My first trip abroad was in the Spring of 1985. My high school French class took a trip each year and I knew I wanted to go. I remember the cost was $1,073 for the ten-day trip. Every penny I earned delivering newspaper went toward that trip.
My French teacher, Mrs. Mazzone, drilled it into our heads we would be ambassadors for America. Our behavior would reflect what people would think of Americans. Careful admonishments were made about how we should act in public and private during the trip and we learned about cultural differences we should expect.
The LED board at the train station said our train was leaving from platform 3, but when we arrived, everything was broken. Signs confirming which platform you were on were non-existent. Platforms 2 and 3 were at the top of the stairs. Platform 3 could have been on the left or right. We didn’t know. The mechanical board on the platform was broken. So we asked. And asked. And asked.
No one seemed to know. The man sweeping the platform told us we were in the right place. Everyone who spoke English gravitated toward one another, asking the same question. We all had tickets on the fast train to Athens. We hoped we were in the right place.
The train eventually arrived. It was dirty and covered in graffiti. We found our seats in first class. Einstein was sitting in Paul’s seat. Eventually, we convinced him he had to move.
The first class seats weren’t fancy. They’re not quiet. They’re not much nicer than cattle class. You share a compartment with six people. Einstein wore dark blue jeans and an orangish-yellow polo shirt. He took a nap as soon as the train left the station. Einstein snores.
