After the Barcelona incident, you would think I would be more aware of my surroundings; that I would consider my current abilities and limitations and act accordingly. No. No thought of how to best maneuver my way around cities and towns ever entered my brain. No thought to how I would manage possible stairs, trains, or hills. I followed the crowd to the slaughterhouse and reveled in it.

At some point in our travels, it was brought to my attention that when wandering in other countries or cities, nothing beats the train. We don’t have a train in Newfoundland, so train hopping isn’t a thing here. It’s an experience that we’re not used to. So, when we travelled to Europe, taking the train was an obvious option. Everybody takes the train. To save time while we were sightseeing, we would hop on a train to get to the next venue. It was a quick and convenient way to get from point A to point B without much hassle.  I had no idea they could be such a vindictive bitch.

            Our ship tendered to the town of Villefranche, where we took the train to Monte Carlo. It was a warm and sunny start to the day, and we were looking forward to seeing the casino and all the beauty of Monte Carlo. Casino Royale, anyone?  Catching the train was easy and we were in Monte Carlo in no time. We walked from the train and immediately fell into the preparations for the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. Barriers blocked the streets, and bleachers were erected all along the main routes and security personnel were directing tourists away from all of it.

            We strolled the city and really enjoyed the park and the casino. Lush gardens, perfect buildings reaching the skyline, and luxury yachts parked in the marina ready for the race. We stopped on the main street and ate pizza in a little restaurant after walking around town and enjoying all the sights.

            Now, all of this sounds fantastic. A lovely day, leisurely strolls, beer, and pizza for lunch, what could go wrong?  I am the one traveling, remember? No bikes, no difficult traversing up hill on a mountainous trail, no climbing twisting stairs, nothing remotely challenging or weirdly placed to have me confused or in an awkward state of anxiety. Nothing. Until we board the train to head back to Villefranche.

            The trains were crowded, and we stepped on and walked in closer to a door. We wanted to be able to make a quick exit when it stopped. Since our stop was one of many, we watched each one in preparation for our exit. The train approached our stop, and we were ready. With our hands on our bags and phones (mine was in my hand from picture taking), the train stopped. We waited by the door. Nothing happened. We waited a bit more. Nothing. Then we see another door behind us in the opposite direction further down the train. It was open and beckoning passengers to leave.  We only had a few seconds to get to it before the doors closed and the train moved on. We banned together and hurried down the train like Jason Bourne eluding the French police. Our whole vacation started playing out like a Bourne movie. Jumping trains, riding ferries, spotting heavily armed men guarding tourist spots. I was beginning to feel like a rogue spy, only I think their skill set is a little more advanced than mine. With more balance and less falling.

 We rushed, with me bringing up the rear. That was a big mistake. Never put the weakest link last, people. The best I could do was a quick walk. Which I did. I get to the doors. Hubby is holding one side, another man holding the other to prevent them from closing on me. A good thought, but the doors were assholes with sadistic tendencies and ignored the men completely.  Fuck chivalry, they needed to close. Move or be moved. They began closing at an alarming rate, pushing Hubby and kind sir out of the way without so much as an, “Oh mon, Dieu. Excusez moi.” I had to leap from the inside of the train to the platform, lest I be the severed body in a pathetic example of a magic show. My foot hit the pavement, and asshole doors hit me in the ass sending me dancing. It was like they couldn’t wait to get rid of the stupid Canadian tourist, so they were expelling me from their wonderful train. “Tres imbecile! You are not worthy of our magnificence!” And spit me out.

 I wobbled like a Weeble on a bender. I could see myself falling. My brain was fully processing how close my ass was to the pavement and the amount of pain it was going to cause. What it didn’t account for, was the precious new hip that needed to be guarded and protected like a little lamb among a pack of wolves. I crashed to the pavement, my hip stinging, and my swearing profound. I hadn’t noticed anyone around me until I felt a pair of hands beneath my arms. The swiftness of a perfect stranger hauling me off the ground, handing my scattered phone to a friend and dashing off into the afternoon sun had me dazed but grateful. Merci, Monsieur.

            I rushed to a bench and sat for few minutes. The shock of falling hadn’t fully set in and my main concern became my bright and shiny new hip. What damage had I done? I stood and measured the pain. I stretched the muscle in my leg. I walked it off like the clumsy Canadian I am. I was fine. It was fine. My dignity was more bruised than my titanium hip. It can withstand a little tumble from a diabolical snooty French train. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t just fall?! Again?! Hubby tutt-tutted and friends gathered in concern. I rubbed my leg and we moved on. Trains suck.

 “C’est un vrai connard!” Yeah, I said it. I Googled French swear words, what are you gonna do? Throw me from another train?  

We stopped at a nice spot overlooking the water and had drinks to help me recover from the traumatic train banishment.

Italian trains are more sophisticated and elegant than the haughty French trains, anyway. At least they didn’t throw me out on my ass. They just made me painfully aware of enormity of Rome and the insignificance of my presence on the planet.

Thanks, France for being an asshole. Thanks, Rome for making me question my existence. You two need to tone it down a bit so we clumsy Canadians can try to Jason Bourne our way across the continent. It would make for a more exciting adventure. And better stories than, “that time in France when I fell again, only this time off Satan’s train….”