Please read Soeur Catastrophe Part I for all the details on how we got to Paris.

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The rest of the ride to Paris was spent in fear. We had no money, no connections and 29 pieces of luggage between us (OK, maybe only 25). Another mission rule is that companions must never separate (for safety) but I decided under the circumstances, this one would have to be broken. There was no way we could both go for help while dragging our sundry of suitcases all over Paris.

We arrived at the Gare de Lyon and disembarked. In typical “Murphy’s Law” fashion, we were at the opposite end of the platform in a very large train station. We proceeded to slowly drag our suitcases to the main terminal, upon which time I told Soeur Tate I was going to find someone who could help me make a collect call to my mission president.

Note for all the youngins: Before the age of cell phones, you had to pay for calls made on public phones. If you did not have a long-distance calling card or coins, you could call the operator to make a “collect call,” the operator would call the number for you and ask the person if they would receive and pay for the call.

Soeur Tate nodded nervously when I said I was leaving her and I told her not to talk to anyone. No problems there. She looked terrified.

And so I ventured out into Paris by Day. I stopped everyone I saw and ask them how to make a collect call. Most stared blankly back, some suggested I use a calling card (that I did not have) and the rest told me I could get help at the post office across the street.

Now, “across the street” was a relative term because it was a lot farther than merely crossing a boulevard. As I set out on my Walk About, I continued to stop anyone who dared to make eye contact for advice. No one provided it. Parisians do not have their stellar reputation for nothin’.

When I finally arrived at the post office, it was packed. Evidently, I had chosen the worst possible time to make my little side trip to Paris: it was tax day. I patiently stood in line for AGES and upon arriving at the guichet (window), the worker snidely told me she could not help me and I would have to go over to Guichet No. 3.

I. Lost. It. As in let’s-admit-this-chick-into-a-psych-ward kind of lost it. Because upon arriving at Guichet No. 3, NO ONE WAS WORKING THERE. All that remained was a poor guy in front of me in line upon I unloaded my entire sob story.

Just as I was getting to the climax, I remember hearing very distinctly in English, “Sister, how may we help you?”

I turned and stared. When what to my wondering [blood-shot] eyes should appear but two Elders (male) missionaries from the Paris Mission.

Now, another mission rule is no physical contact with members of the opposite sex. Since I was on a roll with rule-breaking, I jumped up in the air, grabbed the 20-year-old Elder by the tie and screamed, “Elder, I PRAYED YOU HERE.”

Turns out, it was their transfer day as well and they had run into Soeur Tate at the Gare of Lyon who explained to them that her travel companion was going to perform the next Paris Massacre (or rather, the first) if I was not helped.

The Elders were happy to oblige. They called their mission president who connected with ours and wired us some money to buy a return ticket. We then called our mission home. By then, they knew we were MIA because both of our assigned companions had been waiting in Lyon for hours.  I downloaded the day’s events to one of the elders in typical frenzied fashion and after about 10 minutes, I heard stifled laughter in the background.

“What is that noise?” I accused the young missionary.
“Nothing, Soeur Borowski.” Liar.
“Elder. DO YOU HAVE ME ON SPEAKER PHONE?”

The entire mission home had gathered around for Soeur Catastrophe’s latest catastrophe.

When I walked back with the elders to the train station, Soeur Tate was glowing, holding a rose and looking like she’d just stepped out of a chic Parisian magazine, juxtaposed against her Tasmanian Devil traveling companion.

“Soeur, where did you get that rose?” I asked haltingly, trying to be nice but inwardly seething.

“Oh, this French man saw me standing here, didn’t say a word and just handed me the rose. Aren’t the people here just so nice?”

It was the first (and only) time I kept my cool that day.

I had tried to convince my mission president to let us stay the night–my Missionary Training Center companion Soeur Simms was serving in Paris but we were wisely counseled to get on the next train and back to our mission boundaries.

When we finally returned really late that night, we were met by our companions and two elders. Yesterday, Soeur Tate sent me this photo. In case you hadn’t figured it out, Elder Wright was a fellow Canuck.

