day3-TGV flies to Nice

Now I am writing this journal on the world-renowned TGV to the southern town of Nice, warm and ocean-scented in my imagination. Occasional farm houses with red roof tiles fly by outside of the window, as well as cattle herds in a distance, grazing on the hilly lush field, under the grey, hazy sky of French December. The ample seat is exceptionally comfortable, the TGV almost never sways as it runs 250 km an hour, as if it is an inch afloat. The folding table between the seats facing each other is stable enough to scribble on this fast-running train, making passengers around me all puzzled, at least the ones who are awake, for I converse with Patrick in English and write the journal in some obscure Asian-looking language. The coach is quiet with many of the passengers sunk in their private slumber, for it left Paris a few minutes past 7, when pre-dawn darkness still encased the capital city. The only exception is the group of four occupying the seats across the aisle from ours. The little girl in a pink corduroy skirt has been quietly playing most of the time, with her creepy-looking doll and her drawing set in a big plastic box, despite my initial concern. Instead, her mother has been engaged in an endless conversation with a man who seems to be her husband, in a voice just loud enough to be heard probably by all the passengers in this otherwise silent car. Another man of the group, who seems to be a brother of either the mother or the father, is fast asleep, with his leather jacket tucked between the window and his head overgrown with his exuberant curly hair. Being curly-haired, chubby, and looking content in a worn-out tee-shirts, he seems to be an odd member of this family of skinny parents with an ambiguous sorrow floating on their faces. Patrick is also asleep in front of me, trying to rehabilitate from his jet lag. I slept a deep sleep soon after the train left Paris, and now am filled with fresh energy.

The alarm of my wrist watch woke us up this morning at 6:30, which should have been early enough to get to the Gare de Lyon after letting Patrick find the Christmas gift I had hidden under the small writing table last night. It did give us enough time to play the little "where did the Santa leave the present?" game, but did not grant us enough time to get ready, for some mysterious reason. Well, to be honest, it was not mysterious--it was simple--Patrick was not paying attention to his watch, and I did not know that he wasn't. Therefore, by the time he came down to the small lobby where I was nervously waiting for him after taking care of the check-out business, it was too late to take the Metro to the station. 20 minutes was all we had. Flinging our backpacks on the shoulders, we hurried to the closest possible place to find a cab, the Place de Republique. There were two cabs parked on the other side of the plaza, to which we dashed as the light turned red without flickering, as is the norm in France. There was nobody in the cabs. Desperate, we stepped on to the road from the sidewalk and glanced around, and found one making a turn toward us. Thankfully the cab was empty, and pulled up in response to my hysteric motion. We threw the backpacks in the trunk, and ourselves in the back seats. The driver must have sensed our desperate hurry, for he sped along the road, wet jet-black with midnight rain and pre-dawn fog, reflecting the orange glow of the street lamps. The digital clock on the dashboard cruelly eroded into what little time left before our train would leave us behind. I almost gave up, finding a strange relief in the somewhat graceful act of giving up. But when the cab driver dropped us at the station, right in front of the 12-track platform, it was still 7 minutes before the departure. The long line in front of the coffee stand and my chicken heart didn't allow me to grab our caffeine fix for the morning, but we did get on the train, which seems almost miraculous. The TGV smoothly pulled out of the station into the surburbs of Paris, still fast asleep, complete with graffiti on the soundproof walls along the rail, obscured in the indigo darkness before dawn. Soon irresistible waves of sleepiness attacked me, to which I succumbed.

Soft, grey light of the overcast morning awakened me some forty minutes later. The train was running through a hilly field with lines of trees along unpaved roads, connecting barns, farm houses, small churches, and probably some general stores and post offices in neighboring villages. Were it not for the moist green of the plants that covers the ocean-like field, it would be similar to Spanish Extremadura where an imitation of TGV carries Spanish ladies with black feather fans and men with bags under their eyes from noble and proud Madrid to affectionate and vengeful Andalucia. I went to the snack stand several cars apart and came back with two cups of espresso, longing for a big mug full of American coffee, which seems nonexistent in this part of the world. The pastries we bought yesterday soothed our hunger. The satisfaction they provided, however, far exceeded the mere stuffing up of our stomachs. The tartlette au Citron had a flaky crust and rich, flan-like filling with a strong, refreshing orange flavor. The quiche Provencale, which Patrick picked, was filled with roasted vegetables, of which the red pepper, with its pleasing bitterness, was the best. My quiche with mushrooms was the least impressive of the three, yet excellent with succulent mushrooms swarming in the buttery pie crust. It was just a random bakery closest to our hotel, and it's traumatizingly good! We exclaimed in hushed voices, happily licking our fingers. After a while Patrick went back to sleep. I opened the journal, and started recording yesterday's journey of ours, before it blurs in the light of new experiences ahead of us.