Baggage carousel – An Irishman’s Diary about what happens when you lose all your valuables in Strasbourg

In Strasbourg recently, I planned a side trip across the German border to visit a place called “Europa-Park”. It’s a standard theme park, offering the usual thrill rides, except that the theme is the Continent itself, with attractions subdivided into sections inspired by 14 different countries.

This and the fact that it’s in a town called “Rust” makes the venue more than usually appealing to journalists in search of a metaphor. But what really piqued my interest was that, after decades in existence, the park has this year added an Irish-themed area.

Not only that, the area in question is a redesign of the section reserved for younger thrill-seekers, which until now was known simply as “Children’s World”.

Yes, in a piece of (unintended) Swiftian satire, Europa-Park has rebranded its kids' corner as the Emerald Isle – a "fairytale oasis" with attractions including "Limerick Castle", "Old MacDonald's Tractor fun", and a swing-boat based loosely on the Titanic.

Themes

So I would love to have been able to report first-hand from this parallel Hibernia – in the process making cheap jokes on such themes as Irish Water (“fairytale oasis” is right).

But I can’t, alas, because when I should have been on the road to Rust that day, I was instead back in Strasbourg, stuck on another roller-coaster ride, the kind that happens when you leave a bag – containing your laptop, iPhone, passport, and credit cards – on a tram.

Actually, my first thought after this disaster dawned was less to do with my own security than that of France. In a country where there are posters everywhere warning of the high-alert levels, I had just left a suspicious object on public transport.

Stops

Worse, I wasn’t sure if it was on the last tram (now speeding away), or the connecting one I had switched from two stops back. Even as I struggled to recall where and when I had last seen the bag, I could sense the army bomb disposal people rushing to the scene.

So being near the main tourist office, I first went there and asked them to phone a warning (uncoded) to the tram company. Only after that could I worry about trying to get the bag back.

The logistics were challenging. It’s not until you lose your phone and laptop that you realise how appallingly dependent you have become on them – for communication, information, orientation, etc.

But reviving skills that had been dormant since the 20th century, I somehow found my way to the tram company’s public office, where a lady phoned my details to someone else, spelling out the surname, which she found “very Irish” (for some reason, when saying this, she smiled and flexed her arm, Popeye-style). Then she said they wouldn’t know until next morning whether the bag had been found.

After that, I retraced my steps to the European Parliament, where the tram journey started, in case I had left the bag there; revisited the hotel I had checked out of earlier, in case anyone had contacted it; and made a police report, in bad French.

But the highlight of the tour, if there was one, was visiting Strasbourg’s lost property office.

Based in the municipal mairie, this was impressively large, with four female staff behind counters, and no queues. I looked in vain for any bags there, but this was only the bureaucratic side of the operation.

So a woman took my particulars and, after googling the Dublin equivalent of the mairie, turned her screen to show me city hall. "If we find your bag, we will send it there," she said.

The last whirl on my mystery tour would be the Irish Embassy in Paris, a day later, for an emergency passport to get me home.

Side-trip

In the meantime, since I still had cash, at least, I went ahead with another side-trip from Strasbourg – to Belfort – where more thrills awaited.

It turned out that my hotel was automated at night, so you had to check in via ATM, using your credit card. Now bereft of same, I had to resort to the emergency back-up system, disturbing from dinner a woman whose duties didn’t seem to include dealing with the likes of me, but who did, reluctantly.

After that, and a stressful day, I sought asylum in nocturnal Belfort. There wasn’t much still open. But what there was, happily, included Ireland’s contribution to the great theme park that is Europe itself. In this case, it was a pub called Finnegan’s.