part II of fab April, aka my life-long indie film
On wednesday, just before my train ride to London, I called up P cuz I wanted to to tell him in person not to waste his time on me. perhaps the message I left sounded too serious, but then I always sound too serious when speaking French. and of course, it always frightens people when they hear, "We should talk."
he was half an hour late, arriving just a while after my swankily clad bud Dimos found and left me sitting near the entrance, alone and comfortable in oversized rain boots (or galoshes, or wellies) and an ASUS duffle bag. we shuffled out of the station and found a bench between a few trees, nestled between motorcycles and trash bins. we admired the architecture of Gare du Nord, commented on the strange weather, and then he asked me what I wanted to talk about, noting that I sounded very stern and serious in the voicemail.
I woosed out on the "don't waste time on me" declaration and opted for the "this feels too rushed/forced" commentary (on his behavior the week before). I claimed that I wanted things to develop naturally, knowing well that I am likely to block out all romantic paths and possibilities due to time constraint and the sheer iron curtain around my heart. his response kind of was and wasn't surprising; he said he completely agreed with everything I said.
P: "I thought about this as I rode home that night. you're absolutely right, in forcing something to happen when the time and feeling isn't right, I was inhibiting the connection we have from growing in other ways, or was even severing it altogether...I'm sorry if what I said and did made you uncomfortable. I remember you trembling like a leaf..."
Un-romantic lil ol'me: "yeah, I was pretty uncomfortable, but don't worry about it, we talked it out."
P: "well now you can sigh and breathe normally and stop being so nervous. I'm not that difficult to talk to."
(was my nervousness really that obvious, I wondered)
===
so being that he's not that difficult to talk to, I ended up blabbing on about my adventures during the previous weekend:
on Friday night before the last (day after he dropped me off), I went out with the other kids in my program for a Brazilian dinner, much like my birthday. I explained how a conversation outside our building by a motorcycle kept me up until 3am, which lead to only 3 hours of sleep. Dorota insisted that I kept P around, at least for the food. "Just give him a little hand job or something!" Now, what is a "little" hand job as opposed to...a medium one? The new inside joke amongst us is now forming an O with the index finger and thumb, gesturing an up and down movement, and making squeaky noises, as that is now the "little" hand job.
after all the yummy food, we rounded up 4 cocktails each, then went out for beer by Pigalle. I called P because I promised him I would the night before, and was already pretty drunk when I did. I told him I may need him to pick my drunk ass up and take me home if I don't make it back before the metro stops. The beer arrived and I forgot about the call and putting him on standby. He later told me he had waited up until 2am for me to call him back. OOPS, sorry. but then, he could have called ME if he really wanted to check up on things :P <-- this should give him a good reason to NOT date me
got home at around 4:30am after peeing in the bushes by Pigalle and getting in a taxi with Dorota and Dimos (my double D's!). upon stumbling into my room, I opened up my meds drawer to take out 2 new fresh contact lenses for the next day, then passed out in my bed. I woke up the next day with my contact lenses scattered on my bedside and my makeup still in tact. I showered, brushed my teeth, drank a gallon of water, and slept again until I had to get ready to meet my friend Chris visiting from NYC.
we went to Nun's bar, where Chris and Valentina hung out almost every night during spring semester of the previous year. He loved and missed Paris so, so much. He now lives in the ghetto and taunts little children of color on the playground for trying to throw balls at him, The White Man. when I returned from getting our 4th round of beer, another fella was sitting in my seat. We forgot his name, but he's a hippy from Switzerland, and spoke of how difficult it was for him to learn German, of how G Bush is an idiot, and how he's going to Peru later this year to help purify their water/sewage system.
his drunken buddies showed up, and some girl wandered up and said how much she wanted to sleep with one of the guys but then her roommates are there and he's staying with 5 other guys...all of which I translated for Chris and we giggled. at the end of the night, our new Swiss friend bought me a rose, and I happily glided towards Ménilmontant for the last metro
which I had just missed.
worry not, I said to myself, I shall take a bike from the Velib station. I twirled the rose around as I pushed buttons that led me to error messages on the velib machine, until a bearded man behind me asked if Madame would like some help. I said yes, but he, too, failed to work the bike machine. he was with a dude in glasses and a gal with big glassy eyes, and the this whole ensemble seemed like a fun crowd. the girl got off the phone and said she had just called a taxi, that we can split the cost if we're going to the same area.
