A travelogue exploring the journey to Europe, full of misadventures and bad luck.

Once upon a time (in 2019), when Corona was but a beer and the word pandemic made one harken back to the days of the Bubonic Plague, I was fortunate to get a chance to travel through Europe in the name of ‘Student Exchange’- the global tourism scheme sustaining many a hostels, dingy pubs, (misguided) 2004 movie enthusiasts, and petty thieves relying on the naivete of unsuspecting kids travelling through post-colonial colonial countries.

It was a fairly sunny day on the 2^nd  of September, 7 in the morning when a flurry of comedy of errors began, a feature that was to last until the day I returned to India. Right at the check-in counter, the lady showed suspicion over the visa type and the journey we (4 at that time – Diksha, Sarthak, and Simran) were undertaking. The immigration counter was no better where the officer took my passport and went away to (presumably) verify things for a good 20 minutes as I stood awkwardly. His colleague, tending to Simran’s passport, kept telling us we had got the wrong visa type issued, and I imagined what it would feel like to go home there and then and tell Mom I wasn’t feeling up to the trip. The officer returned and begrudgingly stamped it. You see, we were to reach Lille in France but we were doing it quite oddly. From Delhi we were to fly to Helsinki, then to Brussels, and then an hour’s train to Lille. It sounded simple in theory even if it looked like an awkward scalene triangle on the map.

We landed in Helsinki without incident. But our layover was only 55 minutes and the line was painfully slow. The immigration queue, I kid you not, was atleast an hour long if not more. A kind lady official helped me bypass it and I ran to the boarding gate to find that the flight had left. The four of us had split up and only Diksha had access to internet and a roaming connection. I, in my infinite wisdom, had thought I’d directly buy an international number in France because my overthinking mind with its multiple simulators didn’t account the possibility of missing a flight and being separated from my friends. Fortunately we found each other and made our way to a sternly Finnish desk lady who reprimanded us and said, ‘We could’ve made it.’ Well, so could have Jack Dawson but see how that ended, lady. It seemed as though it wasn’t unusual because there were many like us and we were offered another flight an hour later without charges.

We reached Brussels, walked, walked, walked (that airport is massive!), collected our luggage and fumbled to look for the train station which was underneath the airport. I stared at the direction boards with my encyclopaedic knowledge of French(‘Oui’, ‘Je ne parle pas Français’, ‘Croissant’, and courtesy of the song Lady Marmalade, ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?’) and realized I was massively underprepared for the coming days. We resorted to the kindness of strangers to help us. Our luggage nearly occupied an entire cabin, much to the annoyance of the locals. We realized the train was running late but we looked outside with the childish glee that only tourists can manage – Look, European buildings! European grasslands! European cows! European people giving condescending looks!

Unbeknownst to us, we had to switch trains at this place called Tournai. (Tournai would come to haunt us throughout our stay.) Just as our train stopped and we rushed to get our luggage out, the EXACT same moment, the train to Lille(the last train that night) left in front of our eyes. In a moment Bollywood writers can only dream to script, a Pakistani man overheard us talking in Hindi and offered to help carry our luggage. I was quite sceptical, thinking he may ask for money or dupe us or something but I learnt soon, and I continued to learn throughout the trip, people are nice and willing to help. With Simran and Sarthak guarding the luggage, Diksha and I left the station to inquire about. The only thing open was a Kebab shop and the guy spoke fluent French and broken English. The facts were these –

1. Tournai was in Belgium, we hadn’t even entered France.
2. Uber did not run in that place and it was around 8:30 PM, past night-time by European standards.
3. He could call a cab guy but he would charge more.

Soon, a driver came in an Omni version of European cars and he was quite the character. He spoke animatedly and non-stop even though the first thing we said was, ‘Je ne parle pas Francais’. After a second’s pause and a cursory Oui on his end, he went back to talking. His cab, studded with blue lights, had a dashboard of stuffed toys – a cause for both amusement and concern. Through the ride he kept talking to Sarthak without being discouraged by an utter lack of response outside of hmm’s and head-nods.

We finally reached around 11 in the night and the cab driver shook hands with everyone and drove off smiling. Sumit helped us carry the luggage to our rented apartment. We sat on the sofas and immediately started laughing at all that we had seen within the span of a day. Once we had told our worried families that we had reached safe and (mostly) sound, we went to sleep. My bed was next to the window and through the night, I could hear the sound of the tram tracks. It was a sound that would become familiar. Exhausted as I was, I drifted off quickly.

The next morning, we explored the two-storey apartment. I skim over writers’ description of buildings when I read but I’ll make an exception to write one myself. It was a damn pretty apartment. The French window opened to the main road where people jogged at odd hours, the tram ran every few minutes, and a cool breeze blew. The balcony, technically inaccessible, offered views of the sky and lush greenery in the backyards of other houses. The upper floor had a sunroof and one could wake up to the warmth of sunlight. Unfortunately, it would be with us for only a month. But that is for later. Standing in front of the open window with the breeze and a cup of coffee, I was still trying to process the last 24 hours. I was in France.

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