The Train to Biarritz

I sit down in my train seat. And then I get up because anxiety says I have to go check whether my passport is still in my bag. Unfortunately, I don’t have an aisle seat. This does not go down too well with the person who actually occupies the aisle seat, a 40 something white woman who looked like one would expect to look at at 7a.m on a Monday morning on an intercity. When I come back after checking my passport (it had, like most passports, not moved in the 5 minutes that I left it alone,) I have 3 books, The Economist, earphones, a big bottle of water, my laptop, earplugs, and an eye patch with me for the four hour journey. You know, just in case my mood shifts and I want to switch things up a bit.

Strategically placing all these things in such a way that they fit in the given space between my feet and the tray table proves challenging. Not too challenging for me, who is well-accustomed to such a task. Too challenging for my companion. She shifts uneasily and glares out the window, since I am avoiding her eye with studied ease. She seems stressed. She whips out her phone a couple of times, taps angrily, sighs deeply, then takes her book out. Not a single page turns.

I settle in.

The train starts moving. This unexpected activity disturbs my carefully balanced items, and my water bottle tumbles into her lap. After I make the required excuses, she gets up and sits in the vacant aisle seat away from me. Rude.

Three seconds later, a lovely couple walks into the compartment, smiles at her quizzically, show her their tickets, and request that she moves. She huffs, gets up with all her things that she had carefully placed around her chosen seat, stares at me as if I were a ticking bomb, then puts herself back into the seat next to me. Now she seems even more agitated than before.

I hope she feels better soon.

The milk and cereal I had this morning are churning in my belly. But I will not get up just yet. I will give her some time. Hopefully, she won’t be asleep by the time my next lavatory visit is due. She is as distracted as ever, clacking at her phone (I notice she has no notifications,) opening her book, glaring at it, then whipping out her laptop from nowhere to shop for a new handbag. I wonder when we as a society became so wasteful; to me, her current bag looks brand new. I wonder whether I should point this out. I decide to wait and see what her next move is. After shopping aggressively for three minutes, she turns back to her book. I start to wonder whether she is always like this on train journeys. I wonder whether she is mildly claustrophobic, and my heart softens in pity. Almost. In any case, she is starting to make ME very stressed, which will do no good for the two hour nap I am looking forward to with great pleasure. I am a very sensitive sleeper, hence the earplugs and eye shades. But she has not deigned to pick up on my gentle cues, and continues windmilling and stabbing at anything she lays her hands on. I wonder whether she even knows she is stressed, or whether this is just her way of life now. The French are usually not very good at identifying their own emotional states.

I suddenly realise I am thirsty. But considering my neighbour’s current state, I refrain from reaching for the bottle at my feet. Who knows what could happen? Maybe she will scream and throw herself at me. I last studied karate 12 years ago and so I would be no good in a fight to the death. (I have carefully analysed all our other compartment mates and am confident that no one will come to my aid, hence my confidence in a fight to the finish.) I think about her now; study her agitated movements while reading the same two pages since the train departed 20 minutes ago. Does she know she is like this? Or does she think it is everyone around her that is the problem, that we are all far too calm for an early morning train, that we are not enjoying life with the agitated, cutting gestures and constant twitching that give her life its true meaning?

I do so wish she would stop twitching.

I wonder whether I should talk to her about Buddhism; explain to her that the ground we are planted in is neither positive nor negative; always neutral. I imagine her milky face turning to me; her eyes almost popping out of her sockets, her pallor steadily changing to a dangerously crimson red. I think about what her screams would sound like. I refrain.

In a split second when she was glaring at the couple next to us, I take the opportunity to drink some well deserved water. I start to wonder whether she is an RN voter. It is entirely possible. But the European election results were just out the day before and the RN came out in first place. This should have brought her some peace, no?

No.

She must think they’ve not won by a large enough margin. Yes, that must be it. She certainly looks like a Type A.

I have now changed pencils. I feared that if I sharpened my old one, she would have slapped me. A light drizzle has begun. I can’t believe this is the weather following me to the coast. But then again, tramping through rain cannot be anything as bad as my current company. And besides, rain is quite nourishing for crops and such. It can be delightful in its own way.

The RN voter has recommenced ardently shopping for bags. I realise she smells of curdled milk. I take a glance at her face. She looks like a serial killer. I glance away before she meets my eyes. I don’t want her memorising my features. I have a family I want to raise someday.

Dear Lord, I hope I packed my phone charger. I can’t risk going to check. I realise that it’s alright if I haven’t a charger; I can always buy a new one. Then I’d have a spare. Delightful.

I wonder what makes people like her. If all RN supporters are like her, though, at least racism will soon die out. There is no way such behaviour wouldn’t merit a heart attack eventually. A good business idea for Marine le Pen would be to partner with massage parlours. Propose 1 free massage for every half an hour demonstrating in front of up multilateral organisations. Unfortunately, most masseuses in France are not French.

If I weren’t terrified of this woman, this would be a delightful opportunity to study the mind of a psychopath. Know your enemies, as it were.

She

will

not

stop

fidgeting

!

Finally, she is getting up to go somewhere. I sharpen my pencil and dash to the restroom, beating her back to our seats. I smell her before I see her, essence of rotten milk now almost soothing to my senses. She is really a remarkable specimen, reminding me of how far we have come as a species and how much further we have to go.

Now she is actually reading. Good. I hear the activity soothes the minds of the restless. I wonder whether I could recommend a good therapist to her? Do French people go for therapy? Do RN supporters?

We chug into a station. She looks out the window, starts and begins packing her things. Before she leaves, she looks at me, smiles quickly, waves and walks away.