and we were, because she's just a few metro stops away from where I'm staying. she and the bearded man spoke English to each other briefly to make fun of the guy in glasses, and then I joined in on their conversation because I, too, can speak English. it turns out that they're brother and sister, the bearded man and the doll-like girl, and the dude with glasses named Mathieu J is their quirky friend from Lyon. Mat asked if I was Japanese and was intrigued by my anger when I rolled my eyes and said NO, and continued to talk to me until the taxi showed up.
the two male creatures wandered off to another bar, so I got in the car with the girl, whose name is Sarah, and lived in San Diego for a year. upon seeing that the taxi counter was already almost at 6 euros, she gently brought up the wrongness of it all, and then got out of the car when the driver (who reminded me of Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction) bursted into shouts and ridiculous accusations. He got out of his seat and chased after Sarah and launched a tug of war by yanking her messanger bag. She was eventually back dragged into the car, whereby she remained firm in her statement that it's sacrilige to charge so much for a taxi ride...until her brother Robin called, explained the situation to her, and told her to have the driver take her to Rue du Bac to hang out at Mathieu's rich friend's penthouse with a garden.
She apologized to the driver profusely, who refused to drop his fits of rage until we were behind the Musée d'Orsay, and then decided that Sarah is actually a sweet gal unlike his other asshole clients. we paid the shocking amount of 17 euros, only to discover that Mat himself has not yet arrived.
although almost 3am, we began wandering to see if there were any convenient stores or épiceries open to buy some wine. just then, some dude crossed the street in our direction, so we asked him if he knew of any stores in the area. the answer was obvious: not at this hour, and definitely not in this bouge of a neighborhood. but, we could go to his friend's place where there's plenty to drink, he said, there's a small party going down there. By the way, his name's Edward, he's half British half New Yorker, and grew up in Paris. These friends of his at the party are all currently students at the American University of Paris. The apartment belongs to the parents of his long time gay Arab (gayrab?) buddy Faris, whose parents are in Saudi Arabia for the week.
we waited until Mathieu showed up, and then meandered down Blvd St Germain until we went up a grand staircase, followed by the opening of a huge door, caught a glimpse of fur rug, and heard, "Hi, str8 people I don't know!" followed by kisses on the cheek. my new friends and I were led to a room with leather couches and Persian rugs and skinny dogs and lo and behold:
dumb blondes and all-american jocks, all titties and bulk and slurry grunty voices or high-pitched statements that ended in question marks, or sometimes both.
I decided to spend the rest of the evening (or, uh, morning) talking to my new pal Mathieu (who called me just now, what perfect timing!). he finds it funny that I'm wanting to one day be a psychologist when I'm currently pursuing a career in corporate human resource management, clearly the factor that drives employees to seek psychological help. he told me about how he wants to be a film director, and that he's now just filming and editing videos for a electro-pop group that he's currently touring with.
the longer we talked, the more I noticed people leaving or falling asleep in one of the many beds there...until there was just my new friends and I, our host Faris, and a couple of other jocks. Mat pushed pause on our conversation and apologized to the other guys about not paying as much attention to them because his English sucked.
"Oh, it's all right, we're all French here, you can talk to us" one of the jocks responded in perfect Parisian French.
wait, what?
the blondes were definitely American, this we knew as a fact when Faris first introduced them, but these DUDES, they're FRENCH. holy sh** but why do they speak Dumb American?!?!
after the initial shock, I drank my third glass of champagne, and proceeded to sing Journey with Faris. eventually, it was 6am, and Mathieu was ready to go back to crash at his friend's place. he whispered in my ear as he put one arm around me and asked if I wanted to go with him, I said no buddy, imma hang out with these crazy kids some more, and then I went to bed, nestling between a snoring blond and barfy Sarah. not exactly the most desirable nor comfortable positioning for sleep, so I asked for a pillow and blankie to lie on one of the several couches behind a wall of glass doors.
when I woke up at noon, the housekeeper asked me if I wanted something to eat. YES, OF COURSE I DO.
it turns out I was staying in their living room, with leather couch sets and just too much expensive-looking decor. not that any of it was particularly beautiful or tasteful, although the whole place is lined with detailed floral moulding and high ceiling. the housekeeper opened up the curtains after setting down the tray of freshly cooked cheese omlette, buttered toast, and orange juice, and I realized that there's a balcony that extended all the way across the exterior of the flat, that Faris's parents owned a whole corner chunk of the building behind the Assemblée Nationale.
