Farage supporters on trains, endless stairs and chocolate cake for dinner
My first day in Paris took many twists and turns—and not just because I was lurching around with two huge bags and an acoustic guitar
My year abroad did not get off to the most auspicious start. Transport for Wales is abysmal at the best of times (only the day before, I ended up stuck in Hereford for several extra hours than I intended). However, on the morning of the 29th August, everything seemed to be running smoothly—my movements were perhaps less smooth, armed as I was with the heaviest suitcase known to man, an immense backpack and an acoustic guitar.
All was going as planned until just outside Crewe station. In typical Transport for Wales fashion, a late train meant we were forced to hover outside the terminal for what seemed like an age, while I anxiously counted down the minutes until I missed my connection.
“My movements were perhaps less smooth, armed as I was with the heaviest suitcase known to man”
Panicking, I jumped onto the next service, only realising as it trundled out of the station that this was the slow train and would add an hour to my journey. It now seemed likely that I would miss my Eurostar and have to pay £300 to board the next train.
Thankfully—or so it seemed—there was a nice lady sitting beside me to help ease my anxieties. She was heading to London to watch her friend perform in a band so we discussed everything from music T-Shirts to guitar collections and the 70s punk scene.
That was until her friend sent her a video of Keir Starmer and the dreaded question arose: “What do you think of the prime minister?” Discussing politics with strangers is rarely a comfortable experience, let alone when you're trapped with them on a train. Yet it seems to be the theme of my summer.
“Discussing politics with strangers is rarely a comfortable experience, let alone when you're trapped with them on a train”
Only a few months ago, I found myself having to justify my left-wing views to a friendly yet very traditional ex-soldier during a 40-minute train ride to Hereford. “There isn't enough debate these days,” he insisted. Maybe that's a good thing, I thought.
Usually, the conversation starts well. At least we can revel in our mutual dislike of Starmer while I pretend to absorb their wisdom (“I’ve known six people who went to Cambridge,” asserted the ex-soldier, “three of them were the worst people I’ve ever met and the other three were the best—remember that!” I nodded meekly).
However, in this case, the kind woman who was deeply into punk music and hoping to buy a home abroad turned out to be a hardcore Farage supporter. Suddenly, I was having to debate immigration policy, all the while growing increasingly stressed about the Eurostar situation and attempting to edge myself closer to the door—towards freedom and a record-defying sprint to St Pancras International.
Said record-breaking sprint failed to materialise. Overburdened by the many layers of clothing I couldn’t fit in my suitcase, I tried and failed to find an unawkward way of pushing my luggage down London's uneven streets.
By the time I’d tripped and swayed my way to departures, it was too late. “No way,” muttered the steward when I begged her to rush me through security. I got in line to buy another ticket, fearing the worst.
The queue took forever and was punctuated by countless people realising they were in the wrong place and endless complex demands. Eventually, it emerged I would only have to pay £44 to change my ticket, which I later claimed back on insurance.
Security was quick, the Eurostar journey smooth and soon I was in Paris, about to start my year abroad adventure.
That adventure began with the extortionate price of the metro due to the Paralympic Games. With my heavy bags and guitar, I got a true taste of the inaccessibility of the Paris public transportation system, ascending and descending innumerable lifts before I even reached a platform. I also made my first silly language mistake, informing someone I was going both up and down in the elevator after I misheard them as asking which direction the lift travelled.
Why I didn't take an Uber I do not know but, eventually, I arrived at the Airbnb where I would be staying the night, several wrong turns and pauses to catch my breath later.
The Airbnb was on the top floor of a five-storey building with no lift (ouch) and home to a civil servant named Vincent, who was very nice but refused to speak to me in French.
With its low ceilings and cluttered rooms, the apartment was hardly everyone's cup of tea. However, given the price and large collection of snacks provided, I was glad to call it home for a night.
No sooner had I arrived, however, than I had to rush off. You see, I was moving into my apartment for six months the next day but could only drop off my stuff that evening.
Thus, it was back on the RER for me. But, at least, after several more flights of stairs (both metro and apartment), I could finally say goodbye to the kilograms that had been burdening me these past ten hours.
While ferociously eating into my bank balance, the apartment was undoubtedly a good find. Situated in the very central ninth arrondissement, the place has become home to me and three other students—two from Leeds and one from Queen Mary University of London.
After a long and tortuous journey to secure the four people necessary to rent such a lovely abode, it was a relief to discover how well we got along (even if three of us are vegetarian and the fourth a rugby player who needs to consume kilos of meat). Surrounding us are the theatres, opera venues and auction houses of Paris—I had officially escaped student accommodation.
That night, I met my landlords and neighbours, all of whom are extremely nice, the latter even promising to call the police on any fake mechanics who might try to swindle us (based on an incident five years ago).
Despite the neighbours’ insistence on the extreme dangers of Paris, I felt my anxieties diminish as I consumed intensely rich chocolate cake (as a very late dinner) and spoke my first proper French.
Vaguely nauseated from cake and fatigue, I returned to my Airbnb, feeling freer than ever without my bags. The day may have been chaotic but I felt more excitement than trepidation as I collapsed onto my bed in a Parisian attic room, knowing that, in less than twelve hours, I would be seeing the famed ENS for the first time…