My first (of many, I’m sure) change of plans. Rather than head south from Paris, I’m heading back to Amsterdam for a week or so. I had three days there before Paris and loved it. I think there may be much more to discover. After Amsterdam, I’m not sure. Berlin, perhaps.
I’m writing this on the Thalys, a high speed train that travels between Paris and the Low Countries. It takes about three hours to get to Amsterdam Centraal, and it’s a smooth, comfortable ride. We’re going to do a quick invasion of Belgium along the way.
I’m sitting next to a French-speaking woman who seems quite miffed that anyone would have the impertinence to book the seat next to her. She makes an entirely theatrical show of moving the arsenal of baggery off my seat. After a long, loud phone conversation (which is how I know she’s a French speaker) she pulls out her e-smoker thingy and proceeds to take long, deep gurgling draws that sound something akin to the guttural racket a cat makes just before it lets loose with last night’s Whiskas behind the couch.
Minutes later
Vapowoman has now decided that the first 150mm of my seat adjacent to hers is, in fact, her seat. She’s placed a stiff, rustly plastic bag up against my leg. I, of course, am a paragon of cool, and choose to ignore it. I’m wondering if I should casually put my hand into the bag and crush the contents.
More minutes later
We’re passing through some fine French countryside and I’m looking past her laptop and out the window. She is furiously typing emails (some people provide emphasis to what they write by hitting the keys harder) and mistakes my gaze to mean I’m reading her emails. Now, truth be told, if they were in English, I probably would read them, purely for my own edification. Unfortunately, she’s writing in French. I would like to get her email address though, so I can send her links to websites that show rotting lungs caused by vaping. Nothing like the sanctimony of an ex-smoker. Meanwhile she methodically angles her laptop screen away from me.
It’s one of the shortcomings of not having local language fluency - I can’t make acerbic, coded comments on her actions, so I’m left to just sigh loudly. Hey, she wants to be melodramatic? Two can play at that game. Sadly, she’s too busy munching on a too-healthy-to-be-tasty salad in between cat-fart gurgles to notice my superb pantomime.
It’s the wide windows that make high speed trains so much better than planes. We’re going 300 kilometres per hour through wind farms and past villages, and there’s a bit of sunshine to dapple the view. There’s a Canadian couple across the aisle doing their damnedest to get as drunk as possible as soon as possible, and having a non-stop conversation in which they say absolutely nothing interesting but manage to paint a very clear picture of the dynamics of a couple who have been trying to get one up on each other since the honeymoon. I’m jealous of them though. Being Canadian, I assume they can determine if the French couple behind them are saying anything interesting. Except they may be too drunk already.
A little later
We’re nearing the Belgian border now. We’re in the Arras end of France.
A few minutes after a little later
Vapowoman is giving herself a complete makeover. The full contents of her makeup case are now spilling across the cabin. It makes me think she might be getting off the train in Brussels, although not before letting the cat loose behind the couch again.
We’re not far from Brussels. This means, of course, given it’s Tuesday, we must be in Belgium.
A simultaneous makeup job and vape later
She stands to get off in Brussels with a polite, ”Excusez-moi.” I simulate a French accent, wishing her, “Bon voyage.”
“Merci.” She smiles warmly and strides off down the aisle, bags trailing behind her.
I brush the crumbs off her seat.
I’m writing this on the Thalys, a high speed train that travels between Paris and the Low Countries. It takes about three hours to get to Amsterdam Centraal, and it’s a smooth, comfortable ride. We’re going to do a quick invasion of Belgium along the way.
I’m sitting next to a French-speaking woman who seems quite miffed that anyone would have the impertinence to book the seat next to her. She makes an entirely theatrical show of moving the arsenal of baggery off my seat. After a long, loud phone conversation (which is how I know she’s a French speaker) she pulls out her e-smoker thingy and proceeds to take long, deep gurgling draws that sound something akin to the guttural racket a cat makes just before it lets loose with last night’s Whiskas behind the couch.
Minutes later
Vapowoman has now decided that the first 150mm of my seat adjacent to hers is, in fact, her seat. She’s placed a stiff, rustly plastic bag up against my leg. I, of course, am a paragon of cool, and choose to ignore it. I’m wondering if I should casually put my hand into the bag and crush the contents.
More minutes later
We’re passing through some fine French countryside and I’m looking past her laptop and out the window. She is furiously typing emails (some people provide emphasis to what they write by hitting the keys harder) and mistakes my gaze to mean I’m reading her emails. Now, truth be told, if they were in English, I probably would read them, purely for my own edification. Unfortunately, she’s writing in French. I would like to get her email address though, so I can send her links to websites that show rotting lungs caused by vaping. Nothing like the sanctimony of an ex-smoker. Meanwhile she methodically angles her laptop screen away from me.
It’s one of the shortcomings of not having local language fluency - I can’t make acerbic, coded comments on her actions, so I’m left to just sigh loudly. Hey, she wants to be melodramatic? Two can play at that game. Sadly, she’s too busy munching on a too-healthy-to-be-tasty salad in between cat-fart gurgles to notice my superb pantomime.
It’s the wide windows that make high speed trains so much better than planes. We’re going 300 kilometres per hour through wind farms and past villages, and there’s a bit of sunshine to dapple the view. There’s a Canadian couple across the aisle doing their damnedest to get as drunk as possible as soon as possible, and having a non-stop conversation in which they say absolutely nothing interesting but manage to paint a very clear picture of the dynamics of a couple who have been trying to get one up on each other since the honeymoon. I’m jealous of them though. Being Canadian, I assume they can determine if the French couple behind them are saying anything interesting. Except they may be too drunk already.
A little later
We’re nearing the Belgian border now. We’re in the Arras end of France.
A few minutes after a little later
Vapowoman is giving herself a complete makeover. The full contents of her makeup case are now spilling across the cabin. It makes me think she might be getting off the train in Brussels, although not before letting the cat loose behind the couch again.
We’re not far from Brussels. This means, of course, given it’s Tuesday, we must be in Belgium.
A simultaneous makeup job and vape later
She stands to get off in Brussels with a polite, ”Excusez-moi.” I simulate a French accent, wishing her, “Bon voyage.”
“Merci.” She smiles warmly and strides off down the aisle, bags trailing behind her.
I brush the crumbs off her seat.
