A story about cheese…. and missing the Eurostar.

I’d like to take a moment to say….. today I missed my train back from Paris because I was….. eating…… cheese.

I’d also like to say that this is the sixth mode of transportation I’ve missed internationally in the past year and a half.

Before that–> my track record was at ZERO.

It all started when I missed my flight to Trieste on my way to Outlook frestival in Croatia (2015 for point of reference).  The week before, I had driven from Connecticut to Arizona in 5 days with my sister- we drove 40 hours, through 3 times zones.  When we arrived in Arizona, we had one evening where we got messy and I boarded my flight back to New York at 11pm still drunk, where I had 24 hours to pack up a years worth of belongings to move back to the UK.  When I arrived in the UK, not only was I exhausted, but 3 days later I was at Shambala festival where I slept a maximum of 12 hours over 3 days and had a 2 day gap between my flight to Trieste.

My flight was at 7 am from Heathrow.  I decided to stay at family friends in Fulham because it was mildly closer and the uber would be cheaper.  However, I stayed up until 1 am dying my hair TURQUOISE (priorities- amiright?) and woke up blissfully when the sun was up.

I BOLTED UPRIGHT. Hang on, I’m meant to be on a flight right now .


No worries.

I decided an extra 24 hours of relaxation was exactly what I needed. I booked a flight for the next day for 40 quid. Easy.

Now, here’s where the story gets tricky.  After the festival, and hardly any sleep (not to mention a roll through from Saturday morning until Monday morning), I awoke at 4 am to catch the shuttle to Trieste.  Upon arrival the lady looked at me blankly.  “We don’t have your booking.”

“What do you mean you don’t have my booking?”

Turns out, if you don’t make your flight TO your destination, and don’t notify the airline, they assume you never made it.  There I was, in Trieste, all alone, on a savage comedown and no idea what to do.  I assess my options.  I could book a flight from Venice… I could stay in Trieste for the evening. I could drive BACK to Croatia and spend the night in my friends villa and drive everyone back to Trieste the next morning (lols at this one, I actually pondered it for a good 20 mins).

I ended up booking a flight from Venice for what I thought was the next day. 30 quid, YES.


I decided the best way to get to Venice was by CAR (obviously?!).  The idea was more romantic and I was playing on my laziness.  I couldn’t be bothered to find the train station. I’d rather drive. Simples.  I had driven stick shift in South America so I opted for that, and couldn’t even get it out of the parking lot. LAME.  I cried to the lady at the counter (more out of embarrassment than dismay) and exchanged the keys for an automatic smart car.

Half way there, I got highway hypnosis and my eyes began to drift (this is a common thing of mine, lots of sleep or no sleep).  I pulled over for a wee nap.  Ended up at a hostel outside of Venice with a pool (noice one👏)

and cried for a little while, but befriended my roomie and we drank cheap sugary cocktails that eve together (the bucket kind where they’re 5 euros a pop- WIN).  I drove him to the airport the next day, handed the car back and we parted ways. Adios amigo, it’s been real.

I go up to the checkin counter and the lady stares at me blankly.  “Your booking is for the 12th of October.”

I broke down. My own, melting brain stupidity. My happy little fingers clicking away and getting excited about the right number day, completely skipping over the wrong month. Stupid happy clappy fingers.

My cheapest option at this point (since I was ALREADY AT THE AIRPORT) was to fly the next morning at 6 am.  I’d already turned the car in.  So I slept on the airport floor with some other peeps who had been at the festival. We made a nice little line of sleeping bodies in the cold marbled floor of the Venice Marco Polo airport.

That was the first (and epicly tragic) time I missed several flights in the space of 7 days.

The next time was with my ex boyfriend.  I had let him prebook our train to the airport from Crans Montana.  If we made it we would have had only an hour at the airport to pass security and board the flight.  I didn’t want to be travel-nazi and scold him when in reality if we make the train all would have been fine.

However, we missed it.  We saw it pull out of the station- devastating.

We assessed our options this time.  Gevena? Zurich? Rent a car and drive it across Europe? (DID I NOT LEARN THE FIRST TIME?)

I found a flight for 40 euros each. YES LETS DO IT. Booked it.  And realised I’d got finger happy, AGAIN. I’d booked them for the month after Face With Rolling Eyes on Apple iOS 10.2(stupid, stupid, stupid….)

We found some flights for later that day from Geneva for 110 each, so we bunked the train and walked around Geneva, drinking beer and generally having a nice lil impromptu day. We made it.  Flight number 5.

Flight number 6 would be the one booked for the month after this one.

I have been in Paris for the past 3 days, with my best friend Meagan from America and her lovely family who I am super close with.  They had booked to go on a food tour at 3:30 on the Wednesday, and my EuroStar train was at 6:13.  As long I left an hour before I’d make it.

I checked CityMapper and it said 13 minutes in an Uber to Gare du Nord.  Great.  I’ll leave at 5:30; enough time to enjoy some of the cheese Diane, our food tour guide, had bought for us.

Cheese is my fave.

5:30 draws closer, I say my goodbyes. Diane had lovingly packed me a doggie bag of the mishmash of cheeses with a bit of a baguette.  I booked an UberPOOL (I knew in my gut this was wrong but did it anyway- I was too cocky on cheese).

I got in my Uber.  DING DING. Pick up a rider. The route on my phone goes compeltely out of whack.  Destination arrival time went from 6:02, to 6:18.


I tell my Uber drive the situation, and he rolls his fingers around my brain. Yes I know I’m fucking crazy.  I know it was fucking stupid.  But now I need to deal with my stupidity, and you are not helping.

He pulls over.   I go in to a hotel, and theres a flight at 8:25 from the Airport CDG, 50 minutes away on the train from where I was.  I consult the concierge and he gives me words of encouragement and directs me to the nearest metro station- Notre Dame.

60 pounds later, I am sat in the airport about to board my flight.

This time I blame cheese.


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