Laptop disaster in France

Those who know me are fully aware of my most prized possession, my MacBook Pro laptop. My most important equipment as a graphic designer, artist, and photographer, not to mention my sole means of communication with my family, friends and fiancé in the USA.  Equipped with the latest design software, webcam, and all of my artwork, this sleek aluminum cased machine is my baby. Even after vigilant care, my worst computer nightmare has occurred.  

After a brief trip to Toulouse, where I ended up signing a work contract, I headed back to the train station for the all-day trip back to Metz.  

I was about to head to my platform when I happened upon an older, rather overweight gentleman laying on the ground at the base of the escalator. Others walked briskly by, as if he was invisible. 

"Vous avez besoin d'aide, Monsieur?" I asked. 

He replied that he could not stand up.  Without a second thought I offered my hand, not realizing the degree to which the man had lost his equilibrium. He struggled to his feet, wavered for a moment, and then collapsed to the ground, taking me down with him.  His weight was enough to crack my back, but what concerned me the most was not my well-being, but that of my laptop, which had just been crushed on the floor beneath the both of us.  

A passer by helped stand him up, and I immediately opened my bag to inspect my precious MacBook Pro.  The screen had been shattered.

I promptly burst into tears and told the man how costly the repairs would be, and asked him if he would help with the cost. 

He seemed panicked by my words. "Listen, I'm sorry, but I have no money, and really, you were under no obligation to help me up. That was your choice" he replied. "I'm really sorry, but I have a train to catch, I have to go." 

I followed him, my voice raising, my French becoming more and more riddled with mistakes. "But you can't do this to me, Monsieur!" I cried. "You broke my computer, and now you're not taking responsibility!" Instead of using the formal 'vous' to address him, I called him 'tu.' My French typically goes down the toilet when I'm panicked or upset.

Passers-by stared, and paused to watch the scene unfold. My tearful theatrics worked; a security guard approached us and asked what the problem was. I explained what happened, and the security guard addressed the man. 

"Your insurance should pay for this accident, Monsieur." he said authoritatively. You need to give this Mademoiselle your phone number, address, and insurance name so that she can be reimbursed." 

Maurice, as I learned he was called, begrudgingly attempted to scribble his information on a piece of paper. It was complete illegible. The security guard had to write it for him.  The more I examined Maurice, the more confused he seemed, and he swayed, as if on the verge of falling again.  Could he have been drunk?

I took his information, praying that he hadn't lied about his phone number. There was nothing more I could do, since I was about to miss my train.

Back in Metz, I found out the cost of repairing my computer screen: 779 Euros! For my fellow Americans, that equates to $1,080.78. Roughly HALF the cost of my computer! Luckily the information, art, and photos were still intact.

The repairman told me that I would have to pay the bill myself, then turn the bill in to the insurance company for eventual reimbursement. This type of disaster was definitely NOT in my budget, and took a significant piece of my already dwindling savings. 

After paying the bill, I phoned Maurice. Several times. No answer. Big surprise.

I must be a magnet for catastrophe.

Arrival in Metz

Now that I've shared how lovely Metz is, I can get on with the difficult arrival process. I woke up at 5am to call a cab to take my ridiculous amount of luggage from my hotel to Gare de l'Est in Paris for my train to Metz.  

My luggage included: 

TWO massive suitcases, one weighing 70 pounds, the other, 50 pounds (I paid handsomely for this at the airport.) 

A large over the shoulder carry-on containing my laptop and tons of electronic devices, batteries, chargers, cameras, etc.

A large 'purse' that really should be called a tote bag. In fact, according to Vera Bradley, it IS a tote bag.

All of my bags were bursting at the seams, and thankfully, a Frenchman helped my drag my belongings onboard the train.  The ride itself was very brief (only 82 minutes from Paris to Metz on the high speed TGV trains).  However, getting off the train was another matter.  I managed to lug one suitcase and one carry-on onto the platform, but had to reboard to grab my other suitcase and totebag/purse.  Naturally there was a crush of people exiting the train, rendering me powerless to get back onboard... Miraculously, I did get back on board, and managed to rescue my second load of worldly possessions as the doors were closing.  

I felt everyone's curiosity/amusement as I fashioned my rolling luggage into a sort of train by hooking them together.  Trudging toward the elevator, I had to wait for the crowd to diminish before squeezing inside, and then caused people waiting on the ground floor to miss the elevator as I struggled to drag everything out.  I resisted the urge to glare at the guy who laughed at me boisterously without raising a hand to help me.