Sarah stumbled into the room shortly thereafter, announcing that she has to be at work from 3pm til closing (she's the bar lady at a cafe in Montmartre), and off she went. I met and chatted briefly with others who've woken up, then glided out and down the wide red-carpeted staircase, crossed the street and found the Seine river. I trudged along, passing Musée d'Orsay, crossing the bridge to go between the Louvre and Tuileries garden, then up the road til I almost reached the Opera Garnier, where I gave up my promenade and went underground into the metro to get home because I was severely dehydrated, without sunglasses, and in need of a serious shower.
I napped for 10 minutes, took the metro to Montmartre to visit Sarah at work (for free coffee) and had veggie soup before I made my way over to the east side for P's cooking demonstration at some artsy gig. instead of lounging there alone to listen to cool music and watch short films and enjoy yummy food, I awkwardly aimed for the food bar, told P I'd be back in a couple of hours, then wandered out for a phone booth to call my mother.
P: a couple of hours? but the food might be all gone by the time you get back
me: ah.. well, don't worry about it. I'll grab something from McDonalds around the corner if I get hungry. (yeah, hi, I'm tactless)
then I hopped out, bought me a phone card, and called mommy. she finds my stories incredulous and said that it reminded her of the random group of starving writers I encountered at Shakespeare and Co. the previous year.
she proceeded to tell me that she read up my fortune for the year of the Rat: suitors all year round, possible romances that could either amount to nothing or marriage, alcohol abuse could lead to trouble, and that my lucky color is red. so far, it's all been pretty damned accurate, especially with the repeated theme of the color red.
(when I first arrived in Paris, the couch I slept on was red, my bedroom floor is in red linoleum, my computer wallpaper's been red for the past half a year, the purse my mom had Sam deliver for me was red, and almost every new friend I met for the first time was wearing a piece of red clothing or accessory...)
after I hung up the phone, I met up with Chris near the bar where we parted the night before and told him everything that went down. we got kinda hungry after all the Alice in Wonderland stories and laughter, so I took him to that artsy/music/food gig where P was busy cutting, folding, baking, and mixing behind the bar. ready for grub with complex flavors, we stood by the food bar, making sure to grab the first of everything that landed on the tray, and jumping out of our skin once in a while as loud crashes came from the speakers and projection screen that showed a strange indie film.
P began serving some sort of bruschetta, lining them up on the trays, and garnishing all but one of them with a cilantro leaf. I snatched the leafless bruschetta, and he winked at me as he continued to stir and slather, knowing well how much I hate cilantro. during his quick break, he shook hands with Chris as I mentioned through yawns how crazy exhausted I was from my weekend of spontaneous acts. he said he wanted to hear all about it, and did, several days later on a bench outside Gare du Nord...
he tried to think of the last time he met people that way, by pure chance (and a bit of friendliness) on the street, and decided that his last random encounter was me (do recall that this was after I went peeing by a pillar outside Pizza Hut and came back to find him talking to my new friend Josephine, whom he was already crushing on at the time). we walked back to the train station, gave the routine kisses on the cheeks, and then parted ways...
until I was told that DUH, I needed to have a passport to get to London.
"pas de passeport, pas de voyage."
yeah, no sh**, but somehow I FORGOT because I'm not used to needing my passport when taking trains. I never forget when it's a plane ride, but for some reason, the train thing threw me off. I called P and pleaded for him to come back to take his idiot of a friend back to her place for her passport. we wove threw dense traffic on his motorcycle while I secretly wondered if he's trying to kill me as my legs scraped by taxis and mini coopers. he apologized for not being able to make the ride more comfortable, and I responded with, "it's aiight, it's not like you're a bad driver. and at least you're not stupid enough to forget your passport..." grumbley me
"I always carry my passport with me, the police stop me and ask for my papers because I'm black... one time I left my passport in my other jacket, and they escorted me home to get it."
oh.
