Member-only story
On a train through northern Italy into Switzerland on my way, eventually to Paris. Woke up at 4am to make sure that I arrived in Paris in time to check into my hotel and have fun, or whatever. I’m going mostly because I like trains; I have no idea why anyone not in an absolute rush would prefer to fly in Europe. Flying isn’t healthy; it’s just necessary for crossing oceans. Flight crews never look well to me; people who fly all the time always look slightly ill. Trains are the only really civilized mode of travel. Our preference for cars and planes speaks to our need to consume, to chew up, distance, rather than enjoy it. Distance just means more time to think.
Across the train car from me is a young Swiss couple that looks like they only ever have missionary sex: very haute bourgeoise.
I regret not having an espresso before leaving Milan; stupidly, I thought I would be able to sleep. I’m awake in that slightly unpleasant state of being tired enough to be annoyed but not enough to pass out. I’d love to fall into a hazy nap against the window but… no I’m writing this.
I’m embarrassed to be wearing shorts. No one on this train is wearing shorts. I should have known better than to get on a train to the Calvinist city of Geneva in short Italian shorts. What an asshole.
