I was in Marseille; I had to get to Arles. I had a journey to get to Marseille; keep in mind all I was doing — at least, all I thought I was doing — was the inverse of this journey, which had gone smoothly the first time around. Perhaps that was the root of my hubris. Skipping over some of the leadup events, I ended up at the Marseille airport train station. The first challenge presented itself: in this bare-bones train station there were two platforms, one in each direction, and you had to pick one early in the process. No central station, no big building, not a single screen showing all train itineraries in sight (important later), just a fork in the road. With my elementary understanding of French geography[^1] I figured which city name was closer to where I needed to go and voila. The weather was a sunny 23 degrees, I had taken off my jacket, and I had taken the news that my train home was delayed by ten minutes as a lucky blessing that I could finish the book I had been reading. Thirty minutes go by, book finished, no train. The other people on the platform began making impatient noises in French. My SNCF app was reflecting a 45 minute delay. Around the predicted time the app was saying, a beautiful 5,000 ton vehicle availed itself. As those around me began boarding the train and making relieved sounds in French, I figured this must be my train as well. I reasoned that at this small train station, there must be only one train, and it must make stops, otherwise why would all these people be getting on? No chance every person is going to the same destination, right? The last thing I saw before getting on was the train number, which was distinctly different from the number on my ticket. Uh oh. Now, little seedlings of doubt began nestling themselves all over my brain. I could have gotten off, but I wasn't sure when the next train was coming (given there was no itinerary). For some reason, I assumed my train did not exist, and this was the only possible train, so it must be correct. To this day, I believe I was ten seconds of logical thinking away from making better decisions. Then, a woman behind me asked for help with her luggage. My brain can't do logical thinking and French interactions at the same time (a problem that has caused many difficulties, as one can imagine), and so I stayed on the train. After figuring out how to move this kind woman's luggage, receiving directional orders, trying to comprehend aforementioned directional orders, and saying things like "ca va", "de rien" and "bien sur" with my almost-offensive-to-the-language accent, I sat down on the train. I looked up. And I saw the destination screen, reflecting a city that was very, very far from where I needed to go. Same direction, just very far. Imagine boarding a train to Paris and the destination screen saying London: at least it's not the wrong direction, but man those guys are overshooting. But I still didn't feel worried! Destination screens usually mention the stops, just after showing the final destination. I sat, waiting patiently, much like how I waited to board my train. And just like how I never actually boarded my train, my train's destination was never mentioned as a stop on the train I was on. In fact, this destination screen mentioned precisely no stops. Remember those flimsy justifications for why this wrong-numbered train must have been correct? Turns out my glasses of optimism and confidence were tunnel-vision blinders. As I looked out the back of the train, I saw more than one train lined up to take more passengers; as I looked forward, I realised "all these people getting on" had numbered quite few, in reality, meaning it was completely plausible these eight people had all intended on going directly to one of the largest French cities. For thirty minutes, I thought I was on a two-hour direct train to another city, without a ticket. I was ironically seated next to the sign that outlined fines for travelling without a fare. A friend of mine kept giving well-reasoned advice like "get off at the next stop". As I shared more and more details of my situation, the manifestation of well-reasoned advice slowly transformed into "man, that's brutal, just soak the fine". Before the gap year, this would have been terrifying. On the gap year, it is still terrifying. Yet I figured there was nothing I could do — it is what it is, as internet comments, saddened frat boys, and inexplicably, my dad [^2] liked to say — so I settled in, enjoyed the view, played a game of rock, paper, scissors with the kid across from me, and prepared my credit card to pay a fine. And in the end, karmic justice spared me for my sins that day, for the train did, in fact, stop at Arles.[^3] [^1]: I could have also reasoned the following way: one goes east, one goes west, I need to go west. Alas, this beautiful, elegant, simple solution did not dawn on me. [^2]: He picked it up from a F1 broadcast, which has become a surprisingly strong dispenser of common vernacular in my household. [^3]: Arles was actually the third stop. The first stop, I texted my friend with the utmost excitement "IT'S NOT A DIRECT TRAIN!" followed by "I'm gonna gamble that Arles is one of the stops". He, of course, just responded "LOL", for he knows at this point that me with doing unnecessarily risky behaviour is like a grizzly bear with her cub.