6h38. The plane has just landed and I’m sure France is beautiful. Or it would be at least were it not for the fog covering everything. From my window I can see the plane’s wing and the occasional halo of light from the runway.
A half hour later I find myself in the Gare SNCF waiting for the 10h30 TGV running from Paris to Nantes and asking myself for the hundredth time why I had decided not to take a ticket on the 8h30 train instead. The answer of course is simply that I didn’t want to risk losing my train to a delayed flight, but I didn’t realize that this would force me to spend more than three hours huddling for warmth in the marble-tiled tube that is the Gare SNCF. To make matters worse, the tube turns into a wind tunnel when the doors at either end open to allow passengers to enter or exit to their trains. On one side there are trains to Paris and on the other there are trains to all the other parts of France, all of which send chills down my spine.
A group of us have formed a group: four girls on their way to study in Angers and myself. We have piled our luggage around us and stand close together talking with our scarves over our mouths. I wonder if this is how the settlers felt after they had circled the wagons for night and prepared for the harsh cold of the desert night in the name of gold. I wonder this and then I wonder where that thought even came from.
I decide jetlag and remind myself to pick up a coat as soon as possible.
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