15:15, read the clock. I still had to subtract two in my head to figure out that it was 3:15. Forty-six minutes until my train departed; I’d have time to get a snack, or coffee, and started debating the different choices in my head. Not that I was even hungry, but splurging my little spending money at “The (Unnecessary) Mall at Every Public Transportation Station” really seems appealing when there is truly nothing else to do. Waiting in the border security line, I pulled my ticket out of the organized, outer pocket of my suitcase, where I was keeping all my important documents, and had it ready. I did it; I had found where I was supposed to be.

Departs: London St. Pancras International, 15:31

Arrives: Paris Gare du Nord, 18:57

Wait. 15:31– I subtract two again– 3:31, “Departs: 3:31,” what? I blinked a couple times, unsuccessfully changing the print on the paper. I thought I booked the 16:01 train, I could have sworn I booked the 16:01 train.

I didn’t.

The people ahead of me in line instantly became toddlers taking their very first, precious steps, and residents at the Ocean Breeze Home for the Elderly. I stripped off my coat, scarf, hat, and shoes in record time, and got ready to hurl my suitcase onto the conveyer belt, as if it were part of an Olympic event. I was stunned that everyone else could not do the same. The validity of my £130 ticket, for my first trip to Paris, was dependent on the speed of these people? Great.

“Take your sweet time,” I mumbled, referring to the elementary- aged girl two in front of me. Between her, and the man one ahead of me, who probably was a resident at Ocean Breeze, I had found my way back to my New Yorker roots. I was aware that this situation was completely my fault, but still, these people were showing no mercy.

15:22, the clock now read, and seemed to be moving at double the time. The older man– let’s call him Joe– had finally finished strolling through the metal detector, three times, thanks to his gold wristwatch (They tell you to take that off before you go through, Joe). I finally got the “okay” from the officer, and walked through that metal detector with the speed and determination of a bull being let out of its cage. Beep. Beep. Beep. An open palmed hand suddenly took up my entire line of vision, and I was not in the mood for that.

“Are you wearing any jewelry?” the officer asked.

“No, I’m not,” I said. I had just witnessed Joe’s whole situation, and even though it didn’t appear to be my most perceptive day, I wasn’t that stupid.

“I’ll just have to pat you down,” she replied. 15:24. Finding no suspicious objects in my possession, not a surprise to me, she asked me to walk through the detector once more.

Beep. I. Am. Innocent.

“Whatever, you’re good,” she said, allowing me to move on. I paused and questioned her choice for a brief moment: Did she really know I was “good”? Of course, I knew I wasn’t dangerous, but did she really know that? Does this happen often? If my train was leaving at 16:01, I might have actually asked her that. Oh, the things I could have achieved. I collected my belongings like a child grabbing the falling items out of a piñata, and found myself in yet another line. 15:26.

Five minutes. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster. What was this line even for? My first time leaving the United States was only three weeks ago. Today I was alone, travelling to a different country, everything and everyone around me, unfamiliar. I just wanted to accomplish this on my own.

An older, uniformed man, shadowed behind a tinted glass window, asked for my passport and student letter. They were still in that outer pocket of my suitcase; I was still somewhat organized.

“Do you have your bank statement?” he proceeded. You have got to be kidding me– My bank statement? Tick-tock-tick-tock. I couldn’t even ask why he needed it, I just told him no, as my inner panic began to appear for everyone around to see.

“It’s okay,” he said as he stamped one of the many blank pages of my passport, “You’re good. You better head to your train.” The man who was determining where I belonged found a universal way of connecting with me, whether he really needed that bank statement or not. I thanked him and started to search for the track. Platform 7, a computerized screen, hanging from the ceiling, read, and I made sure to look it over at least twice before I channeled my inner Usain Bolt (not an accurate comparison).

After nearly knocking over several people on several escalators, and running alongside the temporarily still train to find my coach, I had made it. I checked my phone, 15:30. Lugging my suitcase to an open overhead, I found my seat– a window seat– next to another unfamiliar face.

I eyed it for a second before he asked me: “Is this where you’re supposed to be?”

“Yeah it is.” I took my seat, looked out the window, and the train immediately left the station– the scenery changing from one of my dream destinations, to another.

I’m where I’m supposed to be.