Long Weekend

 I have my first visitor from the UK coming to visit; mummy dearest. She’s fresh from her Eastern excursion spending Christmas and New Year’s with sis in Japan. A long weekend in Strasbourg is another opportunity for her to chase away the winter blues.

The day of her arrival, I take the afternoon off work. It’s getting busier and Sophie is away on sick leave (naughtily accessing her emails from time to time) but I am not swamped. I’ve been preparing for mum’s visit throughout the week. All that's left to do is to cook and give the flat another tidy, although an extensive clean is not required. I seem to spend a lot of my free time tidying the place in an attempt to keep it as spotless as when I moved in. Who’d have thunk it; Tola the domestic goddess? Ish. In any case, mum’s standards are a lot higher than mine. I don’t want her inspecting an undetected slither of dust with her finger.

My newly-discovered fussiness is a decision I come to regret. I don’t meet my own deadline to leave and pick up mum from Basel airport. My journey starts well enough. Not long to wait for the bus. But then, in a moment of clumsiness, I drop my wallet on descending from said bus. I just know in my gut it’s a sliding doors moment. Stopping to pick it up is the split second difference between catching the tram which sets off a chain reaction of sorry events. From then on it’s a sod’s law connection. I arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare to the next train and I haven’t even bought my ticket. It’s an impossible task. There’s a half hour wait for the next. I arrive at St Louis Station, and spot from a distance the shuttle bus to the airport pulling away. Another 15 minute wait. I’ve been fretting throughout the journey, praying that mum won’t be stoney-faced when I show up. Lo and behold, she’s as sullen as I expect; perhaps worse. She’s been waiting for two hours and, unbeknownst to me, she's unwell. I try to explain, defensive. Why didn't she upgrade to a no-roaming package like I suggested, so my messages would reach her? The anxiety has made my adrenaline sky-rocket. We have a stinking row on the shuttle back to St Louis, much to the quiet alarm of a fellow passenger.

I have purchased mum’s ticket en route so that saves us some time. I hope. A Strasbourg train is scheduled for half-7. By 20 to 8, with still no sign of it and the display panel now showing a later departure, I venture outside the waiting room to find out what’s happening. Other travellers are also scratching their heads. One astute observer notices the train opposite has been stationary for some time. She suspects something is amiss. She’s right. The next minute, we’re being evacuated from the building by station officials and the police. A suspicious package. Mum, myself and several other passengers stand outside in the cold and wet whilst the authorities fiddle around with what is likely someone’s forgotten shopping. Mercifully we’re allowed back in. Our Strasbourg train is now an hour behind schedule.

I have tried to time the journey to get a tram that will take us to a destination where we can catch a bus that stops at my front door. We’ve already missed one but if all goes well, we’ll arrive in time to catch the next without too long a wait in the cold. Timing finally seems to be on our side. On board the tram, Mum and I are in deep conversation when some inspectors approach us. I have a pre-paid monthly travel pass (A Badgeo). I’ve bought mum the top-up equivalent. Unfortunately, in Strasbourg there’s a system of having to validate temporary tickets before each journey. I try to do it on mum’s behalf well in advance of meeting her but all it does is deduct a ticket.

I don’t have to validate my pre-paid but I forget to remind mum to activate hers immediately before boarding. Everything has been so harried, it slipped my mind. I try to explain all this to the inspector. 

It’s not her fault. She’s a tourist. I forgot…

Very well. That’s an on the spot 40 euro fine.

What? 

She points officiously to the list of penalties that ironically, I'm sitting next to. 

That’s the last thing I need. I’ve just been paid and yet I’m already on a tight budget. Hosting guests is expensive.

B-But…

All we'd need to do is get off at the next stop, validate and hop back on. Thanks to my panic and fatigue and being in a highly unfamiliar situation, I can’t formulate an articulate sentence in French. The jobsworth inspector won’t budge despite my pleas. Mum is angered by my supplications. Leave it! She’s made up her mind.

Mum offers to pay. It would be a substantial chunk of her spending cash. I told her she wouldn’t need to bring much. I can always use my card.

I won’t have it. It’s like she’s being punished for my error. We reach our stop with only a few minutes left to catch the bus. I try and explain that we need to get off here. I’ve (sort of) made my peace with having to pay the fine but I’d like to speed things up. It’s already 10pm and the buses only come two an hour. Not that I’m able to get this out as clearly as I’d wished.

Still. No mercy.

You can get off at the next stop. It’s not far.

Silly woman. I know the area. I am familiar with it enough to be sure that we won’t make it back in time to catch our bus. (Mum later suggests that I could have insisted and made my way off the tram regardless. As a migrant of African descent, I don't fancy my chances of not being brutalised by French authorities. Especially in light of recent events).

 Once I’ve paid the 40 euros by card, there is yet more petty French bureaucracy. This time it's a temporary paper ticket which we don’t flipping-well need. Mum already has a Badgeo. We just need to validate. I try to explain that what they're telling me doesn't make sense. They switch to bad English.

I understand the French. I just don’t understand your point.

(In this context, I probably said ‘I don’t understand your full stop’ as my tired brain used a more English turn of phrase instead of what I now think would have been the correct French ('argument').)

All this wastes enough time for us to make futile efforts to catch our bus. We watch it pulling away on the horizon.

It’ll be nearly 11 before we reach mine. We’re tired, dejected and hungry. Mum is coming down with a cold. She tries to be gamely as I show her around. She enjoys the mixed-meat tagine I’ve prepared. I’m in a funk about the fine and an overall bloody difficult evening. So much for an auspicious start to my mum’s first holiday in France.

For want of a nail. Or a purse. 

Me and my butter fingers.