I absolutely love riding trains in Europe. Even the crappy ones offering only a hole in the floor in place of a proper toilet are far superior to the sardine cans that pass as coach class air travel these days.
Now that I earn a decent paycheck, it would appear that the train experience only gets better.
To reach Aix, we chose to take the crown jewel of French transportation innovation, the TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse). Not only could we book our seats in advance (with a table!), but we’d reach our destination in three hours by reaching speeds of 280kph (174mph). We’re headed back to Paris right now, and because I am too lazy to read my Maupassant book, you are getting a running narrative of our journey.
First, the ride down to Aix was relatively unremarkable, except for the fact that I had the French version of Malibu Barbie sitting next to me. Actually, she was sitting in my seat (that’s my window bitch!) and I used my French language skills to politely teach her how to read a ticket. Sparing you much hyperbole, she spent the bulk of the journey searching for split ends (in her hair, to clarify for you men), and reapplying makeup in preparation for whoever she might be meeting on the other side. Sadly, I did not get a photograph of her- but to give you vaguely interested readers something to look at, my sympa soeur was nice enough to snap an unattractive photo of me half-passed out that I will post:
I am sure that Barbie is a much more beautiful dormeuse than I am. But then again I don’t sleep with my mascara on.
Fast-forward through my lavender-scented blur to the return journey that originates at the TGV gare (station) in Aix. We are sitting across from the prison toilets waiting for our train to get in from Marseille. Rory again starts to document our waiting experience in earnest:
Maupassant was keeping my attention. Until dreamland abruptly took over. Luckily I woke up before Rory captured that. I think.
Taken near the train tracks. I’m not a cat person, but you might be interested to know that even the cats here prefer baguettes to processed food.
The chariot arrives, and before we know it we are in our seats, zooming along (I didn’t have to kick anyone out of my coveted window seat this time). Life is good, especially since we are sitting in a first class car. Actually, I’m lying- I can discern no appreciable difference between first and second class on a TGV. Unless of course you consider that fact that we created our own entertainment during the ride northwards.
Full disclosure: I’m a little buzzed right now. It’s not exactly my fault (okay, it is), but I will say that it is making this ride all the more enjoyable.
It started off with this modest bottle of alcohol procured in Pamplona (an experience, as it would appear, that is still paying dividends).
In the interest of broadening our cultural horizons (and really, isn’t this what the Olmsted Experience is all about?), we passed around the little bottle between ourselves. Much to my pleasant surprise, even my near-teetotaling sister took a swig!
The reaction from my companions after I announced that it tasted like Red Nyquil. I should totally become a sommelier.
So we finished the modest bottle (really, it didn’t go very far). Within minutes of taking in our aperitif, the refreshment cart started to approach. “Look Marc!” I said half-jokingly, “you want to buy some wine?”
“Oh yeah.” Marc said, absolutely serious.
Marc is my wine-drinking pal in the family, so I immediately modify my joking attitude and gave him the thumbs up to share in the experience with him. We order a bottle from the nice food cart attendant, who informs us that he has to go to the cave in order to retrieve the chilled bottle of rosé.
Really, the TGV has its own cave? That’s better than French cats getting to eat their own baguettes.
You can see that it is just a small bottle (and you can also see that I have my computer open, capturing these precious Hallmark moments as they come).
Rory skips out on the wine course, and instead orders up a cookie that she doesn’t end up eating. The food cart guy is exceedingly nice, and even wants to make sure that we understand his dry sense of humor (not lost on me in the slightest). He explains that he doesn’t want to give France a bad reputation, because the French already have a reputation of not being nice to foreigners. I told him that in my opinion, things had gotten a lot better since I was here 12 years ago….but what do I know? I’m just a dumb American. But I do believe this to be true, even though my French banter has also significantly improved over the last 12 years.
Marc and I eat Rory’s cookie, a surprisingly pleasant compliment to the limited supply of Train Wine. Rory is laughing over her new favorite euphemism: “I am taking the Browns to the Superbowl” in between playing quickdraw with the TGV as she tries to immortalize picturesque villages with her camera.
Rory’s fighting a losing battle. Half a second after she decides she sees something she wants to photograph, it is miles away before she can ever wrestle her camera out of her bag.
As for me, I need to use the bathroom but don’t want to wake up the dude sitting next to me. He must think that we are uncouth American freaks, given our haphazard choice of journey victuals. Hey, he’s no master of discernment himself; I can hear that he is listening to the “Animal House” theme song (yes, the one from the end of the movie) on his iPod.
It takes one to know one, I guess.
I love riding trains.