I would spend entire days dedicated to one museum - one for lolling about the Louvre, one for painting with Picasso, one for roaming about the Rodin gardens and one for making eyes at the Musee d'Orsay - followed by a lunch of buttery baguettes stuffed with brie and munched on the Seine riverbank then watered down with a can of 1886 beer (one of my favourite things about Paris was their pro-public drinking views so you could enjoy a sip in their parks).
After a crackled message over the intercoms and my head happily swimming through the pages, the Metro stopped in a dark and damp tunnel. I took my headphones out only to judge a silent carriage. Everyone had gotten off the train without me noticing and I was alone.
The driver was turning the train around and luckily noticed my terrified expression in the lonely cabin. As far as I recall, the conversation went a little like this:
(Door of the carriage slides open. I'm perched on the seat, ready to run into the darkness should he be a complete creep)
"Erm, parlay voo Anglais?", I asked in a terrible accent.
"Oui. I mean yes. Yoo deed not ghear the announcement? Yoo are not supposed to be ghere. That was thee last stop". I couldn't stop thinking that I was stranded in a dark tunnel. Alone. Without a full deck of French to play with.
"Oh, I must’ve missed it. Pardon. Is there any way I can go back". He sighs in a manner only the French can achieve.
"Oui. I must turn this theeng around. Come with me sil vous plait".
"Ok, thank you. Merci". We trotted to the front of the train into the drivers cabin, right where the train begins its clicketty, clacketting.
The conversation from this point turns into a bit of a blur because I simply couldn't believe where I was. I had front row seats on the Paris Metro and it was exciting (and apparently very illegal).
Travel comes hand in hand with blunder and this is where stories are born. I can't wait to return and make some more.