Gare du Nord, Paris was busy. The locals were on some kind of mission, rushing in every direction with purpose. Meanwhile, there’s us, the clueless tourists, trying to live-Google-Translate our way around the station and debating whether ‘sortie’ was a pastry or a direction. Finally, after what felt like navigating an extremely stylish obstacle course, we found our train to Zurich. We had actual roles assigned like we were some kind of special ops team! Mom was on ‘brother duty’, while dad and I were the designated luggage handlers. I must admit that we did such a masterful tetris job with our suitcases in the luggage compartment!
Summer of 2016 was supposed to be our grand European trip, the first proper family vacation we’d taken in years. We had a masterplan, a scenic train journey from Paris to Zurich. Sounds great, right? Like something out of a Wes Anderson film. But a Wes Anderson film is rarely without its sudden twists and turns!
As we settled in our seats hoping to relax, we realized the universe (or Wes Anderson?), with its sense of humour, had different plans for us. An incredibly talkative family sat right next to us, and when I tell you they TALKED. NONSTOP. For FIVE. STRAIGHT. HOURS. I’m not even exaggerating!
Dad, quiet, ever-composed dad, was slowly losing it. He was so looking forward to enjoying the scenic route, all those stunning green peaks with the cute little houses dotting the hillsides. But nope! His glasses kept sliding down his nose every time they hit a new conversation peak, and he’d shoot these death glares their way that could wilt flowers. Mom and I kept catching each other’s eyes and our faces were frozen in that ‘don’t you dare laugh’ expression. But we didn’t dare let it out because then dad’s rage laser would have pointed at us instead. My brother? Oblivious. Blissfully listening to music, possibly plotting his next snack.
Dad’s irritation meter was off the charts by the time we finally reached Zurich. Thank god he’d booked a hotel about two feet from the train station. He’s been to Zurich a million times for work, so he was strutting around with the air of, “Follow me, amateurs.” By this point, we’d switched duties. Mom and I were lugging bags while dad was in charge of my brother.
So there we were, dragging our bags along this street with tram tracks, and I was a few steps ahead of my mom. As we were slowly moving forward, I spotted a tram rounding the corner, clearly on a collision course with my oblivious mother. “Mom, TRAM!!!” I screamed with the urgency of someone who had just spotted a meteor heading toward Earth. Time froze. My mother stopped dead in her tracks. The tram screeched to a halt. What followed was perhaps the most intense three-way staring contest in Swiss history, my wide-eyed mother, the unamused tram driver, and me, who had just caused a public transportation incident. After what felt like an eternity of silent judgment from the tram driver, I gently suggested, “Mom, maybe keep moving?”
And while it was chaotic in the moment, this whole series of misadventures has become the stuff of family legend. The train ride, the tram incident, even dad’s theatrical glares have been lovingly exaggerated in every retelling since. Turns out, we could rival the talkative family on the train on poor etiquette and creating a scene in public.
That summer, we didn’t just visit Europe. We left a mark, mostly on tram driver nerves and public transportation etiquette. We made memories I wouldn’t trade for anything. Except maybe a quieter train compartment.