The French Lesson

The overnight flight from Chicago to Paris arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport around eight in the morning.  The wife and I were on our way to the south of France, to the Dordogne, to see some of the remnants of the Hundred Years War and some very, very old remnants of earliest human habitation, the caves at Lascaux.  First we had to get to Bordeaux.  We met our travelling companions, Pat and Barbara, at the CdG airport Marriot.  They felt as haggard as we looked but a coffee and croissant perked us up considerably.

While one can take a connecting flight, or rent a car to get to Bordeaux, given the French high speed trains, called the TGV, it’s about as quick or quicker and without the hassles of driving or flying.  Since this story is about a French Lesson, let us begin with the French pronunciation:  Tay-Jay-Vay.  There is a TGV station there at the airport.  It’s only a few steps from the arrival gates to the concourse of the station.  There, the milling crowds of passengers move from kiosk to queue to quay (see, you’re understanding French already) with their assorted roller-bags, back-packs, suitcases and doggie crates (sans dog).  Overhead is a huge train board listing the arrivals of trains and their destinations.  This lists the next twenty arriving trains with the most chronologically remote at the bottom.  As each train arrives and then departs, the bottom-most train slowly ascends along the list until it is the top-most posting.  The destination and departure times are also accompanied by a short description: “On Time”, “Delayed” “Arriving” “Departed”.  And then the listing disappears when the train has left.

Our train to Bordeaux duly appeared at the bottom with its time and destination and slowly ascended through the list.  However, there now appeared the word “supprimé”.

Both Barbara and I studied French in some remote age so we took some educated guesses:  

“Superior” she said.  “It’s a first class train”.

“Supreme” I replied.  “It’s a high-speed, non-stop train”.

While both of these statements were true about the train we wished to take, they are, as the French say, “Faux amis”, that is “False friends”.

Train and time marched on and our 11:25 to Bordeaux slowly climbed up the board.  11:25 approached and then passed.  The departure gate, called a “Gare”, was never posted.  It never said “Arrivé”.  Fearing the worst, I went to the information kiosk where they spoke English and inquired:

“What happened to the 11:25 to Bordeaux?”

“Ah, monsieur, you see.  The trains are on strike.  It has been cancelled.  Didn’t you see “supprimé?”.

I quickly pulled out my dictionary, “Supprimer”: verb, transitive, regular: “to remove, delete, eliminate”.

“Ahh, yes”, I said with a knowing expression.

“So, how do I get to Bordeaux?” 

“Well, there is a train at 1:20 from the Montparnasse station, but you must hurry.  You can exchange your tickets there.  Do not delay.  With Paris traffic, you won’t make it in a taxi or bus.  You must take the RER and then the Metro.”  

Gathering our little group together we moved with bag and baggage to the RER, which is the equivalent of our light rail METRO and bought our RER tickets.  The train moved quickly through the rural suburbs of Paris, then through the banlieue or inner suburbs and then descended into the depths of the city.  We had to transfer to the Metro.   Paris is an old city and so are its subway tunnels.  Pushing and pulling our roller-bags and carry-ons we moved among the crowds, sometimes going with the tide, sometimes against.  Pulling our belonging up steps then pushing them down steps in the heat of the Paris summer was exhausting.  Turning left then right, trying to discern which aperture to take to get the Montparnasse metro, we stumbled along.  Look! The way, the truth, the train!  We jumped on, hoping it was going in the right direction. After only two stops we ascended into the light of a bright Paris day at Montparnasse station.  We moved quickly to get our tickets exchanged and then to find the correct voie or platform.

Now remember, the trains were on strike.  This seemed only to mean that some trains were supprimé.  But it did mean that there were very few uniformed railroad personnel around to ask where to go.  We climbed aboard and fervently wished we were on the right train, in the right car, at the right seats.  Soon the train started off and headed southwest.  Or at least we thought it was southwest.  The train picked up speed.  Soon we were hurtling along through the beautiful countryside passing farms and fields at 180 miles per hour.  No one came ‘round to check our tickets.  The towns along the way passed by in a blur, too quick to read the station signs.  The announcements on the p.a. system were as unintelligible as they are in the States “Rebensac, Carbonsobersac, Mitesonef”.  We could have been headed for Madrid or Moscow or Milan.  Finally, after four hours we crossed a wide river and entered a large city.  This must be the Garronne and it must be Bordeaux.  We made it.  Sacré bleu.  Next time, I’m going to Atlantic City.