Gare du Montparnasse

V. long walk to the carriage, felt like I had uncovered the secret of French rail superiority, as I must have been halfway to Spain already. Bruno, middle-aged with a thick, dark moustache and goatee, chatted about politics, after I asked about his newpaper: "The Chained Duck". Apparently it is a satircal perspective of the goings on in the French government. It is less than complimentary about Sarko, a view echoed by Bruno. He got off in Bordeaux but said I could pop in when I come back through France.


A shy student was diligently reading Sport magazine. I asked him whether he was looking forward to the Six Nations. He said he hated all sports. I changed the subject. The girl reading Vogue did like fashion ("Comme tous les filles" says she. "Vive la feminism" say I) but is scathing of the British passion for "le trash", like Heat. Some Spanish guys revise for their driving theory test. One makes a mistake on the mock exam and the ensuing argument about rights of way mirrors many future ones by the roadside.