Remember when I said that life is funny?

Well, allez-y, because this one is a doozy.

It’s day three of the trip, and I just finished a fantastic stay in Nice, where I had incredible food, incredible weather, and an incredibly wonderful stay at my Airbnb. One of my goals of this entire trip was to take a look at the South of France under the lens of a local; this is one of my favorite ways to truly get to know a city, by assuming the position of a wallflower, blending in at all costs. Because this is my first solo trip of this length, I knew that I wanted to take plenty of opportunities to be truly alone. I took this into consideration when I was booking my accommodations for this journey. I know that at the beginning of any over-seas trip, I am oftentimes quite tired due to the jet lag; because of this, I decided to stay in a solo apartment in Nice, where I would have the time to myself to sleep quietly and go about as I please. In the next to stops along the coast, I decided to stay within the household of a family on Airbnb, almost like a pseudo-exchange program. I made this decision for a few reasons:

1. It can be quite cost-effective to reside in a room in someone’s home, rather than an entire house or apartment.

2. There is a sense of security when it comes to staying with other people. I realize that my Airbnb hosts are, quite literally, strangers, but I made reservations that were vetted by the overwhelmingly positive reviews of previous guests.

3. I wanted authentic. What could be more authentic than staying with a host family? You said you wanted to practice your French…

Needless to say, after my time in Nice, I was incredibly eager to meet with my first hosts in Rayol-Canadel-Sur-Mer, Louis and Marie-Claire, a retired couple with an extra room in their villa on a sweeping hill (All names have been/will be changed to respect the privacy of those who I encounter along the way.)

Getting from Nice to Rayol-Canadel-Sur-Mer was a bit more complex, though. My original travel itinerary on that day was to take a regional train from Nice to Toulon, the nearest city with a bus station. Then, I would be taking bus 878 toward St. Tropez, to be exact, for about an hour and a half until I was to arrive in this tiny beach town on the coast. All was well to start, and I boarded my western-bound train to Toulon.

After arriving in Toulon, I had a bit of a layover until my bus was scheduled to leave the station. I went up to the ticket counter, as I had to purchase my ticket totally in French (which I nailed, by the way); although this was the largest station nearby, the station only housed one receptionist, a large map of all of the routes, and a vending machine. The time came for my departure, and I hopped on the bus, placing my suitcase underneath the bus and my red backpack in the overhead rack above. At the time, I was communicating with Louis via WhatsApp, as a USA dialing code, +1, is incompatible with the French dialing code, +33 (more on that later. MUCH more on that later!). I had to pay close attention to the map, as well, as the bus stops were coming fast, being announced with a quick smattering of French over an extremely antiquated PA system. I zoomed along the coast until it was time to push the red ARRET button for my stop. In my panic to make sure this was the correct stop AND communicate with Louis, I made the grave mistake of exiting the bus without my red backpack.

I step foot in Rayol-Canadel-Sur-Mer and watched the bus continue down the windy hillside, and I get back to WhatsApp to chat with Louis. The last message read, Audi rouge. “AUDI Rouge”, I thought to myself! “How fancy, I didn’t realize I’d be pic-!” and I froze. My back was light. It was not supposed to be light. It was supposed to wield a red JanSport. My heart sank as I found the Audi. I immediately took the liberty to explain, the best I could, to Louis that NOUS AVONS BESOIN ALLER A CE BUS (WE NEED TO GO TO THAT BUS). After a few attempts and panicked hand gestures, my message was received, and he flew down Avenue Du Capitaine Ducorneau, headed east to St. Tropez!

Louis followed tirelessly for about 20 minutes, but the attempts to catch Bus 878 were rendering unsuccessful. My initial flash of panic had turned into a slow burn of a hot flash, accompanied by the churning presence of doubt and anxiety.

