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Métro mayhem

Headshot of Geoffrey Thomas
Geoffrey ThomasThe West Australian
Cartoon by Dean Alston of Geoffrey and Christine Thomas struggling through the Paris Metro.
Camera IconCartoon by Dean Alston of Geoffrey and Christine Thomas struggling through the Paris Metro. Credit: Dean Alston/The West Australian

I am sure we have all had that moment when a flicker of doubt enters our minds about something really important, like the departure of a flight or a train.

It happened to me in Paris the morning after I had asked my wife Christine to join me on life’s journey.

Perhaps it was the joy at her positive answer but I mucked up the time of our Eurostar departure to the UK for the Farnborough Air Show.

I was in the shower at about 6.30am when the doubt entered my mind — was it 9am or 8am?

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A mad scrambled ensued to check the tickets and indeed it was 8am and the tickets were non-refundable.

Now a frantic race to get dressed, pack and get on our way.

We have just over an hour to get right across Paris.

Normally a wave curbside would summon a cab or two but add rain to our worsening situation and we didn’t stand a chance.

Not even Christine with her blonde hair, hourglass figure and brilliant yellow umbrella, could sway a cab.

There was no alternative.

The Métro, three blocks away, was our only option.

With umbrellas jammed between neck and shoulder we set off with our baggage — all five pieces — as the heavens opened up with lightning just to add to the drama.

Into the underground, dripping wet, some locals took pity on us and helped us negotiate the not-so-automatic ticket machine that was making things as difficult as possible.

Next we felt we were in a Prince of Persia computer game as various “jaws of death” tried to crush us and our baggage.

Finally, after racing up and down stairs, we were on to the first train and had time to assess the damage so far.

Several strained arm and leg muscles and a pounding heart.

A bit of luck as we jumped off one train to find the next was only 50m away and it arrived as we did.

Three more stations and we were at Gare du Nord . . . with 10 minutes to go, I thought we had made it. Up some stairs and our Eurostar was still waiting but there was no entry, with a guard motioning us towards customs and immigration.

I had completely overlooked the tiny detail of checking in, exiting France and entry into the UK and then security for good measure.

Up more stairs and those strained muscles were now pulled — or the travelling equivalent.

Another guard took pity — or at least felt sorry for Christine’s plight — and waved us through to the top of the queue.

Within seconds we were checked in and on to customs and within a minute, again waved through.

But security was another matter.

A near total undress and baggage scan was required.

We raced off, still putting belts on while trying to wheel and carry our bags.

Down the ramp on to the platform.

We leapt onto the train thinking we would sort out where our carriage was later. A minute later the doors closed.

Finally seated I am sure Christine was left wondering what she had signed up to just 12 hours earlier!

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