At Lausanne, the pramid scheme collapsed. The tetonic efficincey of the TGV I had so quickly admired was vapourised , the train arrived late and I missed my connection to Geneva. I ran to the office with my back pack, I fucking hate my backpack, and in broken German tried.
“Entschulgung, mein bahn von Paris var langsmear. Wann ist die natshcie bahn vor Genva”
The teller scrutineds me with an expression of an oriental wise man.
“Repete en Francis?”
“Mein Deutsch is nicht sehr gut und mein Fransoizche ist fuctbar”
He smiled:
He smiled amused: “Hablos Espangol senor?” Both he and I were grinning it was like trying to spare with Tyson.
In French I said “Je suis desoli mosuier?” I shrugged my shoulders and said the few spanish I know.
“Espanol, Une poquitoo,, une puquito,” As if I was trying to stop a friend pouring a shot of drink.
I looked him in the eye and both me and him started laughing?
“You want to go to Geneva yes?” He said in English with just a wafer of the continent about it.
“Oui” I replied.
Platform 4 12:47.
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