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Homeward bound

I'm sitting in the railway station. Got a ticket to my destination. On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand. And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band. Homeward bound, I wish I was, Homeward bound, Home where my thought's escaping, Home where my music's playing, Home where my love lies waiting Silently for me.

- Simon and Garfunkle

They say before you decide to marry someone, travel with them so that you can see how they plan, how they manage unavoidable hassles, how they connect or disconnect form other cultures, how they treat others.

I don't think it has to be a flight. You can tell a lot with train rides too. Will they arrive well in advance and to the station? Or arrive sweaty just before the whistle blows? Will they insist on the overpriced espresso in the train café? Will they use your lap as a pillow, making book reading or working on laptops nearly impossible.

It is a miracle that my love did not run for his life when my sweaty self used his lap for nice long nap. I am that annoying last minute packer, who runs for the train and is crestfallen as it moves along, without me on it. As if it could not have been avoided. When will I learn?

I've gotten MUCH better but still.

I have a long way to go.

We love the train ride from Paris through Provence. The start is meh but then it gives way to green pastures, lavender fields, little houses in the distance that look like they might belong to a family of farmers of yore, rows of vineyards, tall Italian trees marking divisions of property, lakes the colour of sapphires, and others the cloudy green-brown of army fatigues.

When I'm alone and riding the train from Paris, homeward bound, my favourite best place to sit is in the café bar with the large windows. It's like a movie screen of moving images.

And if I've made the train, speeding at 280km/hour towards my love, there is nothing better.

Except maybe just a little cup of that 2.50 euro espresso.