In the car ride back to Rayol, I thought about my options. I had my passport and wallet, as well as my Benadryl and Epi-Pen (allergic to peanuts and hazelnuts, here), in a crossbody bag which was still in my possession, so I was not completely doomed. But, I still needed my everyday medications, my contacts, my glasses. Things it COULD live without. But, there was an even more-prized possession in the front pocket of the bag; my journal. I really wanted to take the time on this trip to start and keep a travel journal, and I had already started with a few entries. “I need to get the backpack back” is the only combination of words scurrying across my mind… “CALL THEM!” now screams across. I search for the phone number of ZOU! busses, and I’m met with an odd set of numbers. I punch them in my phone, pressing the green DIAL at the bottom of my iPhone. “Verizon Wireless cannot complete the call as dialed. Please try to hang up and try the number again. Thank you.” Huh? I shake my head and hang up, dialing again. “Verizon Wireless cannot complete the call as dialed. Please try to hang up and try the number again. Thank you.” I then have the realization that there may be a difference in the country code. It dawns on me that the solution may be to change that code and try again. I unearth the sequence of taps to add a “+” sign to the beginning of the number, and I frantically tap “+33” and then the ten digits. “”Verizon Wireless cannot compl—” I hang up. I sit. I look out the window. I try to realize what has happened.

I feel like a failure.

I feel like I’ve failed myself and those who believe in me. I have always been hard on myself (it’s all a part of my charm!), and I wanted everything on this trip to be perfect. This is not perfect. This is horrible.

It was at this point something within me broke. I realized that a choice was now presented. I could either magnify backpack-gate and blow it out of proportion and use this as the means to self-sabotage this vacation, or take it for what it is; a slight inconvenience that is going to force me to think outside the box and practice my French. You said you wanted to practice… Thankfully, I sat in my puddle of self-loathing for only about an hour, and then I was ready to fix the problem.

The time is now approximately 5:30PM on Sunday, and, of course, now I am now ready to make some moves. I remember my calling problem, and look online to see if there is a way to dial international conutry codes. I find a pay-per-minute app called Talk360, which promises to allow me to call a French landline. I ‘double-click to pay’ on the App Store, throw my Amex in that bad boy, and purchase 20 dollars worth of time.

I dial a few numbers, soon realizing that I have to speak French at quite a high level in order to keep up with the locals. But, I am up for the challenge, and I was also desperate to get my backpack back, so I locked in and got to work. To add more confusion, the syntax of telephone numbers in France are different than in the US; I realized this briefly with my initial, unsuccessful calls. I was used to a group of three, a group of three, and then a group of four, where in France, the sequence is five groups of two, so telephone numbers look something like this: +33 04 13 94 30 50 (this is the actual number of the ZOU! bus station, in case you were wondering…). After a few phone calls, I get the number of the bus station in St. Tropez, the city at the end of the line, but the employee on the other end is speaking so quickly, I cannot keep up. A single, angry tear streamed down the right side of my face as I frustratingly uttered, “Vous. Devez. Parler. Plus. Lentment. Sil. Vous. Plait.” The message was received, and I was able to acquire the correct number for the office in St. Tropez.

After a few more panicked moments, I was placed on an infinitely-long hold, and I could see my pay-per-minute virtual calling card start to dwindle. I then made a rash decision; I was going to hop on the next bus (departing in 15 minutes) to St. Tropez and PRAY that my backpack was sitting in the station.

I board the bus anxiously, and await my fate as the bus pulled into the station. I walked into the office, and there it was. A dark red JanSport on the floor of the office behind the counter. Elated was an understatement. In the most excited French possible, I shrieked “MON SAC-A-DOS!” The employee behind the counter was excited as I was, and I expressed my gratitude the best I could. Everything that was supposed to be there was; my medicines, my chargers, my JOURNAL. I could finally breathe. I completed my mission. I did it.

The moral of this story is that I can, in fact, do difficult things. A few hours earlier, I felt like such a failure. I felt like I had failed my family, the trip, myself. Now, it was the complete opposite. I felt proud. I felt proud of the fact that I was able to think under pressure and not crack (except for the single rage-tear that was shed…we can’t be perfect all the time, can we?). This instance was one of the few times, as an adult, that I truly felt proud of myself. It is a foreign feeling, but also an amazing one.

I was then left to watch the super yachts pull into the harbor on that bright and sunny afternoon in St. Tropez without a care in the world…

À la prochaine!