Return to Paris
Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.
I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.
I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.
My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...
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