Le Eurostar

Left the plush airport style St Pancras at 1pm bound for Paris (Nord). My eyes were pinned to the rolling fields, excitedly waiting for the countryside to magically become French, until I realised all I would see for a good while was the English countryside I have seen a 100 times before. Next to me is sat a young French man; estimate he is in his 30s, with a stereotypical laid-back grace and dark good looks. Whilst talking stereotypes I will raise another: an appreciation of women bordering on lechery. The fellow sat next to me happily conforms to this, eyeing up every female on the train and attempting to engage in some flirtatious eye contact with me. I amuse myself awhile by flicking my hair off my face in what could be construed as needing to clear my face from obstruction, or to my French companion, a coquettish gesture of appeal.

I feel desperate to arrive in France. There seem to be a lot of black tunnels and, growing bored with Le Frenchman's accidental nudges of my arm and thigh and also the dull English fields, I close my eyes for a while. In Grandma's tradition I end up snoozing and when I wake up, look out the window and see... more dull fields. It is still cloudy. With a shock I spy buildings distinctly not English. We are in France! When did we pass through the Channel Tunnel?! One of those many black tunnels? Strange but none of them seemed grand enough to be the Channel Tunnel! How incredible to think I have travelled to another country without even noticing the boundary. The countryside is almost identical to England's.

I love the buildings on the Continent. Is it just because they are different to those I know so well? There seems to be an elegant dishevelment to European buildings. The thin windows and greenery embellishing all buildings, the foreignness of the place. Does glamour go hand in hand with alien? The definition of 'exotic' is, according to Collins, 'originating in a foreign country, not native' and 'having a strange or bizarre allure'. So the very strangeness of something becomes attractive. As I prepare to disembark, I spy my French friend who has made contact with a red-headed woman, who was sitting in front of me. Were they always together, or has he bonded over the journey? Could that have been me had I put aside my English snobbery and need for anonymity? I wonder, but not sadly, as I am enjoying slipping into invisible traveller mode and am not ready to interact yet.

I navigate the RER and Metro from Nord to de Bercy. It's not dissimilar to the London tube - you work out where your destination is on the map, note the final destination on that route and then determine if you need the lettered RER or the numbered Metro. It's surprisingly simple and well-organised and - excitement! - the tube trains come double-decker size with seats top and bottom. Brilliant. However it is too busy for me to take top deck. Variety of Parisian underground users, loud kids with luscious dark hair, punks and goths, commuters and people going about their everyday lives. There are a lot of African people and I wonder about their lives - it is well-known how Paris has treated immigrants since the 1990s and most North and West Africans are only allowed to settle in Paris through family reunification. Apparently French censuses are forbidden to ask questions regarding ethnicity or religion, and therefore it is difficult to know the ethnic composition of the metropolitan area of Paris. Furthermore Paris is the most visited city in the world, according to Wikipedia! Bercy is smaller than I expected, as the station which traditionally transported people and their cars overnight. A large fresco dominates one side of the station which depicts city scenes from Italy, done in a Renaissance style. There are characters in heavily draped head coverings and strong features,yet there are also modern figures with rucksacks. Does this show the timeless wonder of travel?

It is 17.30 by now and I have time to kill until my sleeper train to Bologna at 18.52. I entertain myself by taking part in that time-honoured tradition of people-watching. It's interesting. I see a double for Bardot with a tiny dog on a diamante lead, although it is more unusual for someone not to have a dog than to have one here. Like many places I've visited, there aren't many single female travellers. Most women travel with boyfriends/husbands most of which at Bercy appear to be bossy and childish. The women all seem to be constructed with a natural ability to coddle and flatter their preening and spoilt men. I am alive with curiosity although how much do I really see? My own prejudices and assumptions? I am definitely living up to the stereotype of the reserved and aloof English person, still not wanting to break my spell and communicate with anyone. I can almost pretend I am a ghost or a spy, reading landscapes and actions covertly.