"...anyway, thanks for these little moments," he said softly and held my hands that were clutching onto him for dear life on that motorcycle speeding back towards the train station. what was he thanking me for, I was just trying to stay alive...
back at the train station, the lady at the kiosk told me to buy another ticket at the ticket office. when I got to the ticket office, I played dumb and smiled my radiant American smile and was given a brand new ticket for the next train, free.
then off I was to London for the third time.
he was half an hour late, arriving just a while after my swankily clad bud Dimos found and left me sitting near the entrance, alone and comfortable in oversized rain boots (or galoshes, or wellies) and an ASUS duffle bag. we shuffled out of the station and found a bench between a few trees, nestled between motorcycles and trash bins. we admired the architecture of Gare du Nord, commented on the strange weather, and then he asked me what I wanted to talk about, noting that I sounded very stern and serious in the voicemail.
I woosed out on the "don't waste time on me" declaration and opted for the "this feels too rushed/forced" commentary (on his behavior the week before). I claimed that I wanted things to develop naturally, knowing well that I am likely to block out all romantic paths and possibilities due to time constraint and the sheer iron curtain around my heart. his response kind of was and wasn't surprising; he said he completely agreed with everything I said.
P: "I thought about this as I rode home that night. you're absolutely right, in forcing something to happen when the time and feeling isn't right, I was inhibiting the connection we have from growing in other ways, or was even severing it altogether...I'm sorry if what I said and did made you uncomfortable. I remember you trembling like a leaf..."
Un-romantic lil ol'me: "yeah, I was pretty uncomfortable, but don't worry about it, we talked it out."
P: "well now you can sigh and breathe normally and stop being so nervous. I'm not that difficult to talk to."
(was my nervousness really that obvious, I wondered)
===
so being that he's not that difficult to talk to, I ended up blabbing on about my adventures during the previous weekend:
on Friday night before the last (day after he dropped me off), I went out with the other kids in my program for a Brazilian dinner, much like my birthday. I explained how a conversation outside our building by a motorcycle kept me up until 3am, which lead to only 3 hours of sleep. Dorota insisted that I kept P around, at least for the food. "Just give him a little hand job or something!" Now, what is a "little" hand job as opposed to...a medium one? The new inside joke amongst us is now forming an O with the index finger and thumb, gesturing an up and down movement, and making squeaky noises, as that is now the "little" hand job.
after all the yummy food, we rounded up 4 cocktails each, then went out for beer by Pigalle. I called P because I promised him I would the night before, and was already pretty drunk when I did. I told him I may need him to pick my drunk ass up and take me home if I don't make it back before the metro stops. The beer arrived and I forgot about the call and putting him on standby. He later told me he had waited up until 2am for me to call him back. OOPS, sorry. but then, he could have called ME if he really wanted to check up on things :P <-- this should give him a good reason to NOT date me
got home at around 4:30am after peeing in the bushes by Pigalle and getting in a taxi with Dorota and Dimos (my double D's!). upon stumbling into my room, I opened up my meds drawer to take out 2 new fresh contact lenses for the next day, then passed out in my bed. I woke up the next day with my contact lenses scattered on my bedside and my makeup still in tact. I showered, brushed my teeth, drank a gallon of water, and slept again until I had to get ready to meet my friend Chris visiting from NYC.
we went to Nun's bar, where Chris and Valentina hung out almost every night during spring semester of the previous year. He loved and missed Paris so, so much. He now lives in the ghetto and taunts little children of color on the playground for trying to throw balls at him, The White Man. when I returned from getting our 4th round of beer, another fella was sitting in my seat. We forgot his name, but he's a hippy from Switzerland, and spoke of how difficult it was for him to learn German, of how G Bush is an idiot, and how he's going to Peru later this year to help purify their water/sewage system.
his drunken buddies showed up, and some girl wandered up and said how much she wanted to sleep with one of the guys but then her roommates are there and he's staying with 5 other guys...all of which I translated for Chris and we giggled. at the end of the night, our new Swiss friend bought me a rose, and I happily glided towards Ménilmontant for the last metro
which I had just missed.
worry not, I said to myself, I shall take a bike from the Velib station. I twirled the rose around as I pushed buttons that led me to error messages on the velib machine, until a bearded man behind me asked if Madame would like some help. I said yes, but he, too, failed to work the bike machine. he was with a dude in glasses and a gal with big glassy eyes, and the this whole ensemble seemed like a fun crowd. the girl got off the phone and said she had just called a taxi, that we can split the cost if we're going to the same area.
