Travel Memoir
A Difficult Decision in Paris
When travel plans take you to the scene of a recent terrorist attack
Paris, August 19, 2017
We knew something terrible had happened in Barcelona before we’d even gotten off the train in Paris. While we still dozed in our bunks on the Moscow-Paris Express, friends and family, knowing we were en route to Barcelona, texted us to warn us of the attack. In the morning, while Des still slept, Fiona and I sat on our bunks, quietly whispering, reading any bits of news we could find and trying to piece it together. When Des started to stir, Fiona pointed to her phone and then texted me. We were still two hours from Paris. All we knew for sure was late in the previous afternoon, terrorists had driven a van along Las Ramblas through crowds of tourists just a block or two from where we planned to stay later that day. Dozens were injured. People had died.
In the lounge car over breakfast, we continued to text each other and share anything new we learned away from Desmond’s ears. It was not a conversation either of us was ready to have in front of him — not yet, anyway. Besides, things weren’t clear, and, honestly, we didn’t know what we were going to do. The Moscow-Paris express arrived at Gare de L’Est only a few minutes late, and we slowly made our way to Paris’s Gare de Lyon on the Metro. The train to Barcelona wasn’t due to leave for another four hours — we had time. We hoped it was long enough for the fog of whatever happened to clear. Our final go-or-no-go decision, the point of no return, we could make at the very last minute — literally, we could stand at the platform at the Gare de Lyon and decide right there to get on the Barcelona-bound train or not.
I don’t remember much of the Metro ride other than that we were paranoid we were on the wrong train, and we may have changed trains at Le Louvre. Once we arrived at Gare De Lyon, we looked for restrooms, found a cozy little station restaurant, and then ordered some food. Even though we still hadn’t said anything to Des, I suspected he knew something was wrong.
Starting with some vague comments, I told him that something, something we didn’t fully understand, had happened in Barcelona and that we might have to change our plans, just in case. I thought it best just to sow some seeds.
“What kind of thing?” he said.
He wasn’t concerned, or at least I didn’t think he was. He was just curious. Fiona’s and my Croques Monsieurs arrived, followed by a Pain au Chocolat for Des. His attention now channeled to devouring his food, saved us the task of providing him a direct answer to his awkward question.
We came up with a set of contingencies and whittled those down to three, which Fiona scribbled on the back of the napkin which accompanied her Croque Monsieur.
The options…
- The situation in Barcelona is safe so proceed as initially planned.
- Find an Airbnb/hotel room in Paris for a few days, then fly to Malaga and spend time in the Airbnb in Fuengirola.
- Take a flight from Paris to Malaga that afternoon, find a hotel in Fuengirola then go to our Airbnb when available.
Every contingency required us to be in Malaga in ten days because the first leg of our return to the US departed from there. Given our experience with American Airlines just a few days earlier, relying on them to do the right thing, even in this situation, would be a fool’s errand.
Barcelona was an important piece of our vacation logistics. We’d planned to do laundry and rest up before the final journey to Fuengirola, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be changed. My parents instilled in me the love of travel, and the most important lesson they taught me was plans would change. When I was a child, we often traveled overseas without pre-arranged accommodation, so much so that I thought it was weird if we knew where we were sleeping. It always worked out — but as I reflect on this experience with Des, there are times when grown-ups ought to be a little economical with the truth. And only now do I truly wonder how much I didn’t know when I was his age.
Fiona and I read the news and reports from the UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the US State Department, and my dad gave me updates every fifteen minutes by text. As far as anyone could tell, the situation had been resolved (resolved, meaning at-large terrorists had been either caught or shot).
I’d texted the Airbnb host in Barcelona a little earlier. She returned my call just as we finished our meal at the station restaurant. I mouthed “Airbnb” to Fiona and excused myself from the table. We spoke about the situation in Barcelona and the proximity of the event to the apartment. Her English was impeccable. She told me that stores and restaurants were all fully open, and other than a larger than usual police presence, there was no evidence of any such tragic event. She encouraged me, quite passionately, to make the journey to Barcelona. I knew that she would be better off if we stayed away (the apartment was pre-paid with no refund), so I was heartened by her response. I hung up and texted Fiona from a close-by bench.
We mulled over what to do. We brought Desmond more into the conversation and explained, again, as vaguely as possible, that some people had done some bad things and that we thought we might go somewhere else. It just all depended on whether we felt Barcelona was safe or not, and we still hadn’t decided.
In cases like this, we weigh up the risk versus the reward. Someone wise said to me that the safest day for air travel ever was September 14, 2001 — the first day people traveled by air after the 9/11 attacks. We weren’t allowed on planes with anything other than the clothes we wore. And this is where rational thought must overcome fear.
In the end, we felt it was safe to go. We’d keep a low profile, mitigate any risks by staying out of crowded areas, do our laundry (because we were running out of clean clothes), and then, after a couple of days in Barcelona, head to Fuengirola, as originally planned.
Comfortable in our decision, we let those who needed to know, know. We loaded our backpacks and then sauntered over to the platform where our high-speed double-decker train was ready to depart. With a breath of relief and some trepidation, we boarded the 14:09 TGV Duplex to Barcelona, the very same train that Des and I had planned on taking when we sprawled out on the living floor months before.
