Wednesday, 19 May 2004
Puff, Puff, Puff
I'm writing this one the return train from Geneva to Paris (no, not with an Internet connection - but being the obsessive-compulsive accurate person I am, I'll have dated this entry to reflect the actual time).
We had to run to the train and quickly negotiate our way through customs in order to make it - and we did, with less than 30 seconds to spare. The taxi that was supposed to have come, didn't. Our client's office is on a private driveway that looks like something leading to an abandoned house (in fact, the office itself looks like an abandoned house - perfect camouflage). The driver had come and left; when we called to check on his status, the central controller told us that he'd simply called in to say that the address didn't exist. Grrr - this in the age of GPS-linked computer maps.
Anyway, our client very graciously drove us to the station - or, at least, tried to do. Traffic in central Geneva is a nightmare, especially in front of the train station, because of never-ending work on laying down tramway track. Today was even worse, with us hitting the end-of-workday traffic on the day before a four-day weekend (four days for others, at least; my coworkers and I are working a normal week).
The result is that we got close, but not too close, to the station - and that was even after our kind benefactor had made a blatantly illegal left turn (and ran a red light doing it). We covered the rest of the way running, with traffic lights, dazed travelers and various small animals all conspiring to slow us down.
Customs wasn't too bad; in fact, the agents opened up a second line just as we arrived, panting. Aside from customs in Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport, the Swiss-French customs lines in Geneva's train station is consistently the smoothest I experience. Today was even better.
So, we just made it to the train - unfortunately taking (imminent departure requiring it) the wrong section of a two-section train. At least we got to cool off in first-class seats until we changed at the next station. I'm sure I made for a pretty picture: shortly after sitting down, I burst - burst - into sweat, as if a fire sprinkler system suddenly went off. (I have theories about exercise having conditioned me for that, but really you don't want to hear any more about my sweating. Or, at least, I don't intend to expound on it.)
And that's my story. With all the gripping, dangerous and living-life-on-the-edge qualities that you've come to expect from my stories. Thank you, and good night.