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A ‘best worst travel story’ guest post by travel writer Candice Walsh from CandiceDoesTheWorld.com.

This story is my travel shame. I hesitated to tell anyone about this event for months, because not only do I look like an idiot, but I look like an idiot who picks on people with disabilities.

When my company sent me to France to work with the engineering team in Lorient, Brittany, I flew for a billion hours with a terrible hangover on absolutely no sleep. This was my first solo trip, and I approached the journey with great trepidation. After fighting my way through the horrific maze of Charles de Gaulle, I took a 50 euro cab downtown to the Montparnasse train station in Paris, and then waited for hours for my train.

At that point, I was feeling pretty great about myself. I mean, my company was sending me on an all-expenses paid trip to freaking France. I was covered in food stains, wearing sweatpants and my hair was in shambles, but damn, I had made it so far without any incident.

The train to Lorient was fairly empty. I boarded in awkward fashion, having no idea where to store my suitcase until some old French lady screamed at me in near-flawless English. I shared a table with another woman whose grandchildren ran beside the train as it pulled out of the station, and the other two seats remained unoccupied.

My goodness, I thought. I’m doing moderately well with hiding the fact I’m Canadian.

But I was already taken aback by the language barrier. I studied French (not immersion) for ten years in school, and assumed I had enough knowledge to get around. I did not. Not even close.

So there I was sitting on the train, so proud of myself for making it thus far without being shot, when the lady across the aisle approached me and started talking in French.

“Je ne parle pas francais,” I said apologetically.

The lady switched to broken English, and pulled out a card with a “disabled” symbol on it.

“My daughter is ill,” she said nervously, her confidence wavering. “Would you switch seats with her so she can move her legs?”

“Of course!” I replied, nodding furiously.

(Except the conversation did not go nearly that smooth, and so we stumbled through an explanation for about ten minutes with lots of awkward hand motions and hesitant smiles.)

For some reason, in my sleep-deprived, brain-cell destroyed head, I assumed she meant we would switch seats at the next stop, as the train was lurching all over the place and I could barely stand up. For the next little while, her and her daughter eyed me warily, while I warily stared back with a half-smile plastered on my face.

Of course, when the train stopped, two new people sat themselves down in my booth with the two empty seats. I don’t know why this thought never occurred to me, I mean come on. Train stops, people get off, new people get on. Not a hard concept.

The mother and daughter ignored me entirely afterwards, although I sent pleading glances of apologies their way. I was too embarrassed to do anything while the daughter rested her head against the window, her face clenched in pain. And so I left them thinking I was a stupid Canadian, when really I’m just a cognoscente of awkwardness.

Candice Walsh is an associate editor at Matador Network bringing a unique and hysterical voice when discuss her wild social life. Her travel blog, “Candice Does The World” was recently launched to capture her personal travel writing.