Since moving to Europe I’ve developed severe train anxiety.  Even though it can sometimes be the smarter and easier form of travel here; whenever my husband suggests we take the train, I get tense, panic and a knot forms in my stomach.  Can’t we fly? Take the car? Jog?

It all started when we first moved to Paris.  My Mom and her sisters were travelling through Europe and I’d planned to meet up with them for part of their trip and we’d finish our time together in Tuscany.  We rented a villa for a week and I could just picture it: wine, laughter, pasta; I didn’t need much else.

We had train tickets from Milan to Lucca, with a stop in Bologna, where we had to change trains.  As I was the token traveller in the group, I was put in charge.  I had all the train tickets and the villa information in my purse.  When questioned as to which stop we got off on, I distinctly remember saying, “Our final stop won’t be on the screen, just remember we have to switch trains in Bologna, it sounds like Boloney, so you won’t forget.”

For some reason I was feeling antsy and it wasn’t long before I was bored.  As the train slowed down for a scheduled stop I spotted a vending machine on the platform.  On a whim, I grabbed my purse, jumped up and announced that I’d be right back; I was just going to hop off and get a chocolate bar.  I was gone before they even registered I was going.

I’m not sure why I thought this was a good idea, especially since as I stood in the bottleneck of people waiting to get off the train, a little voice in the back of my head was whispering, ‘You probably won’t have enough time now.  You should probably just sit down.’  It was too late though; I was already committed.

I jumped off the train and slid €5 into the vending machine.  I was about to choose my chocolate bar when I heard the train doors close.  No!  It couldn’t be?  Wasn’t there a whistle? Where was the guy in the striped hat yelling “All Aboard?”  I quickly abandoned my €5, ran back to the train and found that sure enough, the doors were locked.  I pressed the button outside the train.  Nothing.  This could not be happening.  I hopped up onto the step and banged on the glass for the people that just boarded to open the doors from the inside.  No luck.  They put their hands up and shrugged their shoulders.

All I could think about was that I’ve left my Mom and her sisters abandoned.  I had the train tickets in my purse, along with the address of the Villa.  I didn’t even tell them the name of the town we were going to.  All they knew was that they had to change trains in Bologna, but they didn’t know where to go from there.  No one had their mobile phones with them since they were overseas.  My suitcase with all my belongings was inside the train.  This could not be happening.

I had to think quickly.  If this door didn’t work, maybe another one would.  I ran over to the next car and tried the same routine with no luck.  As I stood on the step, with one arm holding the handrail, the train started to move. What was I going to do? Without thinking my decision through (obviously), I decided the best option would be to hold on.  I’d travelled through India; they did it all the time.  How hard could it be?

The car that I had attached myself to was near the end of the platform.  As the train started picking up speed I tightened my grasp and leaned in towards the train like a suction cup on a window.  That’s when I made eye contact with a man on the inside of the train that was waving his arms wildly in the air, motioning for me to get off the train, while doing hand gestures for ‘Are you crazy?!’.

It wasn’t until I was almost at the end of the very long platform that I realized how fast the train was now going, and perhaps this was not a good idea.  Before the platform disappeared I knew I had to jump, so I threw myself from the train onto the cement platform.  Since it was my first time jumping off a moving train, I didn’t have a very good landing technique.  I wish I could say I looked like Angelina Jolie in an action movie; gracefully rolling from the train and landing without a scratch, but I definitely did not.  If you’ve ever skipped rocks on water; that’s what my body did across the cement.

The next thing I knew, two handsome Italian men picked me up off the ground, staring at me with eyes like saucers.  They were saying a lot, and very quickly, with hands flying in the air, but I understood none of it.  From what I could make out they wanted to bring me to the hospital, but all I could think of was that I need to get to Bologna as fast as possible…and also, that my favourite pants were completely shredded and the sunglasses that flew off my face were totalled.

Reluctantly, my new found Italian friends put me in the only taxi that was willing to drive me to Bologna.  I don’t know where I was, but from the expressions of every cab driver that denied them, I knew we weren’t anywhere close.

It wasn’t until I was sitting alone in the back of the taxi that I assessed my damage and started sobbing hysterically.  My pants were ripped open and my entire knee cap was a bleeding mess, my opposite hip was gushing blood and I was pretty sure I might have broken my elbow.  So what do you do in a time like this?  You call your husband at work of course.

“You did WHAT?!”
Naively, I actually thought he might not have heard me the first time.
“I jumped off a train.” I managed between sobs.  The conversation was a mix of emotions on his part.  First there was panic, then worry, concern, relief, joy, followed by anger and finally frustration; your typical range of emotions for a weekday morning at 10:00am.

After I handed over a small mortgage payment to the taxi driver, I hobbled my way into the Bologna train station, literally looking like a train wreck; just in time to find my ladies on the platform summoning the powers that be for a miracle.  When they saw me limp over, their faces were all painted with, well actually, the same range of emotions as my earlier phone call.

Without having time to fully explain, they quickly tried to patch me up the best they could with what they had on hand: feminine hygiene products.  Yes indeed. I was gushing blood, and they were absorbent.  Who was I to argue at this point?  I got on the train covered in maxi pads and panty liners, happy to be alive.

My wonderful week in Tuscany consisted of lying on the couch, barely able to get clothes on over all the wounds, and unable to bend my knee and elbow.  I walked around like the tin-man for over a month; housebound in Paris because I couldn’t make it down the stairs at any of the Metro stations.  It was all I could do to hobble back and forth to my kiné (physiotherapist) appointments every other day.  Lesson learned: Do not jump from moving trains; no matter how bad you want a chocolate bar!

To this day my entire right knee cap is a giant scar, which at least comes with a better story than any tattoo ever could.  But the problem is my daughter.  We’re at the stage where we’re trying to teach her about personal safety.  Hold my hand in the parking lot, look both ways before you cross the street.  Every time I wear a skirt or shorts she points to my knee says, “boo boo” and kisses it.  It’s only a matter of time before she asks what happened.  I’m not sure how I’m going to handle that conversation.  Well, there’s only one way really.  As far as she’s concerned…it’s a birthmark.