WHEN I LEFT LIVERPOOL THIS MORNING, it was not so much with a heavy heart as with a heavy suitcase. I had wisely used the extra days’ delay caused by Iceland exploding and the subsequent non-existent baggage weight allowance to buy even more presents for my wife, two boys and the neurotic kitten that has now become part of our family. When one travels by plane, as many of my readers will know, one gives these cases to a kind lady at the airport, and (hopefully) does not see them again until reaching one’s destination. By train, I have been reminded today, it is a different kettle of fish.
IT SEEMS LIKE YEARS AGO that I was happy; sitting in a pleasant lounge in London. Since then I have travelled to Paris, upon which I feel like I have been subject to all the tribulations one hopes to avoid. We will now avoid clever prose in order to simply supply the facts.
Gare du Nord: 70 cents to use the toilet (exact change only) and the change machines were out of order. (En panne, as they say here, has become the word of the day.) This meant that desperate gentlemen were doing what I suspect a lot of Frenchmen really enjoy: holding their manhood in their hands and pissing against a wall in full view of everyone. No other nation could produce an artist like Duchamp.
Gare du Nord: as I was walking to the Metro station, half of the population of Algeria seemed to be stalking me to get a taxi with them to Spain. The howling and wailing and gnashing of teeth that followed my rejections reminded me of sunset in Cairo on a Friday. Lifts out of order; escalators idem.
Gare d’Austerlitz: this is not so much a railway station as a construction site. No lifts; no escalators. At six in the evening the hordes of homeless Parisians were already settling down for the night with their dogs, tinfoil and bottles of Pernod. Twice on the short walk to my (admittedly charming) noisy hotel I was propositioned by what seemed to be females – I’ll reserve judgement on the issue – for sex. I look like I have been through a mangle, I’m dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel across the chewing-gum-and-frites infested trottoirs, sweating like a pig: How can these people imagine that I want sex? With them. Paying for it. In Euros. It is a mystery beyond my imagination.
IT SEEMS LIKE YEARS AGO that I was happy; sitting in a pleasant lounge in London. Since then I have travelled to Paris, upon which I feel like I have been subject to all the tribulations one hopes to avoid. We will now avoid clever prose in order to simply supply the facts.
Gare du Nord: 70 cents to use the toilet (exact change only) and the change machines were out of order. (En panne, as they say here, has become the word of the day.) This meant that desperate gentlemen were doing what I suspect a lot of Frenchmen really enjoy: holding their manhood in their hands and pissing against a wall in full view of everyone. No other nation could produce an artist like Duchamp.
Gare du Nord: as I was walking to the Metro station, half of the population of Algeria seemed to be stalking me to get a taxi with them to Spain. The howling and wailing and gnashing of teeth that followed my rejections reminded me of sunset in Cairo on a Friday. Lifts out of order; escalators idem.
Gare d’Austerlitz: this is not so much a railway station as a construction site. No lifts; no escalators. At six in the evening the hordes of homeless Parisians were already settling down for the night with their dogs, tinfoil and bottles of Pernod. Twice on the short walk to my (admittedly charming) noisy hotel I was propositioned by what seemed to be females – I’ll reserve judgement on the issue – for sex. I look like I have been through a mangle, I’m dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel across the chewing-gum-and-frites infested trottoirs, sweating like a pig: How can these people imagine that I want sex? With them. Paying for it. In Euros. It is a mystery beyond my imagination.
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