Montpellier Station. Parting Glances.
I am standing outside Montpellier Train Station on a hot August day. I am smelling the unusual fragrance of McDonalds fast food and Marijuana. It lingers. This seems to be the official scent here. I am near one of the five hundred would be entrances and exits, facing the glare of the fading August sunshine trying to read out information from a tilted monitor.
There is scaffolding everywhere. There is more scaffolding than there is a station. There are more signs saying that the station is currently under construction than signs saying where my train is. In fact, Montpellier train station appears to be a movie set stand in for Montpellier train station. In a word, it is hard to believe that anything will be departing from here. I am flanked by several others who are out to gather the same desperate information. The train departs in 15 minutes but they are holding out on us. Sometimes I imagine that train staff are seated up on high and are enjoying seeing us suffer. All us hapless passengers making the mad dash to the platform at the last minute, like rats in a marathon of chance with our pathetic rolling luggage. Suckers.
There is an announcement in garbled French over the speaker, some kid named Riad is looking for his parents who have seemingly abandoned him. The message is interrupted by another message that seems to be announcing the same thing. I wonder if Raid does this to his parents all the time or if Montpellier train station is the fashionable place to abandon your child these days. Perhaps he is messing with them and it is Raid that is found and his parents that are lost.
I look at the garbage cans in the park adjacent and they are overflowing. Stray fast food hamburger wrappers float in the breeze like arc angels in a dilapidated city. People in the park sit on small patches of grass surrounded by garbage. It seems an odd choice to enjoy a snack but they look like they have no choice in the matter. I cannot tell the travellers from the beggars in Montpellier. We are all reduced to the same lack of resources. I do not write to complain, only to observe. Don’t be so hard on the place. It’s being renovated. Look at the signs. They are everywhere. They read: Montpellier train station is being renovated. But when? And then I consider that this is the biggest day of the year for train travel. Another excuse to go easy. Every French family obeys the sacred siren call of the “rentrée” (back to school, back to work, back to life). It’s holiday traffic. There is bound to be chaos. There is bound to be trash. Riad is bound to have lost his parents.
Beyond are the cast iron balconies of traditional apartment buildings that once looked on to what I would imagine to be a pretty decent looking train station. I can see the remainders fondly. The ornate iron of the railings decorated by craftsmen of yester year. I find myself wanting more yesteryear. Forget this renovation crap, if we can just make Montpellier look those cast iron balconies we’ll be doing alright. But then I hear the opposing opinion chime out. “We’ve got to renew, brighten, modernize.” I am reminded of the opposing opinion because there is a bright orange tram way that flashes by me. Trams are the only thing moving fast in Montpellier. Some lucky artist has painted each car of them like a modern art project. I suppose this is the line in the sand people were talking about when they say you get old. You start looking back. You start looking up at iron balconies. You cannot sit on the lawn with all the garbage. There is no where to sit but you just can’t bring yourself to do that. It’s just not very pleasant.
The train for Paris is finally announced and thus starts the mad rush. A frenzy is not an exaggeration. Modern people need what I call stowage time. This is the modern phenomenon of having so much baggage for a limited amount of surface area on public transportation that one is willing to fight to the death for it. Stowage time is even more essential on planes where things have got even more miniature. We fight and run not for ourselves, but for our stuff. Thus Stowage time = space minus time squared. It should be a formula known to physics.
I finally reach my wagon and an Austrian ahead of me can barely lift his case on board. He seems as if he is wrestling an alligator. I think he has given himself a hernia. Finally he manages it. He heaves it on to the single luggage rack and seems triumphant. He has successfully freed himself of the burden of luggage. He has claimed surface area as his own. It is the mad land grab. He has bought himself a nice plot of land. He has won.
I look at my ticket and try and find my seat aboard the slim car. It is narrow and I am accidentally and involuntarily slamming into a dozen errant elbows on the way. I do not mean it. Nobody means it. This is understood. Two teen girls in front of me are annoyingly standing on their seats for some reason. They have spied something on the floor that they do not like. They are blocking the corridor as a result. A group of people are gathering behind me, impatiently waiting to get to what little stowage space is left for them beyond the girls. They have hungry looks in their eyes. The girls seem unaware. They are scared of a spider. From the way, they are acting it seems that they have never seen an insect before. Perhaps they haven’t. Eventually, one of them takes her concentration away from the spider hunt long enough to notice the long line of traffic they have created. They brave sitting down again despite the danger. What troopers. I pass unobstructed now and find my seat quickly. Ever the humanitarian, I leave the others to fight for stowage rights.
The train leaves immediately. We are late now. The train conductor announces that they can make up for lost time. I wonder how he is going to do that. It’s not like an airplane where you can catch a favorable tail wind. Is he just going to drive faster? And if so, why can’t he just drive faster all the time? It is best not to ask too many questions. This is the South after all. Some things are never meant to be explained, like why waiters see through you when you are waving for the bill. Anyway, I am glad we are moving. The smell of Marijuana and McDonalds slowly fades away. Riad has been reunited with his parents, hopefully. I will never know. I am leaving Montpellier train station.
