I’ve decided that I like trains. Riding the train is like being a kid again. I feel warm and cozy, wrapped up in the backseat of my mom’s stationwagon, slowly falling asleep to the lull and sway of the engine’s purr. I feel relaxed, pleasant, unassuming. Watching the other travelers in my car, I make up stories about their lives. He is a doctor from Lyon going to a conference in Paris. She has three more children at home, but this one is her favorite. She is his mistress. He hates cheese. Get a room already. I like her shoes.
On the train you can be anyone you want to be. No one knows you and no one dare break the silence to ask. Everything is declared in an intricate display of body language and facial expression.
The train stations. What a vibrant mass of energy. People coming and going. Lovers embracing. Tears. Laughter. Such powerful emotion.
« Jacques est un rêve, pas un homme. »
Eventually my train makes it to Paris and I am awakened from my dream. Oh, Paris. As much as the train reminds me of my youth, Paris pulls me out of it. The city is so romantic and daring, full of lustful energy. One glance at the Eiffel Tower and you realize why. Everything is beautiful, from the gold-laden bridges under your feet to the intricate gargoyles laughing at you from the rooftops. It makes you want to be beautiful, and then garnish yourself with a creamy white scarf.
Jacques a dit ~ Christophe Willem
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