Nancy

The train arrives in the rudest way it can. I'm old and I've been through a lot, it seems to say, and I will screech the hearing right out of your ears if I feel like it. So, with faces still scrunched up from the terrible shrieks of the brakes, we board the ancient train whose sad, yellow exterior gives it the air of a large, tired twinkie.

We have apparently boarded the train that is on it's way to 1928. I take a seat and a deep breath, which comes out in a giant puff of frosty air, which is a nice way of learning you're in for a chilly ride. There are worse ways to start an adventure.

Alberto and I are off to Nancy, a few hours north of Besancon. He wanted to see some "Art Nouveau" and I just wanted adventure, so that was that.


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Frankly, I'm tickled pink by this sad little train, with its equally pooped-out, faded purple curtains that look exhausted from endless years of hanging around, and the depressed-looking seats that appear to have forgotten what color they are, resulting in a confused yellow-orange-gray.

I wonder what's in Nancy anyway?

Love,
Katie