I am standing outside Montpellier Train Station on a hot August day. I am smelling the unusual fragrance of McDonalds fast food and Marijuana. It lingers. This seems to be the official scent here. I am near one of the five hundred would be entrances and exits, facing the glare of the fading August sunshine trying to read out information from a tilted monitor.
There is scaffolding everywhere. There is more scaffolding than there is a station. There are more signs saying that the station is currently under construction than signs saying where my train is. In fact, Montpellier train station appears to be a movie set stand in for Montpellier train station. In a word, it is hard to believe that anything will be departing from here. I am flanked by several others who are out to gather the same desperate information. The train departs in 15 minutes but they are holding out on us. Sometimes I imagine that train staff are seated up on high and are enjoying seeing us suffer. All us hapless passengers making the mad dash to the platform at the last minute, like rats in a marathon of chance with our pathetic rolling luggage. Suckers.
There is an announcement in garbled French over the speaker, some kid named Riad is looking for his parents who have seemingly abandoned him. The message is interrupted by another message that seems to be announcing the same thing. I wonder if Raid does this to his parents all the time or if Montpellier train station is the fashionable place to abandon your child these days. Perhaps he is messing with them and it is Raid that is found and his parents that are lost.
I look at the garbage cans in the park adjacent and they are overflowing. Stray fast food hamburger wrappers float in the breeze like arc angels in a dilapidated city. People in the park sit on small patches of grass surrounded by garbage. It seems an odd choice to enjoy a snack but they look like they have no choice in the matter. I cannot tell the travellers from the beggars in Montpellier. We are all reduced to the same lack of resources. I do not write to complain, only to observe. Don’t be so hard on the place. It’s being renovated. Look at the signs. They are everywhere. They read: Montpellier train station is being renovated. But when? And then I consider that this is the biggest day of the year for train travel. Another excuse to go easy. Every French family obeys the sacred siren call of the “rentrée” (back to school, back to work, back to life). It’s holiday traffic. There is bound to be chaos. There is bound to be trash. Riad is bound to have lost his parents.
Beyond are the cast iron balconies of traditional apartment buildings that once looked on to what I would imagine to be a pretty decent looking train station. I can see the remainders fondly. The ornate iron of the railings decorated by craftsmen of yester year. I find myself wanting more yesteryear. Forget this renovation crap, if we can just make Montpellier look those cast iron balconies we’ll be doing alright. But then I hear the opposing opinion chime out. “We’ve got to renew, brighten, modernize.” I am reminded of the opposing opinion because there is a bright orange tram way that flashes by me. Trams are the only thing moving fast in Montpellier. Some lucky artist has painted each car of them like a modern art project. I suppose this is the line in the sand people were talking about when they say you get old. You start looking back. You start looking up at iron balconies. You cannot sit on the lawn with all the garbage. There is no where to sit but you just can’t bring yourself to do that. It’s just not very pleasant.
The train for Paris is finally announced and thus starts the mad rush. A frenzy is not an exaggeration. Modern people need what I call stowage time. This is the modern phenomenon of having so much baggage for a limited amount of surface area on public transportation that one is willing to fight to the death for it. Stowage time is even more essential on planes where things have got even more miniature. We fight and run not for ourselves, but for our stuff. Thus Stowage time = space minus time squared. It should be a formula known to physics.
I finally reach my wagon and an Austrian ahead of me can barely lift his case on board. He seems as if he is wrestling an alligator. I think he has given himself a hernia. Finally he manages it. He heaves it on to the single luggage rack and seems triumphant. He has successfully freed himself of the burden of luggage. He has claimed surface area as his own. It is the mad land grab. He has bought himself a nice plot of land. He has won.
I look at my ticket and try and find my seat aboard the slim car. It is narrow and I am accidentally and involuntarily slamming into a dozen errant elbows on the way. I do not mean it. Nobody means it. This is understood. Two teen girls in front of me are annoyingly standing on their seats for some reason. They have spied something on the floor that they do not like. They are blocking the corridor as a result. A group of people are gathering behind me, impatiently waiting to get to what little stowage space is left for them beyond the girls. They have hungry looks in their eyes. The girls seem unaware. They are scared of a spider. From the way, they are acting it seems that they have never seen an insect before. Perhaps they haven’t. Eventually, one of them takes her concentration away from the spider hunt long enough to notice the long line of traffic they have created. They brave sitting down again despite the danger. What troopers. I pass unobstructed now and find my seat quickly. Ever the humanitarian, I leave the others to fight for stowage rights.
The train leaves immediately. We are late now. The train conductor announces that they can make up for lost time. I wonder how he is going to do that. It’s not like an airplane where you can catch a favorable tail wind. Is he just going to drive faster? And if so, why can’t he just drive faster all the time? It is best not to ask too many questions. This is the South after all. Some things are never meant to be explained, like why waiters see through you when you are waving for the bill. Anyway, I am glad we are moving. The smell of Marijuana and McDonalds slowly fades away. Riad has been reunited with his parents, hopefully. I will never know. I am leaving Montpellier train station.
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