. We agreed the world needed different leadership. I asked the, “Is it time for the women to take over?” We laughed as tendrils of smoke from bland Italian cigarettes mingled with the spicy Brazilians, and fortunately the wind blew the smoke upward as I was becoming nauseous.
An hour after our call to the taxi, a beautiful black Mercedes SUV showed up. I checked the timing. I would get to Trouville at 1:00 and my return train left at 1:30. Was it worth it? When the taxi driver said only four could go, I gladly gave up my seat to the others. I could come back to Trouville, and maybe add romantic Honfleur, some day. Anna was particularly upset and we hugged and kissed cheeks. Soon everybody was hugging and kissing and saying “Peace be with you” in every language. The taxi driver took a picture of us. “Bon journee” I shouted after them.
Back in the train station to wait for my 2:00 train to Caen. In the train station, an American sergeant of about 50 leads his troops in the wrong direction. Nobody contradicts him, but they are chased off of a train and sent in another direction. He is the only one with a cell phone, and he’s trying to figure out which platform to go to when a female private’s eyes and mine meet. I raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. I point to the departure board and she walks over to the steps to the platform, waiting for her commanding officer to realize she’s in the right place. He sees her, tells his troops “I’ve got it,” and pushes by her.
I’m on my train now and see several men wearing the same crossbody purses women seem to like this year. Where are the man bags I enjoyed seeing a few years ago?
On to Rouen, Joan of Arc, and a town with a lot of potential for discoveries. Best of all, I have an accessible room. No stairs. An en suite bathroom. A bar. I’m in.
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