The train ride to Paris was nothing that I'd expected it'd be. Yes, it was faster and it looked a bit different. It didn't feel very different, though. Part of me thinks I could've closed my eyes and half-convinced myself I was on the LIRR heading home; heading back to those soul-sucking suburban streets that I'd fallen in love on so many times.
The ride was mainly uneventful. I had a window seat but the sights were unexciting, to say the least. It had air conditioning which was nice (unlike that fucking British tube system). I cried a little bit, too. I was listening to John Mayer and drinking coffee with too much milk in it, so I figured if ever there was a time or reason to cry, this was it. Also, I was thinking about things... people... that I didn't want to think about; so if the woman sitting next to me eating rancid smelling chicken wasn't annoying enough... this really annoyed me.
I was on my way to France, though, so I guess it makes a little bit of sense... kinda. France - the place you'd gone on that one vacation and I'd missed you so much. You said you missed me too. That was all so juvenile, anyway.
We used to talk about the concept of time. It still racks my brain if I think about it long enough. "Time controls everything," you'd say. Well 2 hours time is all it took. It really is a bit crazy... 2 hours to travel from England to France. From one country to another. Crazy. I guess London really is the center of it all - an outlet to the world. You can get just about anywhere, fairly easily, from London. It proves a portal to all the places I've been, all the places I'm going, all the places I've ever yearned to be.