Paris hotel to Gare Saint-Lazare? Check.
Finding the right platform? Check.
Finding the assigned coach? Check…or maybe not.

I had a prepaid first-class ticket to Caen on coach 12. I found coach 12 marked on the doorway; however, the other end of the same coach was labelled coach 11. It does not take a mathematical genius to deduce that 220+ passengers do not fit well into 110+ seats unless they are very friendly. By the time it was determined that the train was short one first-class coach, few were friendly…especially to members of the French rail system. No surprise that we departed late.

I managed a single seat on coach 11/12, but many others were shuffled back to ride in second class. I did laugh out loud when an announcement was made that people should retain their tickets and apply for a refund. I suspect ‘apply’ is the operative word.

During the ride, I did chat with a few folks on their way to the Games. One lady from the UK was going as a spectator, a couple from Texas were connected with reining, relatives of a competitor were providing a cheering section and one young lady and her mother were going because the daughter’s coach will be competing.

The daughter is a dressage student of Maree Tomkinson from Australia. The young lady is very excited to be attending her first ‘big’ competition and aspires to be a competitor at this level someday. It strikes me that she is the type of person the industry should be aware of and encouraging more.

So that accounts for the train ride to Caen. Yes, I actually made it to the destination, and, with the help of a Google map, walked a few short minutes to my hotel.

Time was tight for picking up my accreditation, getting back to the hotel and then heading to the media center (OK, centre) and taking in the opening ceremonies.

The schedule for the media shuttle, which I presumed would take me to the accreditation centre (the French spelling), showed departures every hour. But, a Google search showed a 20-minute walk each way. Since I would have to wait 50 minutes for a shuttle, I walked…both ways. I actually enjoyed the stroll and it provided a bit of orientation to the city. This was a plus, since I learned the shuttles could not go to the accreditation centre due to the narrow streets in that area.

Accreditation? Check.
Showered? Check.
Clean clothes? Check.
Media shuttle to the venue? Oops.

The clerk at my hotel said I had to catch the shuttle at a point about 1.5 blocks away. The shuttle sign at that location pronounced that it was a spectator shuttle. I asked at another media hotel a further half a block away, and they told me I had to catch the media shuttle at the train station. You’re getting the picture, right? Suffice to say that I eventually took the spectator bus and arrived in time to spend 5 minutes in the media centre before finding a seat in the stadium just as the opening ceremonies began.

Admittedly, I did not stay for the entire show. I had my doubts regarding finding a shuttle back to the hotel’s general area. And I was tired. I did see the spotlighted breeds and the parade of nations, though.

Back at the hotel, I read through some material and was of the opinion that I would have today off. Why? Because the shuttles (yes, all of them) would not start operations until 10:00 a.m. and the jog for dressage started at 7:45. Fortunately, another journalist offered to let me share a taxi with her and yet another frustrated journalist. Problem solved, but I suspected that the organizer of the shuttle schedule might own a taxi company. What do you think?

And then there was the set up for the jog: entirely fenced in. Grumble number one. With tight restrictions regarding locations for photographers (facing the sun only), we soon had grumble number two. I decided I would have to try to obtain conformation shots from the halt during tests. Sure hope I can find the right place to shoot tomorrow.

Considering that Alltech, the major sponsor of the Games, is so media conscious, they may not approve of the Normandy experience for the media so far.

One of the stewards, who understood the frustrations of the professional photographers, said, “It’s very French. Say no more.” I thanked him for the Monty Python moment (Say no more. Say no more.) and the momentary giggle. And then I spotted Pedro, back gate maestro and noted costume wearer.

A wig with curlers and a hair net plus fingernail polish in assorted bright colors – no two nails alike. Pedro said he wished someone could have been there to take pictures of the faces of the dressage riders as they approached the presentation area. I laughed as I imagined them.  Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more.

I’m back at the hotel – partially via bus and partially on foot – and about to give myself the rest of the day off.

So far I can say that the French do fashion and food really well.  I sure hope I can add to that short list before my 3 weeks in France are up.