Last week we did a mad dash to Italy to sign for our loan, check on renovations and try and get a jump on furnishing the place. I realize we were doing the exact same thing a year ago! A year ago this week, this is what was going on:
We bought a "family discount" card for the train - recommended by the SNCF (French train) office. The ticket office told us that Isabelle entitles us all to a discount. We get 25-50 percent off of our two tickets and Isabelle gets a seat for free! It turns out that it is cheaper for the three of us to travel first class on the family card than to travel second class at the normal rates.
The card only works in France. We park our car in Oulx, just on the Italian side of the Frejus tunnel. We decided on Oulx because Clay is terrified of driving through tunnels (but somehow feels better going through on board a train?) and also because the tunnel toll is something like 30 euros. We might as well stay on the train.
So what we've done is buy our ticket to the furthest stop in France (just before the tunnel) via the family card, and then plan to buy a ticket just for the one stop through the tunnel to Oulx, Italy.
Last week, we happily boarded the train and found our three comfy seats in first class, feeling quite posh and cozy I was nursing Isabelle when the conductor (actually conductress,) came by to ask for our tickets. I showed her our tickets accompanied by our "enfant discount" card.
She shook her head at me, “No Madame. (This is not the right card”
Huh? “C’est la carte d’enfant.”
“(French – No it is not. This is the frequent riders card”
She looked at me in that way the French have mastered over centuries. There is a certain sense of “je ne sais quoi”, absolute “rightness” that the French have embraced. It is part of their cultural identity. Whether you are in line at the boulangerie, or a passenger on a train, the customer is never right. Especially if the customer is not French.
She looked down her nose at me as I readjusted the blanket I was using to try and give Isabelle some privacy while nursing. Bella kept throwing it off in disdain, preferring to have a good open view of the scene while she is slurping her lunch.
“(French) This card entitles you to the points. So that you can buy what you would like in the SNCF shop”?
Some ridiculous scheme wherein one acquires points for the train ride which one can redeem for goods from the SNCF (France trains) store. Why anyone would ever want to buy something from the French transport system, I've no idea, but the upshot was that we were not carrying the correct card.
“(French) this is not the correct card. You must have the other paper. Didn’t they give you the document when you bought the card?”
Apparently what we were required to show was proof that we had purchased the card. No matter that having the stupid points card should be proof enough - how could we have the points card without having purchased the discount card? But what we needed to show was the paper receipt from the purchase of the card, with the date of purchase and child's age clearly stated.
We tried to argue logically: how could we possibly have this dumb points card if we hadn't purchased the actual card? We explained that this was the first time we had used it, that when we bought the card (requiring a long wait at the train office) they told us that once we received the plastic, wallet friendly card (the points card), we should carry and show that. We had left the receipt and accompanying cumbersome (non wallet friendly) paperwork at home because we had no idea we had to bring and show that.
“(French) Perhaps this card is not valid. It may be old and expired. I need the receipt to verify”
We pointed to Isabelle, and her passport, and argued that since she was only 7 months old we could not possibly have an expired card (over a year old).
“(French) perhaps this card is from another child”
Oh please. I was losing patience. Did she really think that I had either the time or energy to go through these shenanigans? That I would go to that much effort to try and cheat the system so that we could ride the train at the family discount? Yes, that is what she thought. Because the French are experts at cheating the system. The French see it as a coup, a success, if you can manage to cheat the system in any little way.
“(French) Madame, je suis tres desolee. C’est notre premiere fois a utiliser cette carte.” I look at her imploringly, Isabelle still sucking away with interest, the drama unfolding for her personal entertainment. Look, we are clearly new at this (being parents, traveling the French rails with a family card) and we are obviously foreigners, clueless to this intricate system. The train office misinformed us, we left the paperwork at home, what are we to do?
“(in French) You must pay the different in cost. The difference between the discounted rate and the cost for a2 first class tickets bought today” She looks at me straight faced and expectantly. “That comes to….400 euros”
Double to cost of our original tickets. Are you kidding me? I’ve got a baby on the boob and I have explained that we don’t know what we are doing.
She looked at us blankly. “Of course not I am not joking” (Oh right. I forgot that the French have zero sense of humor) “. You must pay the difference now - or we will have the police escort you off the train”. I have a baby on the boob and you are going to KICK us off the train? “When you return to Paris, take your documents and ticket to the train office, explain and they will refund your money”.
