Car 9 and Other Stories of Gorgeous Chaos

There’s something about traveling that feels like slipping into a dream where logic is optional, time bends at your will, and strangers become familiar characters in a story you didn’t know you were writing. These are but some of the fleeting moments that stitched themselves into my European summer with mama—like mismatched patches on an old, beloved quilt. Moments that may feel mundane any other day, yet while traveling, become brilliant side quests and people—characters—in the play, the theatre of life, that plays out right in front of you.

Car 9? Never Heard of It. On the train to Milan, my mother and I clutched our tickets, eyes darting between the platform and the train doors. Our seats were in Car 9. Simple enough. Except—Car 9 did not exist. Nowhere to be found. We hesitated at the entrance, wondering if we’d unknowingly boarded an alternate dimension where train logic ceased to exist.

Enter Levi, a Trinidadian guy reclining across from us, a bottle of wine and two plastic cups between him and his girlfriend. He took one look at our wide-eyed confusion and chuckled. “Ah, just sit anywhere. Car 9 isn’t real. We got the same tickets. Want a cup of this for the ride?”

Sure enough, for the next twenty minutes, people trickled in, looking at their tickets, then up at the train car, then back at their tickets, their faces morphing into the same brand of panic. Eventually, we took turns welcoming them to the existential crisis of Car 9. Levi suggested we tell them there’s a secret door, but we just haven’t found it yet. He offered every person a plastic cup of that bottle which seemingly never lessened.

Wine and Cheese on Rails In a different train car, another man—a true connoisseur of life—was living his best existence with a bottle of wine and an assortment of cheeses elegantly displayed on the tiny pull-out tray. No allocated seats? No problem. This man had turned public transportation into a fine dining experience.

Home Is Where Your Mother Tongue Finds You Waiting for a ferry, a South African mother and daughter struck up a conversation with us. There’s a warmth in hearing your mother tongue in a foreign country, an invisible thread that tugs at nostalgia and home. It felt like a tiny pocket of familiarity in a sea of newness.

The Russian Woman’s Wave As we scrambled to catch a taxi to make our train, a Russian woman waved at us maybe 20 metres up the road, about to get in a taxi herself. Here, take mine—I’m in no hurry—as if sending us off with an unspoken blessing. A simple gesture, but it felt like a thread in the grand tapestry of traveling—brief, kind, and quietly meaningful.

Venetian Glamour and Secrets The water taxis of Venice? A floating fantasy. Nothing feels quite as effortlessly chic as gliding down the canals, the city stretching out in golden reflections. But beyond the glamour, there was the heart of Venice—like the old women in the tapestry room, ushering us into a private section, all velvet drapes and wooden spiral staircases, as if revealing the city’s best-kept secrets.

Then there was the artist who had lived in Venice his entire life, whose studio stayed open until midnight. He lived just above it, his home and art entwined. “Come in,” he had said, as if inviting us into a piece of his heart.

You Only Live Once, Even If You Have a Husband and Kids In Provence, a woman from California sat outside a café, sipping rosé and watching the world slow down. She had been in Aix for three months, learning French, soaking in the Provençal way of life. “Oh no,” she laughed, “I have a husband and kids at home. But you only live once. I’m having my little lifetime in France no matter what.” And, honestly, how could you argue with that?

The Marseille Chronicles: Robert and Jacqueline Robert, our Airbnb host in Marseille, was the kind of person you couldn’t help but root for. We stayed up late helping him write emails in French, trying to navigate his way out of a fine he got in Australia. It was the best accidental language practice I’ve ever had.

Then there was Jacqueline. We were at the bus stop when she pulled up in her tiny green Volvo—a car straight out of a Wes Anderson film. A silk kimono draped over her shoulders, a ring on every single finger. She rolled down the window and, without hesitation, offered us a ride. Turns out, she lived on our street and knew Robert. Because, of course, she did. Serendipity at its finest.

These are the moments that make travel more than just movement from one place to another. It’s the accidental friendships, the bizarre train mishaps, the people who pass through your life for a few minutes but leave their fingerprints on your memory forever. It’s the secret doors you never find, the laughs shared over misplaced tickets, and the strangers who remind you that the world is endlessly, beautifully unexpected.

One of my favourite reminders is that bizarre travel mishaps are dancing lessons from God. And I love to dance.