TGVictims

(Photo: AFP - And note that this is an older photo of a different accident. I sadly did not have our camera along to take pictures of our experience)
So there we were on the train. We'd picked my parents up at the Charles de Gaulle airport without hassle, and hadn't even had to do a last-second race to our train thanks to some early scouting around for the right platform. All is going well, and we are on the TGV blitzing happily through the French countryside and looking out the windows at the green grasslands.

Suddenly, the entire train shudders slightly and the side window is obscured by flying gravel and dust. For the first second we just think we've hit a dust cloud, but the gravel seems to be striking the windows awfully hard and should normal bits of dirt cause large starred cracks in the shatterproof windows? Outside, the green view is gone and there is nothing but opaque grey dust cloud for several very long seconds as the smell of burned electrical components fills the cabin and the train continues to shudder. For a brief half-second as I look out the window, I very calmly think, "I wonder if this is a bomb? We may be about to die in a 160mph train wreck." It's funny just how detached one can get in the middle of something potentially life-threatening.

Fortunately, nothing so dire has happened - We are not in a disaster movie nor a Steven Seagal train hijack movie, we are in "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles". The train grinds slowly to a total halt in open countryside.
We wait.
We wait some more.

Eventually someone comes on the intercom to announce that the train has a "problem" and we should all remain in our seats (Possibly to avoid all those nasty dramatic news photos of flaming passengers leaping out the windows, but more probably to give the conductors time to assess the damage without being followed around by hordes of angry passengers demanding answers). Looking out my battle-scarred window, I see a railway employee walking the length of the train, peering up at it in disquieting consternation, and talking a lot into a portable phone. Eventually we are told that our train is dead, mort, pushing up the daisies.... In short, it is an Ex-train.

At this point we are all having John Candy visions of dragging our five bulky suitcases across miles of open fields in search of the nearest road, all so we can be met by a guy in a rusty pickup truck who will let us ride in the back for the next four hours into Herbignac. My parents brought an incredible orgy of Christmas gifts for us, including roughly forty-seven new outfits, board games, puzzles, toys of all sorts, and enough microwave popcorn to fill a lawn & garden bag. Suddenly this rich hoard of goodies is taking on a distinctly ominous air of menace as we wonder just how far we will be hiking.

Fortunately for us, we are not in flames, nor about to explode, nor under attack by generic foreign terrorists - It seems an engine has blown apart somehow (We are never given the exact details of what happened, at least such that we can make out from the all-French intercom announcements which are as intelligible as Jacques Clouseau singing through a helmet full of Jello). We sit tight and enjoy the excellent French approach to the situation ("Please remain calm and do not try to open the outside doors. The bar car is open for business. Enjoy!").

Eventually, another TGV, already full of puzzled passengers, arrives from somewhere else to pick up We Stranded Many. The switchover car is up at the front (The trains are side-by-side, with passengers hopping across the gap) so we get to haul our fifty pound bags of luggage the entire length of our train.... and then the entire length of the other train, all while the previous passengers look on in a combination of pity, wonder, and smug contentment that they already have their seats. For we refugees, the lodging is more adventurous - Every joiner section is piled floor-to-ceiling with luggage and people, and we are packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Emily and I are trying to do double-duty as we watch bags, listen for the garbled announcements, and then translate every bit of news to my worried parents who are learning just what we've meant when we've described past experiences as, "We had a French Travel Adventure".

After four stops and several train changes, we are finally on the way to our home station via some wizardly re-routing of the lines. It wasn't all unpleasant - I got to share standing room crammed into a train toilet compartment with an attractive young lady, we met a few friendly fellow TGVictims, and I got a good story out of the experience. Eventually we rattled our way into the St. Nazaire station straddling our bags in the joiner compartment, three hours later than scheduled, hungry and frazzled but victorious.

It was December 18th.

My parents had officially arrived in France.