and we were, because she's just a few metro stops away from where I'm staying. she and the bearded man spoke English to each other briefly to make fun of the guy in glasses, and then I joined in on their conversation because I, too, can speak English. it turns out that they're brother and sister, the bearded man and the doll-like girl, and the dude with glasses named Mathieu J is their quirky friend from Lyon. Mat asked if I was Japanese and was intrigued by my anger when I rolled my eyes and said NO, and continued to talk to me until the taxi showed up.
the two male creatures wandered off to another bar, so I got in the car with the girl, whose name is Sarah, and lived in San Diego for a year. upon seeing that the taxi counter was already almost at 6 euros, she gently brought up the wrongness of it all, and then got out of the car when the driver (who reminded me of Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction) bursted into shouts and ridiculous accusations. He got out of his seat and chased after Sarah and launched a tug of war by yanking her messanger bag. She was eventually back dragged into the car, whereby she remained firm in her statement that it's sacrilige to charge so much for a taxi ride...until her brother Robin called, explained the situation to her, and told her to have the driver take her to Rue du Bac to hang out at Mathieu's rich friend's penthouse with a garden.
She apologized to the driver profusely, who refused to drop his fits of rage until we were behind the Musée d'Orsay, and then decided that Sarah is actually a sweet gal unlike his other asshole clients. we paid the shocking amount of 17 euros, only to discover that Mat himself has not yet arrived.
although almost 3am, we began wandering to see if there were any convenient stores or épiceries open to buy some wine. just then, some dude crossed the street in our direction, so we asked him if he knew of any stores in the area. the answer was obvious: not at this hour, and definitely not in this bouge of a neighborhood. but, we could go to his friend's place where there's plenty to drink, he said, there's a small party going down there. By the way, his name's Edward, he's half British half New Yorker, and grew up in Paris. These friends of his at the party are all currently students at the American University of Paris. The apartment belongs to the parents of his long time gay Arab (gayrab?) buddy Faris, whose parents are in Saudi Arabia for the week.
we waited until Mathieu showed up, and then meandered down Blvd St Germain until we went up a grand staircase, followed by the opening of a huge door, caught a glimpse of fur rug, and heard, "Hi, str8 people I don't know!" followed by kisses on the cheek. my new friends and I were led to a room with leather couches and Persian rugs and skinny dogs and lo and behold:
dumb blondes and all-american jocks, all titties and bulk and slurry grunty voices or high-pitched statements that ended in question marks, or sometimes both.
I decided to spend the rest of the evening (or, uh, morning) talking to my new pal Mathieu (who called me just now, what perfect timing!). he finds it funny that I'm wanting to one day be a psychologist when I'm currently pursuing a career in corporate human resource management, clearly the factor that drives employees to seek psychological help. he told me about how he wants to be a film director, and that he's now just filming and editing videos for a electro-pop group that he's currently touring with.
the longer we talked, the more I noticed people leaving or falling asleep in one of the many beds there...until there was just my new friends and I, our host Faris, and a couple of other jocks. Mat pushed pause on our conversation and apologized to the other guys about not paying as much attention to them because his English sucked.
"Oh, it's all right, we're all French here, you can talk to us" one of the jocks responded in perfect Parisian French.
wait, what?
the blondes were definitely American, this we knew as a fact when Faris first introduced them, but these DUDES, they're FRENCH. holy sh** but why do they speak Dumb American?!?!
after the initial shock, I drank my third glass of champagne, and proceeded to sing Journey with Faris. eventually, it was 6am, and Mathieu was ready to go back to crash at his friend's place. he whispered in my ear as he put one arm around me and asked if I wanted to go with him, I said no buddy, imma hang out with these crazy kids some more, and then I went to bed, nestling between a snoring blond and barfy Sarah. not exactly the most desirable nor comfortable positioning for sleep, so I asked for a pillow and blankie to lie on one of the several couches behind a wall of glass doors.
when I woke up at noon, the housekeeper asked me if I wanted something to eat. YES, OF COURSE I DO.
it turns out I was staying in their living room, with leather couch sets and just too much expensive-looking decor. not that any of it was particularly beautiful or tasteful, although the whole place is lined with detailed floral moulding and high ceiling. the housekeeper opened up the curtains after setting down the tray of freshly cooked cheese omlette, buttered toast, and orange juice, and I realized that there's a balcony that extended all the way across the exterior of the flat, that Faris's parents owned a whole corner chunk of the building behind the Assemblée Nationale.
