Parties, Paris, Piss, and Pasta Carbonara

Clock struck midnight as she finished her hamburger-somewhere else in the world it struck 6:00 and men in spandex and steel started hurdling towards each other at a rapid rate. She collected the leftovers off the plates of friends and pulled cushions and folding chairs to surround the small television in her ancient tiny apartment. And they watched the steelers and the boss through the eyes of funny french commentators who were soaked in American flags and outrageous USA paraphenalia. They explained the rules of the game and the dramatic life of Bruce Springsteen in the glittering Obamanized far away world. People left. She curled up in her roomate, Sam's bed, as her sister was dozing in her own. It smelled like cheese, like him, a fromagerie who wears hats and smokes rolled cigarettes and loves old French rap and painting in black and white. Several hours later she rose in the dark, made up the sheets, fought with her sis to wake up, showered, ate some museli. Then scarves, many layers, chapeaus, and into the cold, past the darkened grand cathedral with the poor beginning to congregate to shyly ask for money, down the cobblestone alleys that made the luggage thunder and echo between shifting and decaying buildings, around the small chateau with the half frozen moat, towards the glowing sncf train station where they waited with businessmen and bag ladies to catch the next train to paris. Two lovely warm rocking hours through the frozen French countryside - farms covered in snow, small gardens, one sheet of frost. They were eased into sleep and startled awake when a voice announced in garbled french "Gare Montparnasse, Paris...arrete terminal." Struggling with the suitcases they manuevered their way around old raincoated men with small dogs and young backpackers until down below they reached the metro. Piss, a violin player, a big eyed woman displaying her infant in hopes of euro or two from the rushing crowd. Two lines later they arrived at Rue du Saint Antoinne. Trudging through slush and drizzle they reached the place where her sister would part - preparing for her semester of Sorbonne study in Paris. Bug hugs goodbye but no tears - she walked back along the rue - stopping to warm up in the small church of Saint Antoinne that housed beautiful musty works of art and quiet sleeping men, to the closest station, back through piss and violins, five minutes of sprinting to catch the train to Nantes as she pushed through parting lovers. She took her seat in second class exchanging a few words with the bald man with kind eyes sitting next to her by the window. A slow chugging ahead began and they were out back into the winter scene of mud and snow, leaving the grays of Paris behind. And she dozed. As they approached her town her sleeping neighbor let out a giant fart - waking himself up. Trying to contain her giggling, she wrapped her scarf around her head and made faces at the little boy a few seats in front who was restless and misbehaving. A small stroll home through the night and she returned to find Sam chopping onions for dinner. Together they made pasta carbonara- bacon, onions, fresh cream from that day, and sweet cheese. Muching at the table they watched Franz Ferdinand perform on a French talk show. A hot steaming shower, a milkshake leftover from the early early morning, emails, reading some Hemmingway (a great distraction from the French literature when one was missing home). Listening to the neighbors next door argue about the recent nationwide strike she was lulled to sleep by agitated french words. And she hated that now time moved so fast.