Are we there yet?

On my last day in Europe, my final travel itinerary was a bit stressful. My flight home was scheduled out of Amsterdam on a Sunday, and the Saturday before I was traveling from Grenoble, France. I got on a train at 7 am in Grenoble, teary-eyed as I watched the beautiful mountain passes that had been home for me for two months fade away. I arrived in Paris three hours later, and had to switch train stations to catch my connection train to Amsterdam. To avoid an expensive taxi fair, I braved the RER line in Paris to get to the right station. For those of you who are not familiar, the RER is kind of like the commuter rail in Boston, except you can't read the monitors for where next train is going, it's filthy, and it stops in places that are about as safe as downtown Trenton (not to mention it picks up grade-A travelers along the way). Lugging my 70-pound suitcase, a backpack, and a heavy shoulder bag, I finally reached the right station.

I heard that my train was being called, and I hopped on the train that read "Amsterdam" on the side. It must have been a combination of my traveler anxiety along with the glass of wine I had in the "Gare du Nord" that didn't make me realize how it was strange that no one was getting on the train I was on. As I was sitting alone in the train, an employee asked me in French if he could help me. I said I was going to Amsterdam, and he said "you mean that train?" as a train was pulling out of the station on the track next to mine. As I was gathering my things and shedding a few tears, the employee proceeded to yell at me in French saying I was stupid for not realizing I was on the wrong train (looking back it wasn't the smartest thing I've done, but at least wait until I'm not crying, buddy). I was able to exchange my ticket for a later train, and a few hours later I was finally on my way to Amsterdam.

I made friends with the business man next to me on the train, who was a Netherlands native, and he suggested I lock up my huge suitcase at the train station instead of taking it with me through the city, and grab it the next day when I was leaving for the airport. I'm pretty sure if an angel has ever been sent to me, that was the time. Before arriving in Amsterdam, I figured as a seasoned European traveler, I could just glance at the trolley map that ran through the city to take to my hotel. As I was exiting the station, however, a lot of colorful people were passing me by. I finally determined that a gay festival must be going on in the city. Perfect. I hopped on the trolley, and was planning to take it to "Rembrandstadt" station, which was supposed to be about two blocks from my hotel. A bunch of drunk Brits were on the trolley with me, and they said "hey! Why aren't they stopping at Rembrandstadt?” The train kept going, and I got off at the next stop with them. I had no map, no Dutch, and was the only sober person in the city. After walking around for 2 hours through crowds of intoxicated gay people, I decided to hop in a cab and announced the street that my hotel was on. He said he couldn't take me there--that's where the concert was being held and the street was closed. I couldn't really think of another barrier that would keep me from my hotel, and after 13 hours, I finally found my hotel haven. Looking back, it is easy to laugh, but now I'm pretty sure I can handle any travel woes that come my way in the future. Bring it on.