Sarah stumbled into the room shortly thereafter, announcing that she has to be at work from 3pm til closing (she's the bar lady at a cafe in Montmartre), and off she went. I met and chatted briefly with others who've woken up, then glided out and down the wide red-carpeted staircase, crossed the street and found the Seine river. I trudged along, passing Musée d'Orsay, crossing the bridge to go between the Louvre and Tuileries garden, then up the road til I almost reached the Opera Garnier, where I gave up my promenade and went underground into the metro to get home because I was severely dehydrated, without sunglasses, and in need of a serious shower.
I napped for 10 minutes, took the metro to Montmartre to visit Sarah at work (for free coffee) and had veggie soup before I made my way over to the east side for P's cooking demonstration at some artsy gig. instead of lounging there alone to listen to cool music and watch short films and enjoy yummy food, I awkwardly aimed for the food bar, told P I'd be back in a couple of hours, then wandered out for a phone booth to call my mother.
P: a couple of hours? but the food might be all gone by the time you get back
me: ah.. well, don't worry about it. I'll grab something from McDonalds around the corner if I get hungry. (yeah, hi, I'm tactless)
then I hopped out, bought me a phone card, and called mommy. she finds my stories incredulous and said that it reminded her of the random group of starving writers I encountered at Shakespeare and Co. the previous year.
she proceeded to tell me that she read up my fortune for the year of the Rat: suitors all year round, possible romances that could either amount to nothing or marriage, alcohol abuse could lead to trouble, and that my lucky color is red. so far, it's all been pretty damned accurate, especially with the repeated theme of the color red.
(when I first arrived in Paris, the couch I slept on was red, my bedroom floor is in red linoleum, my computer wallpaper's been red for the past half a year, the purse my mom had Sam deliver for me was red, and almost every new friend I met for the first time was wearing a piece of red clothing or accessory...)
after I hung up the phone, I met up with Chris near the bar where we parted the night before and told him everything that went down. we got kinda hungry after all the Alice in Wonderland stories and laughter, so I took him to that artsy/music/food gig where P was busy cutting, folding, baking, and mixing behind the bar. ready for grub with complex flavors, we stood by the food bar, making sure to grab the first of everything that landed on the tray, and jumping out of our skin once in a while as loud crashes came from the speakers and projection screen that showed a strange indie film.
P began serving some sort of bruschetta, lining them up on the trays, and garnishing all but one of them with a cilantro leaf. I snatched the leafless bruschetta, and he winked at me as he continued to stir and slather, knowing well how much I hate cilantro. during his quick break, he shook hands with Chris as I mentioned through yawns how crazy exhausted I was from my weekend of spontaneous acts. he said he wanted to hear all about it, and did, several days later on a bench outside Gare du Nord...
he tried to think of the last time he met people that way, by pure chance (and a bit of friendliness) on the street, and decided that his last random encounter was me (do recall that this was after I went peeing by a pillar outside Pizza Hut and came back to find him talking to my new friend Josephine, whom he was already crushing on at the time). we walked back to the train station, gave the routine kisses on the cheeks, and then parted ways...
until I was told that DUH, I needed to have a passport to get to London.
"pas de passeport, pas de voyage."
yeah, no sh**, but somehow I FORGOT because I'm not used to needing my passport when taking trains. I never forget when it's a plane ride, but for some reason, the train thing threw me off. I called P and pleaded for him to come back to take his idiot of a friend back to her place for her passport. we wove threw dense traffic on his motorcycle while I secretly wondered if he's trying to kill me as my legs scraped by taxis and mini coopers. he apologized for not being able to make the ride more comfortable, and I responded with, "it's aiight, it's not like you're a bad driver. and at least you're not stupid enough to forget your passport..." grumbley me
"I always carry my passport with me, the police stop me and ask for my papers because I'm black... one time I left my passport in my other jacket, and they escorted me home to get it."
oh.
"...anyway, thanks for these little moments," he said softly and held my hands that were clutching onto him for dear life on that motorcycle speeding back towards the train station. what was he thanking me for, I was just trying to stay alive...
back at the train station, the lady at the kiosk told me to buy another ticket at the ticket office. when I got to the ticket office, I played dumb and smiled my radiant American smile and was given a brand new ticket for the next train, free.
then off I was to London for the third time.