Tiny Joys, Pt. 6: A New Definition of Freedom
On almost getting arrested, and part deux of my writing residency in France.
Bonjour!
After a week of exploring in the south of France, I found myself back on the train to Clamecy to resume my writing residency. This time, however, the ride didn’t go quite as smoothly as before.
By mistake, I had bought a ticket for a different age group, which was 5 euros less than the proper 35 euros for the ticket. But rather than allowing me to pay the difference, the man checking my ticket demanded I pay an additional 60 euros, double the price. I had the feeling he was also taking advantage of me since I was a tourist. Even though I explained it was a mistake, he started getting really aggressive and told me that he would call the police on me.
At the next stop, I told him I would just leave the train. I was still an hour away from Clamecy, and had no idea how I’d get there, but all I knew was it wasn’t right to pay 90 euros for a ticket that was no more than 35, and more importantly, he was terrifying me. Instead, he followed me off the train and started grabbing me, telling me he would get me arrested for fraud. Before I knew it, five other security guards circled me, telling me the police were coming and now I would have to pay an arrest ticket of 150 euros on top of everything.
I didn’t really understand how it had escalated this far, but none of the other train guards were willing to talk with me. At this point, I was on the platform and the train was about to leave. I wasn’t sure when the next one to town would be. Just then, a family on the train walked out and intervened. They had been listening and reasoned that it was an honest mistake and should be a small difference in price. After talking them down, the guards finally relented, and I was able to pay a reasonable difference.
I got back on the train, shaking, and sat with the family because I was afraid to sit alone in case the guards came back. “France just really cares about their rules,” they explained.
These moments are one of the scarier ones of traveling alone, but it also brings me to my first tiny joy: the kindness of strangers. As prepared as I think I can be when I travel, sometimes things just go wrong, and I was super grateful that I had this kind family there. I even didn’t have enough cash on me to pay the full difference, and they helped me, assuring me to just pay it forward for the next traveler in need.
The father was French and a professor in physics, and the mother was American. They were traveling with their young kids, and staying at a chateaux nearby for the week. When it was their stop, they wished me well. “I hope this experience gives you something to write about.” I marveled at how this always seemed to be the takeaway after every harrowing or strange experience. While there is always room for more material, sometimes it’s nice to just take a peaceful train ride, too.
Finally, I arrived back at Clamecy, a small town two hours outside of Paris, where I would stay for the next ten days to finish my book proposal.
I’ve been working on and off on a memoir of essays about my health for the past year or so. It’s taken me a while to finish because sometimes it feels so painful to delve back into these memories, to reopen old wounds, that I wonder if it is a good idea. But then I always return to it, fueled by this desire to still embrace even the painful parts of these past few years, in the hopes that a book like this can help someone in need with a similar condition.
I settled back into my old room, getting reacquainted. But there was still a knot in my stomach, wondering if I had made the right choice in coming back. Was the almost-arrest a sign that this trip back was a bad idea? Sometimes, I can’t help but think in this way. As if, because my last time at the residency was so wonderful, this next visit will be pushing my luck.
But I know that I can often get so fearful that I am making the wrong choice, and put so much importance and pressure on even minor decisions. As if one right or wrong move could drastically alter my life. I think it is a way of protecting myself, of trying to feel like I guiding my life in the right direction through careful thought and vigilance. When in reality, no one knows. And that is much harder to face than the illusion that we have any control over how our lives will turn out. I have a tendency to always have a fear of stepping into a new experience, of what will await me, but in the end, all my scary, new opportunities have been the most rewarding.
Once I unpacked, I headed over to the 12th century chapel, which also functioned as the residency’s living room.
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