Le 27 septembre, 2013
The day dawned bright and sunny. Happy smiles adorned the
faces of the 30 odd youngsters selected for the “Assistanat” programme.
Finally, the months and months of preparation had come to an end. Now all that
was left to do was to jump in!
The pilot of the aircraft, our coordinator, and his team
from the French Embassy, had some last minute instructions before we took the
giant leap. The orientation camp in the country’s capital proved to be of help;
even as all of us had been suppressing our restlessness. Evening came, bringing
the moment for our final goodbyes. With a lot of enthusiasm, we wished each other
farewell, and promised to meet soon, in France! Yes, we were dizzy with
excitement. The word had not left our lips for a blink of an eye since the time
we had got selected. We were going to
France to be English language assistants in various schools. Going to the country whose language we had learnt and loved dearly.
At the Delhi International Airport, I said goodbye to my
parents, with bearhugs and the shedding of some tears (from Mom). “Go live your
life!” were her parting words before I left. For which I was really grateful. I
fully understood that it would be lonely at home, what with my brother in
London, and me in France. But wasn’t this the right age to step out? Let go of our
mother’s apron strings?
With that thought spelling independence and freedom, I set
out.
 |
Le 28 septembre, 2013
My heart surged as the plane shuddered,
announcing our arrival in Strasbourg, France. The day had been unavoidably
adventurous. I had been compelled to muster all of my courage to maintain my
“sang froid”. At the Schiphol airport of
Amsterdam, I had but half an hour to check in and get a print out of my boarding
pass. I was running as soon as my feet touched the ground. I skidded to a halt
at the first machine that printed boarding passes. And of course, it was out of
order. Temperature soaring high, I asked for assistance and the lady suggested
another machine that was at the other end of the airport! Since I had managed
to see the gate number for my next flight, amidst my stupor in the flight from
New Delhi, I knew she was right.
Once again, I was running; this
time with my shoelaces untied and with no time to stop. It is rather strange
that when one finds himself in a hurry the rest of the world seems to be aping
snails. Addled with ease, they amble like they are in the Louvre, wanting to
discern every painting; hence, making it spicier a commute for poor souls like
me. I finally reached the immigration desk, and alas! As fate would have it,
there was a queue. I asked for the priority queue, for I had to be on time, but
the airport officials shook their heads. I shook mine too, and swore silently
under my breath, in the sheer despondency of the situation. I had no clue when I would check in, and
further, how I would get hold of that devil of a boarding pass. Would I be too
late for my flight? Would they just fly without me? After all, they wouldn’t wait
for one measly passenger. But I had no time to get possessed by thoughts, of
any kind. I just had to move, move, MOVE! I brushed past hordes of people, who
shot me bemused looks. Once I had been declared as to the non-possession of
bombs and other weapons of mass destruction, I made my way to a series of ATM
like machines that printed boarding passes. A KLM attendant stood besides one
like a beacon of hope. I almost snatched that little piece of paper from her and
made my way to the gate finally; with 10 kilograms of baggage to lift my
spirits.
I hopped on to the mini airplane
to Strasbourg. Once there, tiredness combined with the apprehension of a
further train journey, affected the grin forming on my face. Navigating my way to the Strasbourg railway station
was another circus altogether. The information desk opened my eyes to a
different kind of reality – my train left not from the airport station called
Entzheim, (as I had imagined all along) but from the station in the city. I
thought that perhaps the onslaught of French had befuddled me, so I asked
again. But reality persisted. My stomach did a flip. A 360˚ flip.
But I saved my hopes from being
castrated by getting into action. I hauled my bags up an escalator and down
another for the shuttle, but my on inserting my visa card, the machine read
“carte muette”. Another blow. I gave up on the cheapest mode of transport and
in a huff, got into a taxi. 29.30 € is the price one pays for some peace of
mind occasionally, I assured myself.
From the central Strasbourg
station, fortunately so, things went smoothly. After a pit stop for coffee and
an excessively sweet doughnut, I was on my way to the platform. The
uncoordinated numbers on the train and the display screen had confused me once,
so I asked a couple there, if it was the correct train. Their “Oui” calmed me
down from head to toe. I changed trains at Metz and hopped into the only one
that went to Verdun. My destination was a stone’s throw away.
After an hour, through the huge
windows, a brightly lit up petite ville welcomed me. I waved wildly at the smiling
figures of Karine and her family. Jumping out, I ran straight into her
outstretched arms.
Though I had landed a good 12
hours back, it was only now that I experienced the exultation.A happy uproar in my mind.
