Making tracks to the South

I'm finally at my journey's end, having arrived at the vineyard of my friends, Kristi, Jean-Marc and their children, Max and Jackie. It was a six hour journey which began at the train station in Rennes, connected through the city of Lyon and ended with a sigh of relief as Jean-Marc met me at the station in Orange.

Mark and I drove the almost two hours from Lannion to Rennes this morning, having just enough time for a coffee (hot chocolate for me) before making the mad dash to the train's platform. Since the actual "voie" is not announced until the train pulls into the station, all the passengers wait upstairs, hovering around the television monitors until the departure track is posted on the screen. At the appointed moment, the crowd moves in mass, either to the only elevator or to the massive staircase, which leads to the departure area below.

Luckily, since I was riding the TGV (high speed train) between Rennes and Lyon, I had my own specially assigned seat so there was no need to hurry once I'd made it to the correct train. The TGV is the SST of the French rail system and travels smoothly and quietly along the tracks at speeds up to 300 km per hour. As a bit of trivia, once the brakes are applied at this speed, it takes the train 3.2 km to stop. Luckily they did not need to test the accuracy of this statement on today's ride.




I imagine, however, that they may have had to take our particular "car" out of service once it reached Lyon, since the window on the opposite side of my seat decided to explode while we were enroute. Even with my Bose headphones in place, I still heard the impact of whatever it was which smacked into the glass. The two fellows sitting next to the glass looked over at me with eyes as big as saucers while I tried to figure out what had just happened. I thought it was a spray of water that was covering the window until we moved into the sunlight and then I could see that the glass had been completely fractured, although it still hung intact in the frame of the window.

A train agent quickly appeared and ushered the passengers, who had been sitting next to the window, to a safer area upstairs. Those of us on the opposite side of the aisle were left to keep an eye on the damage, hoping that it didn't decide to weaken over time and fly in our direction.





The connection in Lyon was as smooth as glass is supposed to be. I made the dash to the next train with the skill of a native, using an elbow here and stepping on a foot there. No reservations on the TER, but empty seats were plentiful as I made my way halfway along the car and settled into a window seat.

I counted the stops until I'd gotten to the eighth one, which was my stop at Orange. The announcements sounded as if they were being issued through a string and a tin can, so I verified the station with a passenger seated near the door, just to be sure I didn't miss my stop.

Following the "sortie" sign, I descended a long flight of steps, then just as quickly, ascended an even longer one, all the while trying to bounce my baggage along each step. The French apparently don't believe in moving walkways or escalators.....maybe that's why they stay so slim.

It was a welcome sight seeing Jean-Marc appear at the top of the staircase and even more welcoming when he took my bag the rest of the way out of the station, heading toward the car.

A warm greeting awaited me with hugs and a glass or two of the famous wine, who's grapes we were soon to harvest in just over 24 hours.