Paris, why must you treat me so?

I left an hour and fifteen minutes before I had to be at the train station to go to Brussels. I was really regretting my poor choice of staying out so late (and drinking as I did), especially when I was squeezed onto the line 4 with thousands of really smelly Frenchmen. I got to the Gare du Nord, a very colorful neighborhood, and as I was stepping off the train, a man who wanted to get on pushed me out of the way. And I mean he literally took both hands and pushed me to the ground like a five-year-old on the playground. And here I was thinking that the French weren’t rude…

In the train station, I went to the automatic ticket dispenser, was told that the machine couldn’t read my card and that I had to go to the ticket counter. The line at the ticket counter stretched all the way to Belgium, and I missed my train standing in it. That was the least of my problems, for when I got to the booth, they had no record of my reservation. After much searching and a phone call (to whom, I still wonder) my reservation was found. The next train left an hour later, and I wasn’t guaranteed a seat. I had to wait until everyone was on board before I began my desperate search for a lone seat in which to sleep in. I dragged myself through three cars before I spotted one lucky little seat by a window.

As I sat down, the guy across from me was talking to the woman kitty-corner from him. Thanks to Nadia, I can easily recognize a Russian accent speaking French, so I knew he was Russian. I thought that they were together, until he told her his name. It was then that I realized that he was weird. I immediately pulled out a book so that he wouldn’t have an easy time engaging me in conversation. He talked loudly to no one in particular the entire train ride from Paris to Brussels. There were two main topics in his diatribe: 1. The cost of specific items in Paris versus the same in Russia and how much more Paris costs. He named prices and asked others to name prices as well. 2. Jobs he has had and things he has done. He is a musician with nowhere to perform in Paris. He is a translator, a writer, a chef, a monk, and a former employee of Princess Diana. He would not shut up. The best moment was when the woman from the window seat across the isle stopped him and said, “Could you please be quiet? I just want to read and you are really annoying.” He stopped talking for thirty seconds, just enough time for all of us to breathe a sigh of relief, and then announced that he had just bought a new pair of tennis shoes for 70 euros and that he could have gotten the same in Moscow for 25. And on and on and on…so much for sleep.

On a happier note, Brussels is lovely. I’m at a great hotel. It's just steps away from the Manneken Pis: the single most disappointing landmark in Europe. I had a great little walk around with Natalie (Marcelo’s wife- she works in Brussels) and then settled down to taste some real Belgian beer.Belgians are my kind of blondes...