So it's not bad enough that I have to be on a train back to Paris when Georges and the Garçon get to spend another 7 days in the warm, sunny south. But I am apparently on the train from hell while I'm at it.
Let's begin with my seat mate, Stinky Young Guy. Here's what I know about him so far: neatly dressed, reading "The Hundred Year Old Man" in English, smokes Camels, apparently sleeps a lot and like many men he takes up ALL THE FUCKING SPACE on transport. He drools when he sleeps. And he stinks. Lucky me. He's kinda cute but I wouldn't recommend him as boyfriend material to any of the young girls I know.
In front of me: Stinky Old Guy and his wife. They're quiet but this train ain't big enough for all the stench. Did I somehow get on a train where they segregated all the Stinkies into one car? Because then I'm in the wrong place.
Across from Stinky Old Guy is Harried Mother. She's traveling alone with 3 kids under the age of 6, and oh, how I applaud her for not losing her cool. Traveling with little ones is the worst, especially when there's not another adult along to pick up the slack. But this baby SCREECHES at the top of his voice about every 30-40 seconds and I find myself wanting to suggest she pack him in the luggage rack for a nap.
We're about to stop in Toulouse and none of them is showing signs of disembarking. We only have one more stop, at Aix, before the final 2 1/2 hr stretch to Paris.
If I can find an empty sets at that point I will move. But that's unlikely.
And just now a new Stinky joined the party, across the aisle. Thanks for nothing, Toulon.
