One of those weeks

We all have those days where we wish we could just go back to bed and start again. Or one of those weeks. Or, as the Friends opener continues, one of those years? Today felt like the culmination of a terrible week, punctuated by verbal assault from my housemates, abandonment by a Bla Bla Car driver, employment rejection, and which ended (? it’s still only Saturday) with me breaking my bike minutes before a race this morning, forcing me to abandon my effort.

Generally, in these cases, I try to reflect on each case and remind myself that there are so many worse things that could happen and that things could be a lot worse.

The housemate aggression was pretty terrible and the resulting search for somewhere to live has been utterly depressing. Yet, surely I will eventually find something. And while my savings are rapidly dwindling, I could surely find a way to pay for a couple of weeks in an AirBnB. In the meantime, I will simply amuse myself with applying for apartments in the area in the hope that I can impress a private landlord sufficiently to overlook my lack of employment and other potential solvency issues.

I had also expanded my local job search without much success. Months of applications launched into the international relations void had left me feeling a little despondent. A local crash had made me realise the value of securing a local job, if only to access French health insurance. The prospect of working full time for minimum wage was a little too much for me — with all due respect to those make it work — and I was holding out hope that one of these consulting contracts would come through. And so I took my resumé to the pizza shop. I’d previously walked into a temp agency with my CV, only to be told that they had nothing but they would call me if that changed. I had also handed in my CV at Petit Bateau, which was seeking a part-time sales assistant for 10 hours per week. Perhaps my discomfort around children shone through. I certainly never heard back. I had also tried at another clothing company, only to be told to return in three weeks when the Manager was in town.

And so I found the server job at a local pizzeria. They were seeking someone for around 10–15 hours per week, lunchtimes only. Perfect, I thought. I could run, work remotely, and the pizzeria was just around the corner. To be fair, I think they already had some candidates in contention and it wasn’t my lack of any real experience that was the barrier. They gave me a token to get 1 euro off my next pizza and said they might be in touch. One day. I am not holding my breath.

Being abandoned by the Bla Bla Car driver seems utterly mundane by comparison. I had gone to Geneva for the day to visit an Australian friend who was in town. The simplest — also the fastest and most economical — way to and from Geneva is Bla Bla Car. The ride-sharing app that originated in France has several options during business hours thanks to the stream of Anneciens who commute to Switzerland for the promise of higher pay. The way in was fairly uneventful (after I’d held everyone up by waiting in the wrong “dépose minute” at Annecy station) and while I was fairly confident in my evening return, I prudently purchased a Swiss SIM card for my phone to be able to communicate if required.

My ride was scheduled for 9:40pm at the Geneva Airport. I arrive early and a little concerned that I hadn’t heard anything from my driver, I text him at 9:20 to confirm the meeting place. After two texts with no response, I start panicking and wondering up and down the airport, searching for alternate pick up locations. Finally, at 9:45, I send a message using the app (perhaps my driver is using a French SIM without roaming, I propose) . Nothing. It’s now 15 minutes past the pick up time and I’m genuinely concerned about getting home. I run into the airport to ask whether there are any buses back to Annecy. “None at this hour, Madame”.

Damn.

I see one more Bla Bla Car on the app, leaving Geneva at 10:10 pm and passing by the airport. I send a quick public message to see if the driver is still making the route. I then notice he has an automatic reservation option, so I quickly reserve it. Just in case. At worst, I figure I’ll lose a few euros. I send a rapid text at 10:05pm and he responds immediately. “No problem, I’ll pick you up at the airport at 10:30 :)”. I admit at that point, a smiley face was one of the best things that happened that evening. A sympathetic Norwegian named Simon turns up at 10:27 to collect me and another passenger who has a regular late work shift and the two know each other well. We chatted on the way home and I had never been so glad to back by 11:15pm.

After a week of house hunting, employment rejection, and housemate aggression, I really needed the bike race I had planned for Saturday. It was going to be hot and I had already decided to do the shorter course but I was ready. Not in the kind of form I had before the crash last month and yet I knew I would do relatively well.

So when I managed to ruin my chances of racing on Saturday before even making it to the start line, I was particularly disappointed. Most of all in myself. And in my week. And in life. Such a silly, minor thing — a miscommunication while chatting with a friend who then turned left without me realising and me tipping over at about 3km an hour and bending my derailleur hanger— just seemed like such an injustice. I kept riding but a few minutes up the hill, it was over. The hanger snapped off, and I tipped over again, just for good measure. Unbelievable stupidity. My race was over before I began. And of course everyone would realise just how clumsy and useless I was. I was so embarrassed. This was even more embarrassing than when I crashed into someone on the bike path and ended up in the hospital! The shame.

But I picked myself up, tried not to show my disappointment and saw my friends off on the race. At this point, without a good book or brilliant mobile connection, I decided to offer my assistance to the organisers. I ended up helping out at two food stands, which helped pass the time. There will be more races. There is little doubt I could have won today — there were only three other women in my race — but that is no reason to mope. I asked my friend to leave me at the bike shop on the way home to get a new hanger and fix my poor bike. The scratch on the seat stay was just another reminder of my luck lately. The fact that I’m still riding two different wheels while I wait for new spokes is further indignity for my poor bike. Adds character, right?

I ride home and check my messages for apartment leads. Or perhaps the pizza shop has called. Or perhaps something else will come through.

After a week like that, one can only assume that luck will change and hopefully things get better rather than worse. As long as the week understands that Sunday is a rest day for bad luck.