February 22, 2007 - page 2



Really, they probably should have been thanking me. Unless they enjoy being in tight enough quarters to be able to wash their knees in the sink while still seated on the toilet. While you try to keep your eyes open in the middle of a night-train ride, you sit and wonder if you’re dreaming because it feels as though you’re in a well-lit, grey, plastic coffin, that’s taking a thumping roll downhill. It’s not that I don’t appreciate adventure. I just don’t like feeling as though I’m trying to take care of business on a mechanical bull.     

I remember my first stroll down a train aisle toward the restroom. Ahh, I sighed in contentment, the train gliding smoothly away from Paris toward St. Jean Pied-de-Port in southwestern France. The soft clicking sound the train made as we eased our way south matched the tranquil excitement I felt after getting to see Paris for the first time.

In the restroom, the train suddenly jerked around a bend in the tracks. My arms instinctually shot out behind me, my left hand slid into the sink, and my right foot kicked out to counter balance. Then the train threw me forward faster than I could

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