OK, not only did we have to wait in line, in person, with the baby, to purchase the tickets in the first place, but now I have to go wait in line again, with the baby, to get a refund? In order to use the family discount card, you must go to a train office and wait in line to buy your tickets in person, rather than buying them on the internet. So, ultimately, the people with children are the ones who have to schlep to the office, take a number and wait in an irritating line (like the post office, the train ticket office seems to always have a line. I have gone to both at all hours of the day and there always seems to be an exceedingly long line).
We tried in vain to argue reasonably, even enlisting the help of the couple across from us who overheard (who in the car couldn’t overhear this argument?). The conductor brought over her “manager”, who, after a quick look at our tickets and card, not missing Isabelle slurping away on me, looked at us deadpan and stated that if we did not pay the difference immediately the police would escort us off of the train.
We finally had no choice but to pay up. Clay first tried his French ATM card which (thankfully) didn't work. Mine didn't work. Now I was furious because we had already agreed to pay the damn thing, bringing the cost of our train tickets now up to $500, and their damn machine clearly wasn't working!!! It finally accepted our Am Ex card. At least now the funds wouldn’t be debited out of our account. We could argue an AmEx charge
After that hullabaloo, we realized our train was terminating in Modane. We had a very slim chance of catching a connecting train to Oulx. If we were lucky, we'd have a 10-minute gap and be able to catch the only other train.
Unsurprisingly, our train was delayed and we missed the only connection by 10 minutes. Dragging our luggage, stroller and Isabelle, we considered our options. Which were slim. The next (and only) bus would leave in 4 hours, at 4pm. We would have to wait. However that bus wasn't going as far as Oulx. It would stop one town short, in Bardinnechio, where we would have to find a cab to take us to out car in Oulx.
I was so frustrated. Here we had bought the damn discount card, which meant we were put on the wrong part of the train, the part that wasn't going all the way to our destination, and because of the stupid card, we were now paying double to be stranded part way!
We called our Italian friend whose son lives in Bardenecchio, 10 minutes from our car park. Being the saintly family that they are John told us he would be there in a couple of hours to pick us up and drive us through the tunnel to Oulx where our car was parked. We settled in for a particularly bad pizza (as Clay commented "haven't they ever just driven through the tunnel to Italy and tried REAL pizza?") and waited for John.
Bella spent her time riding the suitcases (her new game): she stands on the suitcase and holds onto the extended handle, sort of "surfing".
John arrived at 3pm, complete with car seat in his SUV and loaded us up. What an angel. We finally arrived at our car at 4pm.
And you will never guess what we did then.
Drove to Ikea.
We had to. We are under deadline to furnish this house and, seeing as how Isabelle hates the car, the prospect of spending Sunday driving back to go to Ikea sounded even more hellish than spending Saturday night there.
I was apprehensive about Bella's tolerance for home furnishing shopping (seeing as I have none) at all, let alone after the long day we had already had, but I didn't count on the fact that to her Ikea is a giant playland. Especially in Italy.
Open spaces full of mattresses to crawl on, sofas to climb on, and new people to interact with.
What to me is a nightmare of crowds (yes, Sat night it was packed with crowds like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade), to Isabelle is a plethora of new faces to socialize with.
If you've got to go to Ikea (my idea of hell), go in Italy. Italians are so warm and welcoming, especially to children, and Ikea is no exception.
I've always been baffled by what seems a tedious system of ordering furniture there. The little note cards and pencils, the waiting in line for some helpless person to assist you. Someone who is supposed to input your order into the computer, but whom you are never able to find. Then waiting in another long line to pay just so you can navigate some maze through another building where you have to go find your purchases in the depths of a warehouse. By now you just want to leave even though you've paid for everything, forget it, just get out. Save yourself! Run!
Because otherwise you now have to determine how you're going to get all of those "bargain buys" into the trunk of your car. A trunk that's already filled with suitcases.
The Italian staff couldn't have been more friendly, chatting with us about colors and sizes and suggesting that we. Have everything delivered. Delivered? Everything?
With Isabelle in the stroller, we had somehow been barely managing to maneuver three industrial sized carts filled with linens, pillows and bed coverings for 5 beds, towels, kitchenware and other household crap, just barely avoiding knocking over small children on our way to the checkout line.
Yes! Please deliver! We've been traveling since 5am, our baby is still in her PJs (now exhausted after her gymnastics marathon trying out every bed in the mattress section) and we've got another hour to drive tonight.
We paid up, took our lengthy list of items, trusting in faith that they will show up at our house sometime before our first guests arrive in June, and thankfully left. Bella fell asleep as soon as we started the engine. Despite my newfound appreciation for Ikea, I'll order online next time.
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