Train Exhaustion
Photo by Barthelemy de Mazenod on Unsplash
Paris, November 21, 2004
By some good fortune, I am on the silver bullet train, speeding away from Paris to visit my friend Benedicte in the little town of Crozon. Memories flood back over me almost overwhelmingly as I recall countless previous journeys across France and Europe, running frantically through the train stations with obscene amounts of luggage, nearly missing my train, arriving to my seat sweaty and thoroughly discombobulated. Fortunately, only the latter is true this time.
I find that I have forgotten little things about life in France, little things that are very important. Luckily, they are coming back to me as I relearn my lines in this act, a different yet familiar scene in the play of my life.
I was mistaken for a French woman last night at the Paris airport, and I take this as a compliment of the highest regard considering it came from a true French man. The truth is, he may not have known any better and was probably just sleep deprived, but I'll take it as a compliment nonetheless!
I find that my tongue is not as thick as in previous occasions when speaking this language, but my vocabulary is noticeably lacking. Fortunately, my ears are still attuned to the flow of the French words – they roll languidly through my head, lighting the way to understanding.
It is so different from my first 3 months living in France when the words crashed simultaneously through my head, a horrific brain-splitting dissonance that more often than not left me with a headache worse than those that come after nights of too much red wine.
We are rolling west now. The somber gray buildings of the city have been left behind, the rails cutting a path through fields and small forests, their trees holding stubbornly to the yellow and brown leaves that should have given in long ago to Old Man Winter.
In my haste and the ticket counter's confusion over my internet-purchased train tickets, I have forgotten to get any money. Perhaps it is the sleep deprivation that is fogging my mind, convincing it that I'll get along just fine without any local currency. I have slept 5 hours in the last 2 days, 3 hours of which don't really count since they were winks stolen intermittently while curled up in something akin to the shape of an airplane seat cushion.
I had spent the evening at my friend's apartment in central Paris, her patio offering a glimpse of the top of the Eiffel Tower. Of all the emotions and thoughts on my mind, sleep was not one of them, and a restful slumber evaded me most of the night. To make matters worse, my bedroom door could not be opened from the inside, leaving me trapped
all night with a very full bladder! Fortunately, the computer was also in my room, so I surfed the Web for an agonizing 4 bladder-filled hours in the dark quiet of a Sunday morning in Paris.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I have not had breakfast…or whatever meal my time-zone warped body believes it should have. I crave a pain au chocolat and a petit café, but my wallet once again reminds me that my coins are not accepted here. Only 4 more hours until my train stops…hopefully I don't wither away before then!
Sheer exhaustion came upon me like a monster that suddenly jumps at you in a haunted house. You know it is there, and expect it at anytime, but it surprises you nonetheless. Nothing, not even the continuous ear-shattering crying of the toddler in front of me could have kept my eyes open.
Until I awaken in Brittany…