In Grenoble yesterday, Sept. 10, there was a tram strike.
For me, that meant the tram dropped me off two stops before my transfer stop so that I could get on campus. I think my tram line was the only one that stopped working, once it reached the Centre Ville from the outskirts. It’s like they wanted to cause an inconvenience, but they didn’t want to upset everyone’s schedules too much.
Later that night, a few friends and I joined up with an international students’ association for a group historical tour. Here are some pretty night photos. (I swear, this is the only place I take pictures…)
Afterwards, they held a picnic at the largest park. At night. I’ve always thought of a picnic as a do-while-there’s-daylight activity. But nope, we ate completely in the dark and found ourselves within a group of Germans.Anyways, we were all having so much fun that we stayed from 8 until 11 or so and were planning on chilling for a little bit longer until this girl from Manchester asked us how we were going to get home.
We stared blankly.
Um, the tram?
She said the tram stopped running at 9 because of the strike. I didn’t even know the strike continued because halfway during the day, all the stops started running again!
Well, shit. Here we were, two girls at night that needed to head back to one of the more dangerous neighborhoods, in a foreign city. What first popped into my head, though, was how am I supposed to enjoy a healthy social life if I’m always stranded from home?!
But then I got preoccupied with other thoughts. Like how I’m pretty sure we were mistaken as prostitutes multiple times. This guy even approached us and said something, gesturing to the bench we were sitting on. I thought he wanted to sit down because we were pretty spread out on the bench. So I said to him, “yeah, sure, you can sit down.” When my more-paranoid friend left because she was weirded out, he then scoffed angrily and walked away.
Oops. Did I just semi-complete the prostitute prepositioning?
I’m sure he said something like “Excuse me, are you girls available tonight?”
Me: Yes, please sit.
Him: It’s on like Donkey Kong.
And excuse me?? I’m sure my jeans, scarf, and leather jacket were the farthest thing from that as possible. Do I have the face of a prostitute? And what would that even look like? Used, dejected, seen too much?
So we called a taxi to escape other offers. And it cost 15€. My wallet is crying. And my self-confidence in the fact that I do not look whore-ish.
To ease my pain, I stuffed my face with a tart I bought a few days earlier. And then decided to turn the selfie photoshoot into a gif. You’re welcome.