My black plastic seat in a row of about ten has suddenly slumped about six inches and is emitting a hideous screeching noise. It diverts the attention of several passers by from the busy thoroughfare and also from the surrounding seats. To my right, is the culprit, a man of forty or so, who can be described as nothing but morbidly obese. I learn from his newspaper, on to which he is now unwrapping a large and rather unappetising looking ham and cheese baguette, that he is French. The stench from his sandwich which is of something like feet and old flesh is causing a battle in my facial muscles not to frown in disdain. As he reaches unattractively for his first bite, having to distort his face in order to manipulate the sandwich into his mouth, I hear the familiar but forgotten tones of English. The roots are two forms sitting opposite me, profoundly British old age pensioners. They bicker heatedly about the disgraceful health of baguette man still munching next to me. “He is killing only himself,” is their final and what I consider, rather harsh judgement. The chewing continues. For his sake, I hope he never learnt English.
My attention is neck-jarringly drawn to the direction of the other most common accent of the English language-American. This pair, like many Americans I have encountered really do command to be noticed. The couple, whose high frequency voices and peacock like garish clothing, compel me are making their way into the ‘French-wine and gift shop’ about ten metres to my left. Their purpose is to get the family some quaint souvenirs no doubt. The place is already packed. The husband has a black umbrella hooked to the back of his trousers. As he shuffles into the establishment, a brush against another tourist results in the umbrella falling abandoned onto the pretty dusty checked floor tiles.
Here it sits momentarily, until a pair of suitcase wheels abruptly drags the umbrella, like a naughty child, for several metres. The case is pulled by a girl a similar age to me, who is ‘back-packing’ with her friend. She has a similarly ludicrous amount of luggage for a type of travelling I had always imagined revolved around the ability to pack lightly. Anyway, they settle themselves on the floor beneath the information sign and whip out some pasta salads. The umbrella now lies disconnected from the wheels, at the girl’s feet, in the centre of the busy route to the platforms. They chatter utterly unaware of it, discussing the location of their next trip. Which, by the sounds of it will not be to Germany or any other Northern European country as,” it’s like never hot enough to get a tan.” Now that’s what I call a love of culture.
A clacking noise from behind me becomes louder like a marching band, echoing despite the crowded atmosphere. When the source of the racket reveals itself, a flamboyant Parisian lady flounces by, sunglasses poised. Unknowingly she kicks the umbrella which stops her in her tracks; she then scowls with a mighty rage. The woman disapprovingly glances at the backpackers, realising they are English, utters disdainfully, “Iz diz yourz?.” They shake their heads, unaffected by her accusing tone. After quickly bending for the umbrella, in her wedge heels, she flings it viciously across the lounge floor. It slides underneath the double row of seats across from me.
After several moments of well earned break, where I expect to be the umbrella’s final resting place, it appears it is not. A tourist, who is undoubtedly English in her leggings and matching rucksack and bum bag in luminous yellow nylon, seems to be intrigued by the umbrella. Apparently with no shame, she bends awkwardly and very unflatteringly under the chairs, straining, face bright red for the umbrella. Now she is utterly sprawled over the shiny, but by no means clean tiles. Triumphantly she grasps it, whilst bystanders and walkers by glance momentarily, then pass uninterested. Straightening up and without taking a moment to brush off the abundance of dust she has collected, she quickly marches on with a definite spring in her step.
The tanoy monotonously calls for passengers for my seat numbers to board the train. With some difficulty I haul my bag and begin to weave my way through the wave of people. It’s time for my journey.