The Accidental Archaeologist
The official on-the-go adventure blog
The last two days have left my mind staggering to catch up like a fat man on a pebble beach chasing an ice cream truck. Monday morning, I woke up stiff and sore and cursing the day I thought an all-day horseback trek through the Welsh mountains would be a great idea. Charlotte was making similarly disgruntled noises as we both shuffled about doing some last-minute packing and making breakfast. By 09:00, I was waving a glum good-bye as she strode into the Bristol airport to board the long flight back to the US and the real world of the office cubicle and Coast Guard administrative politics.
Having seen off my travel companion of the last two weeks, it was time to start the next series of travels on my own. I dashed about picking up some forgotten items like shampoo and hot weather clothing and then arrived at the rental car agency promptly at 11:00 to return Post-It, the trusty rental car that had been so loyal in Charlotte’s and my travels all over Scotland. I almost shed a small tear as the entirely-too-chipper rental car lady dropped me off at the Bristol Temple Meads train station. I hoisted my large backpacker’s pack with sleeping bag strapped underneath, slung my messenger bag over a shoulder, staggered a few steps backward, and then trudged slowly and heavily into the station.
I was off to join a short excavation already underway in France led by one of the professors of my department. The crew consists of one undergrad from Bristol, two former grad students of Bristol, one German grad student, and one French student (who speaks no English). All of them had arrived on Friday, and work had commenced almost immediately on Saturday. I probably can’t be too specific about the project right now, but, in general, it’s a large Iron Age hill fort somewhere south of Metz in eastern France. Our part this year is to dig a large trench (which is mostly being machine-dug, thank goodness) to expose a cross section of the ditch, outer wall, and inner edge of the fort. Most of the work required of us workers is to monitor the digging and then get in the trench after large sections have been excavated to clean up the walls, look for significant features, photo pertinent sections, and then draw profiles and plans stone by stone. It can get a bit tedious, but it’s an interesting site.
In order to get to this project, though, I had to embark on a long and slightly worrying train journey. The first leg was easy: a 12:30 eastbound train from Bristol would take me to London Paddington in a matter of a little over two hours. From there, I heaved my pack once more, stepped onto the platform, and confidently strode down the stairs to the Underground, where I caught an eastbound Circle Line train to King’s Cross/St Pancras. The car was unairconditioned, and I was starting to regret the raincoat held firmly in place by all the straps and buckles of my overstuffed and ponderous luggage. Eventually, I found myself hastening up the steps to the St Pancras train platforms, munching on a sandwich snagged from one of the small vendors inside the station.
After a little wandering, I managed to find the entrance to the Eurostar platform where my train was soon to be boarding. Here I was surprised to find I would be subjected to a security search similar to an airport, with the major exception that the whole place didn’t go on lock-down when they picked up the jacknife and sharp trowel stowed in my field bag. Apparently you can take such things on the train…but forget about taking your Coke to the airport gate with you. A flick of my UK passport at the bored French immigration official caused him to wave me impatiently onward, and I arrived at the gate just in time to join the queue for boarding.
My arrival in Paris was the worrying bit. You see, I speak no French, I had to change from the Paris North station to the Paris East station on foot, and I had about forty minutes to accomplish this. Even though I had rehearsed the 1km route in my mind, I still frowned hesitantly as I stepped into the bright sunshine in front of Gard du Nord. The streets didn’t look anything like I remembered from a few months ago, and I couldn’t see a sign for the street I wanted. Figuring moving any direction was better than standing still, I wheeled left and struck out, trying to look like I knew exactly what I was doing under the watchful eyes of loitering taxi drivers. After a block and a half, I was beginning to slow and my eyes darted around looking for any hint that I was heading in the right direction. Frequent glances at my watch told me I still had plenty of time, but a tiny bit of panic was starting to set in. Then suddenly I glimpsed a small blue sign at the end of a side street with the magic words “Gare du l’Est,” and I launched myself down the sidewalk with a triumphant grin. The station was just down a flight of steps, and I arrived at the small French train with time to spare.
The ride to Metz was relatively uneventful. At least I think it was. I wouldn’t really know if anything happened because all of the announcements were in muffled French, and nobody around me seemed inclined to translate. Everytime the speaker came to life, I strained to hear words which might be relavent and recognizable…”delay” or “strike” or “permanent cessation of all French railway activity”…stuff like that. As it was, I only got the occasional mention of “Metz” and “bonjour.” Very helpful.
To my relief, though, the train arrived precisely on schedule at 21:02 in Metz, where the sun was thinking about setting, and everyone was hurrying off the platform to waiting cars or loved ones. I wearily hoisted my pack one last time and scanned the unfamiliar faces for that of my expected professor. He was nowhere to be seen. I walked outside, then back inside, then back out…the whole time wondering what might be delaying him. After about ten minutes of waiting, almost everyone had disappeared, and the station was being locked up. I couldn’t really do anything about the situation. My English mobile wasn’t working here, and I didn’t have the guy’s number anyway. I leaned against the wall, and had just resigned myself to spending the night huddled on the unyielding sidewalk when I saw the familiar battered green shape of a University of Bristol Landrover pulling up on the street out front. With a happy wave, I rushed over to meet it and start yet another adventure for the Accidental Archaeologist.
To be continued…
