A Comedy of Errors

On Sunday, after we went up the Aguille du Midi, we took the cable cars back down and spent the remainder of the day/night walking around the charming town. However, like all good stories, our night ended with a comedy of errors. When we had first gotten to the apartment, I tried to connect to wifi but the access code was not working, and thus we could not connect. So, after dinner, we went towards a McDonalds (since Starbucks and McDonalds are the only two places you can rely on for free wifi in Europe) to leech off of their internet and access our emails. My dad decided to go get the car and pick us up while my mom and I finished using the internet. I figured it wouldn’t take him more than 20 minutes to get the car, pay for parking, and pick us up. But it did. After about half an hour, I started to get a bit concerned as to what was taking so long. Then it was 45 minutes. Now my mom was worried. We had rented a black audi and at one point I saw a black audi pulling up and I got so excited and started screaming “Daddy!!”….there was a woman in the car, it definitely was not my daddy. I left and went to a souvenir shop because we thought that obviously the second I walked away he would come. It did not help.  Now what was supposed to be a 20 minute trip had turned into an hour. Finally, my mom looked down the street and saw my dad running and screaming at us to get our attention. He was fine, he had not gotten mugged or had a heart attack, but clearly there was something wrong and the car was not with him.

We reached my dad as he was stressed and tired and he explained quickly what was going on. Apparently when he went to get the car he paid for the parking ticket in the automated machine, but the machine malfunctioned and never gave him his ticket back. But, in order to get out of the lot you need to insert your paid ticket. As a result, there was no way to drive out, and because it was late on a Sunday night, there was no one working at the lot. My dad had tried asking someone to use their phone, but no one would help. He tried using someone else’s ticket, but it came out void. Now he was in search for some way to contact the police to see if they could help. After giving up, he had come running to find us and tell us.

A cop car drove by us and we flagged them down, trying to explain the situation. Next problem: none of us speak French. The police had no idea what we were saying but eventually understood the gist after extensive hand gestures in an attempt to illustrate what had happened. We ran back to the parking lot (about a mile away) and met the police there. My dad, who is skeptical about everything in life, was certain they would never come and that they had no intention in helping us. But, to all of our relief, they eventually figured out exactly what we needed and were able to call someone to open the gates for us. I know the French are generally very condescending and unhelpful to Americans, but for now, I am taking back that stereotype and just being thankful for the extreme help and consideration the cops gave us.

But the comedy of errors does not stop there. I hadn’t done luggage in about 3 weeks (each load cost ~6 euros to do in St Genis) before my parents came because I anticipated doing it at our apartments. So, when we got back to the apartment Sunday night, I began my laundry. The first load I accidentally had on delicates, and then switched the cycle after an hour, making the washing cycle time in at almost 2 hours. For the next two cycles I figured out how to use the express cycle. We searched the apartment and contacted the owner and realized however that although there was a washer, there was no drier. So I hung my clothes. No big deal. The next morning I finished the rest of my laundry and hung the rest up to. The laundry from the night before was still sopping wet and we had to bring the drying rack inside because it was an overcast day. Fingers were crossed that everything would dry.

When we got back to the apartment Monday night, my laundry was still wet. Glen had told me about the time he went to Camaroon, just before his year abroad, when the driers at Yale were not working and he had to pack his damp clothes. Swiss air lost his luggage and by the time he got it back his clothes were moldy and had to be thrown away. We were flying out the next morning on an airline that I have been warned loses luggage frequently and I was positive that the same thing was going to happen to me. So, my mom and I spent hours up at night ironing all of my clothes in the hopes that they would dry. Success.

We got to the airport the next morning and went to check our luggage; we collectively had 4 bags to check between the three of us. My mom had purchased 4 bags, however we had not realized that regardless of the number of bags you purchase, each person only gets 20 kilos to check, and each additional kilo costs 20chf. We had over 85kgs. So there we were, in the middle of the airport, opening all of our bags and readjusting our entire luggage to put things into our backpacks and smaller bags. But we did it. We got three of the bags to be exactly 60kgs, and were able to check the smaller bag in for free. I have officially decided that I hate flying and I really dislike having this much luggage to carry. Trains beat planes any day.