I picked my window seat, right where I could see the beautiful lake that graces several Swiss towns, and just simply because I love window seats.
It was an early Saturday morning, and I set out for my appointment in Geneva. I’d bought my travel ticket the day before and even had a pass that cut my fare in half. So everything should have been in order.
However, something had been bothering me. When I’d bought the ticket at the transport office together with my half travel card, I remembered juggling a couple of documents, and the ticket looked a bit… different.
I’d seen it briefly as I bundled all the papers together and walked out of the office.
Later, in the car, I noticed something was off. I turned to the person with me and asked, “Do you think this is everything they gave me at the office?”
We reviewed the documents together, and our minds told us, “Yeah, this is all.”
The next morning, I arrived at the station early, ready for Geneva. My intuition nudged me to double-check at the transport office but I brushed it off. Instead, I spent the time enjoying the crisp morning air as I waited for the train.
Once onboard, I found my window seat and soaked in the beautiful landscape, casually eavesdropping on interesting conversations around me.
About 30 minutes in, the ticket inspectors began their work. I reached into my bag and pulled out my documents. For some reason, my heart skipped. I just knew something important was missing.
Still, I clung to a vague, irrational hope that the ticket would magically appear once the inspector reached me.
When she got to me, I handed her the receipt, hoping, somewhat naively, that she’d just move on.
“Madam, this is the receipt for your purchase. Could you please show me the actual ticket?”
I pretended not to understand her French at first. Then I half-heartedly sifted through the same documents I’d already checked multiple times. Finally, I told her, “I just have the receipt. That’s all I was given, nothing more.”
She took the bundle of documents from me and flipped through them herself. Nothing.
And that’s when the trouble began.
“Madame, this is not a valid ticket. Even with a receipt, we need to see the actual ticket,” she said, with that firm, no-nonsense tone ticket inspectors like to use.
I thought about paying for the trip again and felt my pride resist. “These are the documents I was given. I’ve already paid. It doesn’t make sense to pay again,” I insisted.
Back and forth we went. Eventually, she handed me a long slip, a fine of 140 Francs, and left.
A journey that should’ve cost me 55 francs (round trip) now came to 195 francs. And that’s not counting the 120 francs I’d already spent on the half-fare pass.
I stared at the fine, stunned. It hit me then: somewhere between the office and the car, the actual ticket must have vanished. I tried calling the office. They couldn’t do anything to help.
I took a deep breath. The only way forward was to stay calm, swallow my pride, and try to negotiate. When the inspector passed by again, I called her over. This time, my tone was soft. We spoke politely.
Thankfully, she was understanding. I paid again for the round trip, and she withdrew the fine. Instead of 195 francs, I only incurred 110. Not a huge difference, but worth not having a bad record.
As much as it hurt, I had no one to blame but myself for ignoring my gut. Part of why I’d been stubborn with the conductor at first was because something similar had happened to me before, and that time, I’d gotten out of it.
It happened in France. I boarded a bus where you could buy a ticket inside using your bank card. Just as the bus pulled off, I headed straight for the machine.
First attempt, my card didn’t work. Second attempt, still nothing. Third attempt, nope.
A guy behind me tried and succeeded. Just as I was trying for what felt like the millionth time, guess who entered? Three bus ticket inspectors.
One of them came straight to me, right next to the machine, and handled me a little roughly, I thought.
“Madam, sorry, you cannot buy the ticket now. You had to do it before boarding.”
He repeated that three times, not even giving me a chance to respond. Then, zup, he blocked the machine so I couldn’t use it anymore.
Once he finally stopped talking, I explained that I’d been trying, that the machine wasn’t working for me. He wasn’t convinced. Maybe my French didn’t sound convincing enough, because he kept repeating, “No, no, you cannot buy the ticket now.”
Luckily, a man nearby had seen the whole thing and spoke up on my behalf. Only then did the conductor calm down. I showed him the failed attempts. I honestly think he’d hoped to catch someone off guard that day. He seemed almost disappointed that it didn’t work out.
In the end, he got off the bus with me and walked me to the nearest ticket machine to buy a ticket.
A narrow escape, but at least that time, the evidence spoke for itself.
The moral of the story? A train inspector’s good day at work is catching someone riding without a valid ticket. They never hesitate to hit you with a fine that’ll make your pockets wail.
