I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment. Standing in Geneva Train Station; weighed down by a backpack about 10 kilograms too heavy. I was about to launch myself into the continent. I was about to validate my Eurail pass.
It was an exciting moment; one that I had planned and anticipated for months. It was also a heck of a lot of money. I had been scraping together work here and there and figured I had just enough to make it to Amsterdam then a cheap flight to London where I could stay with friends. A Eurail pass wasn’t cheap and if something went wrong, I was calling Mum for a money transfer.
I’m a bit of a worrier, especially when it comes to anything “official”. I trust people but not bureaucracy…what was going to go wrong? It had to be something. By the time I had stood in the line this long I had dropped my bag to the floor and was kicking it in front of me. I really should have packed less crap but I refused to dump anything.
The front of the line. The empty slot. I dragged that tonne weight over to the counter. “Bonjour! Parle vous Anglais?” High school was good for four words; shame I wouldn’t understand a meaningful response. The ticket agent spoke perfect English (to my colonial shame) and the pass was validated almost instantly (to my surprise). A passport as identification, a quick stamp or two and it was done. Now, where was the platform…
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