The Phoenix Diaries: The Chapter Where I Missed the Stop to Saint-Émilion
A ticket machine with attitude, a runaway train, and a reminder that joy lives in the in-between.
Phoenix Diaries
Personal stories of transformation, heartbreak, and rebuilding from ground zero.
The ticket machine in Bordeaux wanted commitment. Name, card, postal code, a lock of hair if I’d offered it. My friend from the co-living stood beside me, calm in that terrifying “let’s trust the flow” way. We were going to Saint-Émilion, famous for wine, cobblestones, and tourists pretending they know the difference between oak and fruity.
Bordeaux itself has been showing off. The river glints, the pastries flirt, every local has a scarf tied with hereditary precision. I’ve spent days wandering the city, butter running through my veins, pretending my broken French is endearing. No one has corrected me yet, which feels suspicious.
Tickets finally print, and we’re off, smug, chatty, and full of optimism. The train hums. I’m mid-story about my vegetable deficiency when I glance up and watch the sign for Saint-Émilion glide past like a breakup text. Gone. Missed it entirely.
We jump off at the next stop — Castillon. Population: us, one cat, and a man smoking outside a closed bar. The air smells faintly of resignation. We’re starving. Not a café in sight.
A tiny supermarché appears like divine intervention. We buy a baguette and immediately feel French. Then a fromagerie. Cheese. Bliss. Two women with bread, cheese, and misplaced confidence. Unstoppable.
Back at the station, the ticket woman is mid-exorcism with her computer. You can tell she’s been at war with it for years. Keys clacking, sighs that could strip paint. After a few minutes of French muttering that could curdle milk, she waves us toward the machine outside.
Outside sits an ancient ticket machine that looks like it survived the Revolution. We feed it cards. It rejects them all. Beeps in French. Sulks. We dig through our bags for coins like raccoons. Miraculously, two tickets were printed. I nearly curtsy.
This time, we watch the signs like hawks. Saint-Émilion appears, all golden stone and smug charm. We step off the train and straight into a postcard. I almost expect Belle from Beauty and the Beast to walk by with a book.
We stop for lunch inside a restaurant with wooden beams and that quiet clink of cutlery that says civilization. I ordered tarte aux champignons, steak and frites because apparently I’m on a strict butter cleanse. Outside, the weather can’t decide what it’s doing. Jacket on, jacket off. Could be wind, could be menopause. France keeps me guessing.
We wander after lunch, through winding streets lined with wine shops. Every doorway smells like temptation. We step inside one, bottles stacked to the ceiling, cool air, reverent silence. The sommelier appears, all jawline and gravitas. I tell him I don’t really drink, but I’ll try one sip for culture.
He nods like a priest preparing communion. Pours. I take a sip.
My face betrays me immediately.
He sees it. I see him seeing it. It’s a hostage situation of politeness. I try to smile; it comes out like a gasp of regret. I mumble something about “complex tannins.” He smiles the way people do when a child proudly shows them a drawing of a potato and calls it a horse.
My friend buys a bottle and we leave.
The afternoon drifts through soap shops, art stalls, and narrow lanes where time moves more slowly. We laugh at everything: the missed train, the bread, the absurdity of being alive and slightly windburnt in France.
By sunset, we’re back in Bordeaux, our Castillon baguette and cheese elevated to dinner. Gourmet poverty. I enjoy it like a French Queen.
On the walk home, the city hums. It would have been easy to stay in, to keep my world small, to skip the ticket machine, to not talk to the stranger from the co-living. To decide that missed trains and foreign systems are proof I’ve had enough detours for one life. That isn’t me. I’ve always been the kind of person who gets off at the wrong stop and sees what happens.
I have been hurt, properly hurt. The kind that knocks the air from your chest and makes you doubt your own compass. That part’s true. And still. I’m here in France with a new friend, bread under my arm, and a story in my pocket. My heart’s opening again, slow and quiet, like a window cracked for air.
This season feels like boarding trains without knowing the route. Laughing when you miss it. Eating the baguette anyway. Letting life find you in small towns you didn’t plan to see and saying yes to the day.
The river is soft when I pass it. The scarves are still perfect. I feel the tiredness in my body and the lightness in my chest at once. I think of the girl who moved countries with a suitcase and hope.
I go home full. Of bread. Of a story. Of proof that I can let people in again, slowly, like that.
Tell me…
Have you ever laughed your way through a detour?
Share the story that still makes you smile.
I love this! Happy to share that day with you!
Love it! So glad you keep moving forward and taking us with you!