Abby
“Ah,GareduNord,how I have missed you,” I mutter to myself as I step off the train, hauling my suitcase down behind me with a groan.
People rush around me, clearly in a hurry to get as far away from the train as possible, and I quickly make my way to the opposite side of the platform trying to get out of the way. You could think they spent weeks in there instead of the few hours it takes to get from London to Paris.
I take a deep breath of the fresh air. That's so much better than the air-conditioning inside the train and God, the natural light feels great. One can only entertain themselves so long with Tetris on their phone, waiting for the train to finally arrive at the destination.
I stop at the very side of the platform to sort out my luggage, pulling on my backpack and making sure my phone is stowed away safely, yet easy to access so I can use my trusty map on it, before I re-join the crowd. A difficult task to undertake, considering how urgently all these people need to leave. Seriously, they’re elbowing each other out of the way and running their suitcases over people’s toes.
Ah, Paris. The city of love.
I’ve been to Paris before. Several times, actually. Never for sightseeing, but for concerts and a trade fair.
However, considering the city is so beautiful, as observed from busses and taxis, it tends to escape me, just how… un-pretty I find their northern train station from the inside.
Dark green pillars hold up the roof, which looks like someone stacked wavy metal sheets together and nailed them in place. It makes sense—you’d need to fasten metal to metal somehow.
The nicest thing about the station is the row of lamps running down the center of each platform, giving the space a slightly old-fashioned, elegant feel. I’ve seen plenty of train stations in worse shape, but also quite a few that outshine this one.
The best thing though? No stairs to get off the platform, unlike so many other train stations in Europe. The station is a level-ground terminal. Trains turn around here rather than continuing forward, so all further transport and shops are located at the front of each train. Or back, however you want to look at it. If I wanted to, I could roll my suitcase right outside and get a taxi.
I grimace. Right. I planned on using the metro to get to my hotel. Guess I won’t get around hauling my suitcase down one or seven flights of stairs after all.
“Would have been too good to be true otherwise,” I mutter to myself and take my backpack off again. Max, my brother, gave me some of his leftover metro tickets from his last visit here. Thank God, because whenever I’d been here, the lines at the metro ticket machines were longer than my emotional bandwidth. Had I been more awake than I currently am, after needing to get up at five to catch my train, I probably would have been smart enough to put those in my pocket. But alas.
I put my backpack on top of my suitcase and quickly pull it open. There’s my bottle of water, jacket in case it starts to rain, map in case my phone gives out, powerbank, spare headphones.
“Goddamnit, where are you?” I hiss under my breath and put my whole arm in there, touching around blindly for the thick paper. “Fuck yes.” I feel the edge of them with my fingertip, on the very bottom, buried under all the very necessary stuff I wrestled inside my backpack. “Come to mama.” I try to pull it free with my finger, almost managing to wedge it between two, when I suddenly find myself, butt and most contents from my bag on the ground.
“What the hell?” I ask, stunned, looking around myself confused. That happened so quickly I lost all orientation.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” a man barks at me over his shoulder with an American accent and a deep scowl as he hurries off and I stare after him, my butt on the cold ground and mouth agape. The freaking audacity!
Oh, how I wish I was quick-witted enough to tell him off, but I’m still stunned. So instead, I raise my middle finger to his blue sweatshirt-clad back as he storms away.
I only caught a short glimpse of his face, but he didn’t look much older than my twenty-six. How rude. I thought people my age stuck together, a united front against the rude boomers of this world, but it seems like he’s become one of them, if only in mind.
Or he’s just the kind of person who thinks of themselves as above anyone else. Judging by his ‘let’s go golfing on the weekend’ sweatshirt and wrinkle-less dress pants, I will take a stab in the dark and say he’s someone who wants to be important. Maybe a nepo baby. I bet his daddy is some important investment banker or insurance CEO, earning him the ‘right’ to run people over in train stations.
Whoever and whatever he is, I hope he steps into a puddle and has to walk with wet socks in his shoes for the rest of the day. Or that his sleeve falls when he washes his hand. May all his future trains be late or canceled and taxis unavailable.
“Ça va?” My thoughts of ill wishes are interrupted when a nice older gentleman leans down. His grey hair catches the light as he bends down, eyes full of quiet concern. My French isn’t great, but I think he’s asked me if I’m alright.
“Oui, ça va. Merci,” I answer him with my rudimentary, learned-in-the-past-four-weeks-from a-scary-green-owl-French and nod with a smile, slowly getting up.
He crouches and helps me collect my belongings, watching me as I stuff them right back into my backpack. There goes the careful order I originally packed them in, depending on what I’m most likely to need. At least I find my metro ticket as I push my map to the side and quickly put it into the pocket of my jacket.
“Careful,” the man tells me with a thick French accent when he hands me my bottle of water. “Keep bag close on the metro. People steal here.”
I fight a smile. That’s the exact same thing my brother kept telling me as well, and considering he’s had his wallet stolen on the metro once, I understand his insistence.
“I will be careful,” I assure him with a nod and zip up the bag tightly, snapping the latch on its top too. “Thank you.”
“Well, you have a good time here,” he says in a joking tone and gives me one final nod before walking away.
Putting my bag over my shoulder, I make sure it doesn’t sit too loose and make my way over to the metro with my hand firmly on my suitcase and wave at the nice man as he continues ahead to leave the train station through its main entrance.
Going down the escalator, I see a crowd in front of the ticket machines. A group with matching suitcase covers is scattered among several automats, talking at each other animatedly and trying to find the slot for coins, while the line behind them grows more impatient, all nervously tapping feet and flexing hands as they probably imagine shoving those coins somewhere they don’t belong.
