The Umbrella in Gare de Nord

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The Umbrella in Gare du Nord

“Have you ever travelled alone?” This query from the taxi driver, who dropped me off at Ashford, still resounds. I’m in Gare du Nord, reluctantly going home. My ridiculously heavy holdall, which very conveniently has no wheels, has already punished me by leaving deep red grooves in my hands. They throb rhythmically with my pulse. I await the moment of doom, the moment my train is called and I have to lug this stupid hunk of leather to the platform, like some dead creature. The strobe lighting expresses an unhealthy yellow hue over all who pass beneath. Also, the bulbs provide irritation by buzzing continuously, this can be compared to angry bees searching for nectar. Perhaps this is their revenge for being trapped in one of the most depressing departure lounges ever. The one which tears you from the romantic graces of Paris.  Breathing in deeply, and preparing for the wait, I inhale in a sumptuous blend of stale disinfectant, baby wipes, and old people. Rather like hospital.  

 It’s an interesting experience. But is obviously a different one for each and every individual who undertakes a solo expedition. One aspect that I believe is common to all us lone travellers is the unique capability to watch. I can describe it only as a sixth sense that gives you intuitive superiority over all others. Particularly the distraught mothers and bickering couples who bypass this other realm. We are all seeing and all knowing.

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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 ...

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