Breathless, I arrived outside the station, where I was ignored by taxi drivers for nearly half an hour (the short fare and daunting amount of luggage wasn't worth their effort.)  I finally sat on the ground behind my fortress of baggage, fighting back tears of frustration, which caused one of the drivers to develop a heart and agree to take me.  We made small talk in French, and he complimented my ability, which was very sweet of him, considering the fact that I'm hardly fluent yet.

At the foyer where I'm staying, I was proud of myself for handling the check in process, paperwork, and questions entirely in French.  My studio is pretty small, but with a pleasant view of a church.  It's quite simple, with a desk and chair, bed, bathroom, shower, and bureau. There is ample shelving space, but I hesitate to unpack since I plan on moving into something better within the month.  This place is very utilitarian, and not especially welcoming, so hopefully I'll find some friendly Frenchies to reside with in the near future.

Armed with a map of the city, I set out to accomplish Mission number 1: getting a French mobile phone.  I found a centrally located SFR shop, where I was able to secure a very basic flip phone and a prepaid plan.  The owner of the shop, as well as several French customers in line behind me, complimented me, saying that they wished their English was as good as my French. I ate up that bit of reassurance like a fresh piece of pain au chocolate! Obtaining a French cell phone has been one of my dreaded tasks, but it was remarkably easy, compared to the rest of my day.  

With newfound confidence, I explored the city a bit before heading back to my foyer for lunch... I walked into the cafeteria, flashed a smile and a bonjour to the café workers, and proceeded to place food on my tray.  Fresh baked bread, salad, cheeses, and fresh fruit!  

"Mademoiselle? Votre carte! " A woman in an apron emerged from the back, demanding to know where my residence card was... I replied that I had not yet received one from the front desk, as today was my first day.  She told me that I could not eat without the card and made me put everything back that I had on my tray.  My cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and I could feel the eyes of everyone in the dining room on me. Every bit of confidence gained in the cell phone experience seemed to be deflated now.  Still, I returned to the front desk where I was able to obtain this magical card, and everything turned out fine back in the lunch room, although I still felt self-conscious when some of the diners tittered when I walked back in. I remade a tray of food, sat down, and buried my head in a book.  It would have been nice to have company... I'm one of those people who has a natural inclination to smile at passers-by, but in the foyer, not many people return this gesture... especially in the cafeteria.

After lunch, I walked back to the city center, to do some exploring before dinner.  Thank God for the Cathedral. It will be my favorite place in Metz. The portals are magnificently carved (some of the finest examples of Medieval carving in Europe), but one is completely unprepared for the splendor that awaits inside. Built in the 12th century, Saint-Etienne (Saint Steven) has one of the highest naves in Europe.  I gasped audibly when I stepped inside.  The sheer height of the nave and incredible amount of glass is like nothing I've seen before at even Notre Dame, Saint-Denis or Chartres.  Apparently the cathedral is one of the largest in France, and has one of the largest expanses of stained glass in the world, which has earned it the nickname: God's Lantern. At night, it's lit from the inside, exposing the stained glass to everyone outside. It's not often that beauty moves me to tears, and that's exactly what happened in Saint-Etienne today. The best part is, my favorite artist of all time, Marc Chagall, completed the stained glass windows in certain sections of the church. I spent quite some time there, even exploring the crypt from the original church beneath the foundations.  The atmosphere was warm and cleansing, and seemed to say "Rest, you'll be safe here." The lack of sleep and series of stressful events of today seemed to melt away.  

Since people tend to eat dinner much later in Europe than in the States, I assumed I'd be able to stroll down to dinner at 7:30pm without a problem.  I assumed wrongly.  The cafeteria was already closed, which meant I had to venture back out for dinner (and spend more money!)  I wandered through Metz, which is lit up beautifully at night to enhance its architectural features. Unfortunately, the sandwich stands and pastry shops were closed.  I couldn't justify eating out at one of the fancy brasseries or outdoor cafés alone, and those seemed to be the only things open.  For a Friday night, the streets seemed practically deserted, except for the nice restaurants.  I was about to accept defeat and return to call it an early night when I stumbled upon O'Kebab, a sort of mediterranean fast food joint.  After all the carb-o-licious cuisine I've been sampling, I decided on a salad.  I read some more Camus before returning to my foyer to spend my first night in Metz, looking forward to a hot shower to wash away the grime of travel.

I burst into tears when I couldn't figure out the shower in my studio... it seems that it turns itself off every 10 seconds to save energy/water, and each time I press the button to restart the flow of water, the water is frigid again, and just when it starts to warm up, it shuts back off again, and the process begins anew.

I attribute my emotional reaction to the shower to lack of sleep and the stress of being submerged in a new country with a different language and cultural norms, and being completely taken away from my world as I know it.  I reassure myself that it can only get better from here, and that with time, I become settled into life dans le pays messin.