Rage Against the SNCF

Okay guys, I know I'm really behind and still owe you stories of Dachau and Nice and my fantastic hike through the Alps, but I would just like to take a moment and share just how much I hate the SNCF, or the French train system. (And also autocorrect, for trying to correct "French train" to"oat rain." Why? I mean, really--WHY?! Do ipad users experience a lot of instances of grain falling from the sky? Is that a thing? Have things in the US really changed THAT much in the week I've been gone?)

Anyway, my hatred for the SNCF burns with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. To be fair, I'm pretty predisposed to hate everything right now, since I am sitting on an uncomfortable granite bench in the Gare de Nice (Nice train station) when I should be in a comfortable first-class seat one-third of the way to Marseille right now. Yes, ladies and gents, I have missed my train.

I should have checked out of my hostel earlier, I'll admit that. Mistake number one. Checkout time was at ten, and I headed to the desk at 9:55. There were at least ten people in line ahead of me. This was unfortunate, as it was a fifteen-minute walk to the tram and then a ten-minute tram ride to the station, where I still had to print my ticket reservation (which I'd already paid for) before hopping the 10:57 train to Marseille. It would be close, but I could do it if I really booked it to the tram, I figured.

At 10:10 I was still in line and was getting pretty antsy. Okay, really antsy. There was much toe-tapping and slapping my wallet against my thigh. At 10:16 I was checked out and running down the steepest hill known to man to try and get the tram and hopefully avoid serious injury in the process.

Made it to the tram station just as the tram was rounding a distant corner, heading my way. I ran to the ticket machine, exact change already in hand, only to find it surrounded by some tourists who looked confused. "...ne marche pas..." I heard a man telling them. "It's not working."

There was a ticket machine on the opposite platform. The tram was not far away now. I shot across the tram tracks, bought a ticket at hyper speed, and then ran back around just as the tram doors opened. I hurled myself and my 15-20 pounds of stuff into a chair and tried to fan myself with my credit cards. But I was on the tram. I did it.

It was 10:20.

I got to the train station and was in line at the ticket machine by 10:35, giving me twenty minutes to get to the front and print the ticket I'd already reserved. Except I'd forgotten one very important thing: the SNCF sucks.

The ticket machine, to give you an idea, operates so slowly that I suspect it is powered not by a computer but by a Rube Goldberg-esque device. You press the button, a marble starts running down a chute, and once it hits the tiny hammer it prompts the machine to ask you for your credit card, etc.

The machine will ignore your credit card if it happens to be an American card, however, because it does not have "le chip." Le chip is a mysterious microchip that European cards have and American cards do not. I find this advanced French card technology ironic given that their ticket machines would be be outperformed by an AOL dial-up connection circa 1996, but whatever.

Since my cards do not have the chip, I was forced to stand at the ticket machine and watch as the clock in the upper right of the screen changed to 10:57 while the bulk of the screen was blaring "CARD NOT ACCEPTED." And that is how I missed my train.

All I wanted to do was sit down and cry. Well, that's not quite true. All I wanted to do was be sitting in an air conditioned first-class compartment on the way to Marseille. Failing that, however, stomping into a corner and collapsing into a sobbing heap of sweaty clothing and chipless credit cards seemed like a pretty appealing option. I didn't care that the train station floor was possibly the dirtiest floor in the entire city, or that all the French people and tourists alike would be walking by judging the pathetic American weeping childishly in the corner. But crying would not get me another ticket, so I settled for stomping from place to place to give vent to my feelings.

From another absurdly slow machine I discovered that the next train to Marseille, at 11:27, was full. There were still seats on the 12:27 though, so I dragged myself over to the ticket sale line and waited. By 11:30ish I was speaking to a ticket guy. I managed to conduct the entire conversation in understandable and mostly correct (albeit not particularly eloquent) French, which was a small bright spot in an otherwise crappy morning. All I needed was to reserve a spot, not buy a ticket, since my rail pass covers that aspect of the trip. That was a plus; reservations are loads less expensive than tickets. The ticket guy pointed out that a reservation for the 12:27 train would cost 18€ but that a reservation for the 12:55 was free. I took the free one, so at least I didn't lose money AND time on this deal, just two hours in Marseille.

But now I'm sitting in the Nice train station (MY FAVORITE THING) with a guy jackhammering something twenty feet away from me (MY OTHER FAVORITE THING) trying to kill time. Writing this post has calmed me down quite a bit, as has helping the American tourists looking for the bathroom. I got to speak to them in English and then turn to the French guy next to me and ask him some stuff in French, which made me feel super awesome and legit, like this was the UN and I was some sort of toilet ambassador. The French guy told me I spoke French quite well, which was flattering but not entirely true, and we made a little small talk en francais, which also cheered me up a bit. So life's looking sunnier than it was when I started writing this post, typing frantically through a red haze of boiling anger and soul-crushing frustration.

Only 35 minutes to go before I'm en route to Marseille, though! Then I'm there for a couple days before I have to move on to Montpellier. To avoid a repetition of this entire process, I plan on arriving at noon for my 3:25 pm train. I just hope I'll be able to access my reservations somehow. If I can't do it with my credit card somehow I don't know what I'll do.

Oh, well, IT'S AN ADVENTURE!