And then there’s Soeur Tate still holding that rose. And me with my fake smile.

No comment on that one, either.

recently made some connections with some former missionary friends on Facebook and it took me waaaaaaaay back.

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The year was 1993 and my nickname was Soeur Catastrophe (pronounced Sir Cat-as-trof), which, loosely translated means “Sister Catastrophe.”

Some things never change, right?

I was 21 years old and serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Geneva, Switzerland. The mission boundaries took in all of French-speaking Switzerland and Eastern France. For six days a week, we taught the gospel and served at various local charities while P-days were spent hiking in the Alps. It was the most defining 18 months of my life as I looked outside of myself to figure out who I was on the inside.

We had a mission president who presided over us. He would place missionaries together who would serve in “companionships” in a specified region that we were required to stay in. Every few months, we would either get transferred to a new area or have a new companion come to us.

I had been in the mission field for about six months when I received a transfer from Geneva to a little town in France called Chalon-sur-Saone. I met up with another missionary, Soeur Tate (with whom I recently connected on Facebook) and we would travel to France together to meet up with our respective companions.

Sound easy? This is me we’re talking about.

Soeur Tate was what we call “a bleu”–she was new to the mission so it made perfect sense for her to travel with a more seasoned and capable missionary such as myself.

Stop. Laughing. Now.

Soeur Tate and I had cleared Customs and were waiting on the platform to board our train to Lyons, France. I struck up a conversation with a bunch of traveling Canucks and before we knew it, our train pulled up. I glanced at the sign, confirmed it was going to Lyon and Soeur Tate and I hopped on.

The first things I noticed that seemed out of place were pertaining to the train itself. 1) It left a bit early, which never happened in Switzerland 2) It was a much nicer train than the regional ones we were used to and 3) It went fast. Really fast.

We settled into some seats. A few minutes into our journey, the train made a stop. Some people boarded and kicked us out of our seats.

Problem #4) There were not usually reserved seats.

I wasn’t worried. I was a Swiss Miss and knew this whole international travel thing like the back of my hand. We simply relocated but within minutes, were booted again. Unsure of what to do, we went back to the luggage area and situated ourselves on some little pull-out seats. Undaunted, I pulled out some headphones to listen to a sappy tape from my then-boyfriend. There were a number of announcements made over the loudspeaker but I ignored them (note: potential spoiler).

We soared across the French countryside for over an hour when the train conductor came around to check tickets. I nonchalantly handed him mine. He closely examined it, turned it over and then menacingly sneered at me.

“This train is going directly to Paris,” he said in French.

I stopped. Paris was not Lyons. In fact, Paris was on the other side of the country, far outside of my mission boundaries. We must have erroneously boarded a TGV (France’s high-speed train). And worst of all: We did not have train tickets to Paris.

I weakly asked, “Quoi?”

He repeated himself, this time emphasizing the gravity of the situation with the kind of ill-humor that has made the French famous.

Faintly, I repeated, “Quoi?”

He must have decided I was a stupid American because he then resorted to shouting it in broken English: “DIS TRAIN, GO DIRECTLY A PARIS!!!!”

At this point, innocent Soeur Tate started tugging on my sleeve, “Soeur, did he just say we’re going to PARIS?”

As I said, she was new to the whole French thing.

We quickly learned that the name of the “Gare” (train station) in Paris is called the “Gare de Lyon.” Hence the sign I had seen at a moment’s glance. Monsieur Conductor was not sympathetic and pointed out that there had been several announcements about the train going directly to Paris. You know, the ones I ignored.

It got worse when he made us pay the difference we owed for the train ticket on the spot. We emptied out every last penny French franc we had.

And there we were. We were in a foreign country. We had no cell phone. No cash. No credit cards. No connections. And we were on the fast track to PARIS!!!

Be sure to read Part II of Soeur Catastrophe: An International Terror is Born where you will learn about just how close I came to murdering the French population.