Day Four, or Why I Burnt My Luggage with Glee

Travel guru Rick Steves has a saying: “There are two types of travelers – those who pack light and those who wish they had.”

Now, I recognize that I am moving to Italy for a year, and that only filling two bags is rather impressive for me. However, had I known what hell Charlotte and I would endure lugging my bags throughout France, I would have traveled naked, carried my toothbrush behind my ear, and bought all new possessions in Italy.

The day started great – a visit to H&M, a little coffee,

some sunshine – but things went downhill quickly … or shall I

say, uphill. And up stairs. My train was to leave Paris for Parma that evening and I had to get myself and my stuff to that train station. So Charlotte and I lugged my baggage (50lbs each) to the Orleans train station and shoved ourselves into a tiny, packed seat-car. It was in this car that I learned that there is a miniscule pronunciation difference between the French phrases “thank you very much” and “thank you nice ass.” (Personally, I’d be happy with either expression of gratitude).

Look! I'm holding a train!!

The next few hours in summary: hauling my luggage through countless train stations, on and off many trains, and over paved sidewalks. It doesn’t sound so bad all smushed into one sentence, unless you factor in the fact that the bag Charlotte carried was two-thirds her size and my antique bag – which I affectionately dubbed “Grammy” after the former owner – kept overturning.

“Uh oh – Grammy’s fallen and she can’t get up!”

“Come on, Grammy, you can do it.”

“I hate you, Grammy. I hate you with every fiber of my being.”

[Nothing personal, Grams]

By the time we made it to the target train station, I owed Charlotte my first two children and a chocolate sculpture of James Franco.

The original plan was to drop off my stuff in a train-station locker and explore Paris for a couple hours. This plan was thoroughly foiled when the station did not have the promised lockers. (Update your Web site!) The dude at the information desk said there were lockers at the train station that Charlotte and I had just left, but at that point we just laughed; our arms were jelly, our backs were aching, and we desperately needed milkshake frais. So instead of exploring France, I discovered the exotic wonders of staying with my luggage in a train station while Charlotte adventurously went to find us a McDonalds. (Such is the only situation that two young swashbucklers would

spend their time in Paris seeking out a McDonalds: stuck in the city of love with the baggage from hell).

When the ubiquitous McDonalds was nowhere to be found, we bought a bunch of European snack foods [pictured right], and played Yahtzee for a couple hours. I can’t say that I regret being stuck in the train station – with Charlotte, you can’t avoid having a fantastic time (no matter how hard you try). Furthermore, the dice rolled true – we had the some good Paris mojo.

After one last haul to my train, I bid my wonderful, wonderful friend arrivederci and headed off to Italy! But first, the train ride….

Is that Orangina? you ask.

Why yes, yes it is.